cry of delight, whispers to me:

"'Tis like a dream. Do speak to me, Kit, or I must think 'twill all fade
away presently and leave us in the snow."

Then I, finding my tongue, begged his worship would pardon us if our
manners were more uncouth than the society to which he was accustomed.

"Nay," says Dawson, "Your worship will like us none the worse, I
warrant, for seeing what we are and aping none."

Finding himself thus beworshipped on both hands, our good friend says:

"You may call me Senor. I am a Spaniard. Don Sanchez del Castillo de
Castelana." And then to turn the subject, he adds: "I have seen you play
twice."

"Aye, Senor, and I should have known you again if by nothing but this
piece of generosity," replies Dawson, with his cheek full of pasty, "for
I remember both times you set down a piece and would take no change."

Don Sanchez hunched his shoulders cavalierly, as if such trifles were
nought to him; but indeed throughout his manner was most high and noble.

And now, being fairly settled down to our repast, we said no more of any
moment that I can recall to mind till we had done (which was not until
nought remained of the pullets and the pasty but a few bones and the
bare dish), and we were drawn round the fire at Don Sanchez's
invitation. Then the drawers, having cleared the tables, brought up a
huge bowl of hot spiced wine, a dish of tobacco, and some pipes. The Don
then offered us to smoke some cigarros, but we, not understanding them,
took instead our homely pipes, and each with a beaker of hot wine to his
hand sat roasting before the fire, scarce saying a word, the Don being
silent because his humour was of the reflective grave kind (with all his
courtesies he never smiled, as if such demonstrations were unbecoming to
his dignity), and we from repletion and a feeling of wondrous
contentment and repose. And another thing served to keep us still, which
was that our Moll, sitting beside her father, almost at once fell
asleep, her head lying against his shoulder as he sat with his arm about
her waist. As at the table, Don Sanchez had seated himself where he
could best observe her, and now he scarcely once took his eyes off her,
which were half closed as if in speculation. At length, taking the
cigarro from his lips, he says softly to Jack Dawson, so as not to
arouse Moll:

"Your daughter."

Jack nods for an answer, and looking down on her face with pride and
tenderness, he put back with the st