lanos's house, grey, marked with
decay, and with iron bars like a prison.

"And it would be so easy of attainment," he continued, "this aim which,
whether knowingly or not, I have always had in my heart--ever since the
day when you snubbed me so horribly once in Paris, you remember."

A slight smile seemed to move the corner of the lip that was on his
side.

"You know you were a very terrible person, a sort of Charlotte Corday
in a schoolgirl's dress; a ferocious patriot. I suppose you would have
stuck a knife into Guzman Bento?"

She interrupted him. "You do me too much honour."

"At any rate," he said, changing suddenly to a tone of bitter levity,
"you would have sent me to stab him without compunction."

"_Ah, par exemple!_" she murmured in a shocked tone.

"Well," he argued, mockingly, "you do keep me here writing deadly
nonsense. Deadly to me! It has already killed my self-respect. And you
may imagine," he continued, his tone passing into light banter, "that
Montero, should he be successful, would get even with me in the only way
such a brute can get even with a man of intelligence who condescends to
call him a gran' bestia three times a week. It's a sort of intellectual
death; but there is the other one in the background for a journalist of
my ability."

"If he is successful!" said Antonia, thoughtfully.

"You seem satisfied to see my life hang on a thread," Decoud replied,
with a broad smile. "And the other Montero, the 'my trusted brother' of
the proclamations, the guerrillero--haven't I written that he was taking
the guests' overcoats and changing plates in Paris at our Legation in
the intervals of spying on our refugees there, in the time of Rojas? He
will wash out that sacred truth in blood. In my blood! Why do you look
annoyed? This is simply a bit of the biography of one of our great men.
What do you think he will do to me? There is a certain convent wall
round the corner of the Plaza, opposite the door of the Bull Ring. You
know? Opposite the door with the inscription, _Intrada de la Sombra_.'
Appropriate, perhaps! That's where the uncle of our host gave up his
Anglo-South-American soul. And, note, he might have run away. A man
who has fought with weapons may run away. You might have let me go
with Barrios if you had cared for me. I would have carried one of those
rifles, in which Don Jose believes, with the greatest satisfaction, in
the ranks of poor peons and Indios, that know nothing either of