Yet the immigrant was wondering who his companion might be.

He had not introduced himself--seemed to think that even an immigrant might know his name without asking.

Was it Honore Grandissime?
Joseph was tempted to guess so; but the initials inscribed on the silver-mounted pommel of the fine old Spanish saddle did not bear out that conjecture.
The stranger talked freely.

The sun's rays seemed to set all the sweetness in him a-working, and his pleasant worldly wisdom foamed up and out like fermenting honey.
By and by the way led through a broad, grassy lane where the path turned alternately to right and left among some wild acacias.

The Creole waved his hand toward one of them and said: "Now, Mr.Frowenfeld, you see?
one man walks where he sees another's track; that is what makes a path; but you want a man, instead of passing around this prickly bush, to lay hold of it with his naked hands and pull it up by the roots." "But a man armed with the truth is far from being barehanded," replied the convalescent, and they went on, more and more interested at every step,--one in this very raw imported material for an excellent man, the other in so striking an exponent of a unique land and people.
They came at length to the crossing of two streets, and the Creole, pausing in his speech, laid his hand upon the bridle.
Frowenfeld dismounted.
"Do we part here ?" asked the Creole.