ren, to your property?'

"I declaimed for five minutes without drawing breath, it seems to me,
harping on our best chances, on the ferocity of Montero, whom I made out
to be as great a beast as I have no doubt he would like to be if he had
intelligence enough to conceive a systematic reign of terror. And then
for another five minutes or more I poured out an impassioned appeal
to their courage and manliness, with all the passion of my love for
Antonia. For if ever man spoke well, it would be from a personal
feeling, denouncing an enemy, defending himself, or pleading for what
really may be dearer than life. My dear girl, I absolutely thundered at
them. It seemed as if my voice would burst the walls asunder, and when
I stopped I saw all their scared eyes looking at me dubiously. And that
was all the effect I had produced! Only Don Jose's head had sunk lower
and lower on his breast. I bent my ear to his withered lips, and made
out his whisper, something like, 'In God's name, then, Martin, my son!'
I don't know exactly. There was the name of God in it, I am certain. It
seems to me I have caught his last breath--the breath of his departing
soul on his lips.

"He lives yet, it is true. I have seen him since; but it was only a
senile body, lying on its back, covered to the chin, with open eyes, and
so still that you might have said it was breathing no longer. I left him
thus, with Antonia kneeling by the side of the bed, just before I came
to this Italian's posada, where the ubiquitous death is also waiting.
But I know that Don Jose has really died there, in the Casa Gould, with
that whisper urging me to attempt what no doubt his soul, wrapped up in
the sanctity of diplomatic treaties and solemn declarations, must
have abhorred. I had exclaimed very loud, 'There is never any God in a
country where men will not help themselves.'

"Meanwhile, Don Juste had begun a pondered oration whose solemn effect
was spoiled by the ridiculous disaster to his beard. I did not wait
to make it out. He seemed to argue that Montero's (he called him The
General) intentions were probably not evil, though, he went on, 'that
distinguished man' (only a week ago we used to call him a gran' bestia)
'was perhaps mistaken as to the true means.' As you may imagine,
I didn't stay to hear the rest. I know the intentions of Montero's
brother, Pedrito, the guerrillero, whom I exposed in Paris, some years
ago, in a cafe frequented by South American students,