, rolling by like a torrent to the sound of pipes and cymbals,
green flags flying, a wild mass of men in white ponchos and green hats,
on foot, on mules, on donkeys. Such a sight, sir, will never be seen
again. The miners, sir, had marched upon the town, Don Pepe leading on
his black horse, and their very wives in the rear on burros, screaming
encouragement, sir, and beating tambourines. I remember one of these
women had a green parrot seated on her shoulder, as calm as a bird
of stone. They had just saved their Senor Administrador; for Barrios,
though he ordered the assault at once, at night, too, would have been
too late. Pedrito Montero had Don Carlos led out to be shot--like his
uncle many years ago--and then, as Barrios said afterwards, 'Sulaco
would not have been worth fighting for.' Sulaco without the Concession
was nothing; and there were tons and tons of dynamite distributed all
over the mountain with detonators arranged, and an old priest, Father
Roman, standing by to annihilate the San Tome mine at the first news of
failure. Don Carlos had made up his mind not to leave it behind, and he
had the right men to see to it, too."

Thus Captain Mitchell would talk in the middle of the Plaza, holding
over his head a white umbrella with a green lining; but inside the
cathedral, in the dim light, with a faint scent of incense floating in
the cool atmosphere, and here and there a kneeling female figure, black
or all white, with a veiled head, his lowered voice became solemn and
impressive.

"Here," he would say, pointing to a niche in the wall of the dusky
aisle, "you see the bust of Don Jose Avellanos, 'Patriot and Statesman,'
as the inscription says, 'Minister to Courts of England and Spain, etc.,
etc., died in the woods of Los Hatos worn out with his lifelong struggle
for Right and Justice at the dawn of the New Era.' A fair likeness.
Parrochetti's work from some old photographs and a pencil sketch by Mrs.
Gould. I was well acquainted with that distinguished Spanish-American of
the old school, a true Hidalgo, beloved by everybody who knew him.
The marble medallion in the wall, in the antique style, representing
a veiled woman seated with her hands clasped loosely over her knees,
commemorates that unfortunate young gentleman who sailed out with
Nostromo on that fatal night, sir. See, 'To the memory of Martin Decoud,
his betrothed Antonia Avellanos.' Frank, simple, noble. There you have
that lady, sir, as she is. An e