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Stealing quietly away to the corrals, he deftly flung a riata over the stallion's head, and, looping it about the animal's nose, was on his back with a bound. There was no question of Juan's ability to ride him. Once on a horse's back, he had never yet been unseated.
But that time had indeed gone, gone forever; and though a stranger, seeing the sudden rush and muster at door and window, which followed on old Marda's letting fly the water at Juan's head, would have thought, "Good heavens, do all those women, children, and babies belong in that one house!" the Senora's sole thought, as she at that moment went past the gate, was, "Poor things! how few there are left of them!
There were times when she fancied, from oblique and obscure hints, that the Dominican had been aware of Don Juan's disguise and visit. But, if so, that knowledge appeared only to increase the gentleness, almost the respect, which Torquemada manifested towards her.
"Humph." retorted Juan Can. "'Tis a poor shearer, indeed, that draws blood to speak of. I've sheared many a thousand sheep in my day, and never a red stain on the shears. But the Mexicans have always been famed for good shearers." Juan's invidious emphasis on the word "Mexicans" did not escape Alessandro.
Knowing Juan's fondness for tuba , he persuaded him to drink, and while he was drunk, the friend substituted another goat for the magic one. As soon as he was sober again, Juan hastened home with the goat and told his people of the wonderful tree, but when he commanded the animal to shake its whiskers, no money fell out.
Not a few even of the highest rank could neither read nor write. My father, I may here say, had half consented that I should join Don Juan's troop, and had given leave to Mr Laffan to act as he felt inclined. The enemy had now got within three leagues of the city.
The troop of youngsters which still swarmed around the kitchen quarters of Senora Moreno's house, almost as numerous and inexplicable as in the grand old days of the General's time, ran back and forth across Juan's legs, fell down between them, and picked themselves up by help of clutches at his leather trousers, all unreproved by Juan, though loudly scolded and warned by their respective mothers from the kitchen.
Why should she turn scarlet with anger and all but draw blood from a bitten lip? She knew perfectly well that this gutter Don Juan's depravity could boast as many victims as his enforced prison life had left possible to him. But no particular one had ever become concrete to her, and jealousy of a multitude, no one better off than herself, had never rankled.
"Heap fight!" "You bet your blame life he'll heap fight!" said Curly, from his position upon Juan's brawny breast as he held him down. "He's good for any two of you, you screechin' cowards!" Curly's words were perhaps not fully understood, yet the import of his tone was unmistakable. There was a stirring along the line, as though a snake rustled in the grass.
The old woman was "Driveller" Juan's mother. People had told Juan's mother that the only obstacle to her son's salvation from death was Caesar, and she had come to implore him not to let them condemn Juan to death. "My poor son is a good boy," moaned the old creature; "a woman made him commit the crime." Caesar listened, silent and gloomy, without speaking, and then left the room.
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