Ah--yes--a good one,--a joke,--no--no--they HAD deserted him.

And then poor Concho bowed his head to the ground, and falling on his face, cried as if his honest heart would break.
The tempest passed in a moment; it was not Concho's nature to suffer long nor brood over an injury.

As he raised his head again his eye caught the shimmer of the quicksilver,--that pool of merry antic metal that had so delighted him an hour before.

In a few moments Concho was again disporting with it; chasing it here and there, rolling it in his palms and laughing with boy-like glee at its elusive freaks and fancies.
"Ah, sprightly one,--skipjack,--there thou goest,--come here.

This way,--now I have thee, little one,--come, muchacha,--come and kiss me," until he had quite forgotten the defection of his companions.