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
Jose upon all the engineers being convinced Ribierists. The interest 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 Jose. 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 Jose, 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 Jose 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 a
view of the pe