ed the Dominican,
"and _ab actu ad posse valet illatio!_"

"No, no, nothing of the kind," continued Simoun, starting down a
hatchway to the cabin. "What's said, is said! And you, Padre Sibyla,
don't talk either Latin or nonsense. What are you friars good for if
the people can rebel?"

Taking no notice of the replies and protests, Simoun descended the
small companionway that led below, repeating disdainfully, "Bosh,
bosh!"

Padre Sibyla turned pale; this was the first time that he, Vice-Rector
of the University, had ever been credited with nonsense. Don Custodio
turned green; at no meeting in which he had ever found himself had
he encountered such an adversary.

"An American mulatto!" he fumed.

"A British Indian," observed Ben-Zayb in a low tone.

"An American, I tell you, and shouldn't I know?" retorted Don Custodio
in ill-humor. "His Excellency has told me so. He's a jeweler whom
the latter knew in Havana, and, as I suspect, the one who got him
advancement by lending him money. So to repay him he has had him come
here to let him have a chance and increase his fortune by selling
diamonds--imitations, who knows? And he so ungrateful, that, after
getting money from the Indians, he wishes--huh!" The sentence was
concluded by a significant wave of the hand.

No one dared to join in this diatribe. Don Custodio could discredit
himself with his Excellency, if he wished, but neither Ben-Zayb,
nor Padre Irene, nor Padre Salvi, nor the offended Padre Sibyla had
any confidence in the discretion of the others.

"The fact is that this man, being an American, thinks no doubt
that we are dealing with the redskins. To talk of these matters on
a steamer! Compel, force the people! And he's the very person who
advised the expedition to the Carolines and the campaign in Mindanao,
which is going to bring us to disgraceful ruin. He's the one who
has offered to superintend the building of the cruiser, and I say,
what does a jeweler, no matter how rich and learned he may be, know
about naval construction?"

All this was spoken by Don Custodio in a guttural tone to his neighbor
Ben-Zayb, while he gesticulated, shrugged his shoulders, and from time
to time with his looks consulted the others, who were nodding their
heads ambiguously. The Canon Irene indulged in a rather equivocal
smile, which he half hid with his hand as he rubbed his nose.

"I tell you, Ben-Zayb," continued Don Custodio, slapping the journalist
on the arm, "all t