"Come on, lad," said I; and I led him to our tent. Then, while he put
on his clothes, I saddled the pinto pony and the cream-colored mare,
for it was six days to the railroad.




FLESH

I


Should you chance, in crossing a certain mountain pass in southern
Catalonia, to find yourself poised above a little valley against the
opposite side of which lies a monastery, look to the heights above
it. Should you piece out from among the rocks the jagged ruins of a
castle, ask its name. Your guide will perhaps inform you that those
blackened stones are called "The Teeth of the Moor," and if he knows
the story he will doubtless tell it to you, crossing himself many
times during the recital. In all probability, however, he will merely
shrug his shoulders and say it is a place of bad repute, nothing more.

Even the monks of the monastery, who are considered well versed in
local history, have forgotten the reason for the name, although they
recall the legend that once upon a time the castle harbored a haughty
Moslem lord. Few of them ever heard the story of Joseph the Anchorite,
and how he sought flesh within its portals; those who have will not
repeat it. Time was, however, when the tale was fresh, and it runs
this wise: