"Poor, poor boy," Parker cried agonizedly.
Pablo straddled the little watercourse, got a grip around his master's
body and lifted it out to Parker, who received it and laid the limp
form out on the grass. While he stood looking down at Don Mike's
white, relaxed face, Pablo knelt, made the sign of the cross and
commenced to pray for the peaceful repose of his roaster's soul. It
was a long prayer; Parker, waiting patiently for him to finish, did not
know that Pablo recited the litany for the dying.
"Come, Pablo, my good fellow, you've prayed enough," he suggested
presently. "Help me carry Don Miguel down to the wagon--_Pablo, he's
alive_!"
"Hah!" Pablo's exclamation was a sort of surprised bleat. "_Madre de
Cristo_! Look to me, Don Miguel. Ah, little dam' fool, you make
believe to die, no?" he charged hysterically.
Don Mike's black eyes opened slightly and his slack lower jaw tightened
in a ghastly little grimace. The transported Pablo seized him and
shook him furiously, meanwhile deluging Don Mike with a stream of
affectionate profanity that fell from his lips like a benediction.
"Listen," Don Mike murmured presently. "Pablo's new litany."
"Rascal! Little, wicked heretic! Blood of the devil! Speak, Don
Miguel."
"Shut up! Took your--time--getting me--out--confounded
ditch--damned--lazy--beggar--"
Pablo leaped to his feet, his dusky face radiant.
Pages:
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277