roup where Don Juste had put on his air of
impartial solemnity as if presiding at a sitting of the Provincial
Assembly. Decoud had turned round at the noise, and, leaning his back
on the balustrade, shouted into the room with all the strength of his
lungs, "Gran' bestia!"

This unexpected cry had the effect of stilling the noise. All the eyes
were directed to the window with an approving expectation; but Decoud
had already turned his back upon the room, and was again leaning out
over the quiet street.

"This is the quintessence of my journalism; that is the supreme
argument," he said to Antonia. "I have invented this definition, this
last word on a great question. But I am no patriot. I am no more of a
patriot than the Capataz of the Sulaco Cargadores, this Genoese who has
done such great things for this harbour--this active usher-in of the
material implements for our progress. You have heard Captain Mitchell
confess over and over again that till he got this man he could never
tell how long it would take to unload a ship. That is bad for progress.
You have seen him pass by after his labours on his famous horse to
dazzle the girls in some ballroom with an earthen floor. He is a
fortunate fellow! His work is an exercise of personal powers; his
leisure is spent in receiving the marks of extraordinary adulation.
And he likes it, too. Can anybody be more fortunate? To be feared and
admired is--"

"And are these your highest aspirations, Don Martin?" interrupted
Antonia.

"I was speaking of a man of that sort," said Decoud, curtly. "The heroes
of the world have been feared and admired. What more could he want?"

Decoud had often felt his familiar habit of ironic thought fall
shattered against Antonia's gravity. She irritated him as if she, too,
had suffered from that inexplicable feminine obtuseness which stands
so often between a man and a woman of the more ordinary sort. But he
overcame his vexation at once. He was very far from thinking Antonia
ordinary, whatever verdict his scepticism might have pronounced upon
himself. With a touch of penetrating tenderness in his voice he assured
her that his only aspiration was to a felicity so high that it seemed
almost unrealizable on this earth.

She coloured invisibly, with a warmth against which the breeze from the
sierra seemed to have lost its cooling power in the sudden melting of
the snows. His whisper could not have carried so far, though there was
enough ardour in hi