d finished speaking, he said:

"And why not go away?"

"Away? Where?" she asked, astonished.

"Anywhere. The world is so big! Why do you persist in living in the one
spot where people know you and have a bad opinion of you? Go away from
here. There are countries with more generous sentiments than these old
corners of the world. You do not consider yourself infamous or vile."

"No, no."

"Then go away from here. To America, to Australia, anywhere. Perhaps
you can reconstruct your life. At any rate, nobody will call you by your
nickname; nobody will talk familiarly to you. You will conquer or you
will be conquered in the struggle for life. That's evident. You will
share the common lot, but you will not be vilified. Do go."

"The Cub-Slut" listened to Caesar with eyes cast down. When he ceased,
she stood looking at him intently, and then, without a word, she
disappeared.

XVI. PITY, A MASK OF COWARDICE

_THE MOTHER_

Some days later Caesar was in his office, when a thin old woman, dressed
in black, shot in, crossed the room, and fell on her knees before him.
Caesar jumped up in disgust.

"What's this? What's going on here?" he asked.

Amparito entered the room and explained what was going on. The old woman
was "Driveller" Juan's mother. People had told Juan's mother that the
only obstacle to her son's salvation from death was Caesar, and she had
come to implore him not to let them condemn Juan to death.

"My poor son is a good boy," moaned the old creature; "a woman made him
commit the crime."

Caesar listened, silent and gloomy, without speaking, and then left the
room. Amparito remained with the old woman, consoling her and trying to
quiet her.

That night Amparito returned to the task, and dragged the promise from
her husband that he would not act as private attorney at the trial.

Caesar was ashamed and saddened; he didn't care to go to see anybody; he
was committing treason against his cause.

"Pity will finish my work or finish me," thought Caesar, walking
about his room. "That poor old woman is worthy of compassion; that is
undeniable. She believes her son is a good boy, and he really is a low,
cowardly ruffian. I ought not to pay any attention to this plea, but
insist on their condemning that miserable wretch to death. But I haven't
any more energy; I haven't any more strength. I can feel that I am going
to yield; the mother's grief moves me, and I do not consider that if
this bully goe