He had not been deemed worthy of a baptismal name and had been called the Dog--and admitted as such to the outbuildings of Torre Garda.
From thence he had worked his humble way upwards.

By patience and comfort his mind slowly expanded until men almost forgot that this was a disgraceful mongrel.
Perro had risen from a slumberous contemplation of the tumbling water and now stood awaiting orders, his near hind leg shaking with eagerness to please, by running anywhere at any pace.
Marcos never spoke to his dog.

He had seen Spain humbled to the dust by babble, and the sight had, perhaps, dried up the spring of his speech.
For he rarely spoke idly.

If he had anything to say, he said it.

But if he had nothing, he was silent.