as though he could not
make himself comfortable, muttered as he swayed towards Antonia, »I suppose you
hate me.« Then in a loud voice he began to congratulate Don José upon all the
engineers being convinced Ribierists. The interests of all those foreigners was
gratifying. »You have heard this one. He is an enlightened well-wisher. It is
pleasant to think that the prosperity of Costaguana is of some use to the
world.«
    »He is very young,« Mrs. Gould remarked, quietly.
    »And so very wise for his age,« retorted Decoud. »But here we have the naked
truth from the mouth of that child. You are right, Don José. The natural
treasures of Costaguana are of importance to the progressive Europe represented
by this youth, just as three hundred years ago the wealth of our Spanish fathers
was a serious object to the rest of Europe - as represented by the bold
buccaneers. There is a curse of futility upon our character: Don Quixote and
Sancho Panza, chivalry and materialism, high-sounding sentiments and a supine
morality, violent efforts for an idea and a sullen acquiescence in every form of
corruption. We convulsed a continent for our independence only to become the
passive prey of a democratic parody, the helpless victims of scoundrels and
cut-throats, our institutions a mockery, our laws a farce - a Guzman Bento our
master! And we have sunk so low that when a man like you has awakened our
conscience, a stupid barbarian of a Montero - Great Heavens! a Montero! -
becomes a deadly danger, and an ignorant, boastful Indio, like Barrios, is our
defender.«
    But Don José, disregarding the general indictment as though he had not heard
a word of it, took up the defence of Barrios. The man was competent enough for
his special task in the plan of campaign. It consisted in an offensive movement,
with Cayta as base, upon the flank of the Revolutionist forces advancing from
the south against Sta. Marta, which was covered by another army with the
President-Dictator in its midst. Don José became quite animated with a great
flow of speech, bending forward anxiously under the steady eyes of his daughter.
Decoud, as if silenced by so much ardour, did not make a sound. The bells of the
city were striking the hour of Oracion when the carriage rolled under the old
gateway facing the harbour like a shapeless monument of leaves and stones. The
rumble of wheels under the sonorous arch was traversed by a strange, piercing
shriek, and Decoud, from his back seat, had