He sees a tall, thin farmer, a brown face and neck, long restless sinewy hands, perpetually twiddling with a cigar or a gold pencil-casegenerally the cigar, or rather the extinct stump of it, which he every now and then sucks abstractedly, in total oblivion as to its condition.

So it was that gray Manuel talked in a half voice, sitting there resplendently robed in gold and crimson, and twiddling between his fingers a goose-feather.