It was even possible that the Senor had observed it above a wall and vineyard as he came into the pueblo.

But it was late--it was also dark, as the Senor would himself perceive--and there was still to-morrow.

To-morrow--ah, it was always there! Meanwhile there were beds of a miraculous quality at the Posada, and a supper such as a caballero might order in his own house.

Health, discretion, solicitude for oneself--all pointed clearly to to-morrow.
What part of this speech Ezekiel understood affected him only as an innkeeper's bid for custom, and as such to be steadily exposed and disposed of.

With the remark that he guessed Dick Demorest's was "a good enough hotel for HIM," and that he'd better be "getting along there," he walked down the steps, carpet-bag in hand, and coolly departed, leaving Mateo pained, but smiling, on the doorstep.
"An animal with a pig's head--without doubt," said Mateo, sententiously.
"Clearly a brigand with the liver of a chicken," responded his wife.
The subject of this ambiguous criticism, happily oblivious, meantime walked doggedly back along the road the stage-coach had just brought him.