—in vain. They questioned him of his intentions and destination—nothing could they learn: of his friends and kindred—there was no reply. The Spaniards are universally a grave people; but this man was awfully grave: his aspect was heavy and portentous as though the cares of nothing less than an empire weighed upon his brow.
There was one circumstance about this strong-minded personage however that they could not avoid noticing for it was repeated on all occasions. Wherever they happened to halt on their journey—whether it was at a painted hotel or a roadside hut, a despicable rancho or a common fonda—he invariably ordered, for his own refreshment, turkey—always turkey. It was amusing to note the gusto and luscious longing with which the grave man smacked his lips over his favourite bird—to see how he yearned towards his one weakness, on all occasions, and in the most difficult circumstances, was ludicrous in the extreme. They had at last discovered the keynote of his character—the secret spring which animated him. It was turkey! Turkey roasted, turkey stewed, turkey boiled;—he lived only for turkey! Its yielding fibres
