His fiery eyes, placed very close to his nose and piercing as a gimlet, would have won him the name of a sorcerer in Naples.

He seemed gentle because he was calm, quiet, and slow in his movements; and for this reason people commonly called him "goodman Fario." But his skin--the color of gingerbread--and his softness of manner only hid from stupid eyes, and disclosed to observing ones, the half-Moorish nature of a peasant of Granada, which nothing had as yet roused from its phlegmatic indolence.
"Are you sure," Max said to him, after listening to his grievance, "that you brought your cart to this place?
for, thank God, there are no thieves in Issoudun." "I left it just there--" "If the horse was harnessed to it, hasn't he drawn it somewhere." "Here's the horse," said Fario, pointing to the animal, which stood harnessed thirty feet away.
Max went gravely up to the place where the horse stood, because from there the bottom of the tower at the top of the embankment could be seen,--the crowd being at the foot of the mound.

Everybody followed Max, and that was what the scoundrel wanted.
"Has anybody thoughtlessly put a cart in his pocket ?" cried Francois.
"Turn out your pockets, all of you!" said Baruch.
Shouts of laughter resounded on all sides.

Fario swore.

Oaths, with a Spaniard, denote the highest pitch of anger.
"Was your cart light ?" asked Max.
"Light!" cried Fario.