It must have been painful, though he had not once mentioned it; and a shamed flush stung Jack's cheeks when he remembered his own complaints because of his feet.
"You never told me!" he accused again, this time in the language of his host.
"The Senor Hunter has the brave heart of a Spaniard, though his blood is light," said Manuel rebukingly.

"The Senor Hunter would not cry over a bigger hurt than this!" Jack sat down again upon the bull-hide seat and dropped his face between his palms.

Old Manuel spoke truer than he knew.

Dade Hunter was made of the stuff that will suffer much for a friend and say nothing about it, and to-day was not the first time when Jack had all unwittingly given that friendship the test supreme.
Manuel carefully inspected the wound and murmured his sympathy.

He pulled a bouquet of dry herbs from where it hung in a corner, under the low ceiling, and set a handful brewing in water, where the coals were golden-yellow with heat.