will come easier when you do make the change.”
“I can’t pretend to misunderstand you, but I am sure that will never take place; neither Jack nor I has such a thought.”
“How do you know what his thoughts are?”
“Would he not have told me long ago?”
“Hasn’t he done so?”
“Not so much as by a hint. It has really been as brother and sister between us. He has always accepted that relation and so have I.”
“You give no reason why it should not soon assume a tenderer and closer nature; I believe it will; I shall be delighted.”
“Ah, my dear Manuela, I know your heart, but we of the North do not make love as you of the tropics. One of these days, Jack will meet the right woman.”
“I believe he met her years ago.”
“Meaning me, but you are mistaken.”
“How is it with you?”
“I am still heart free. I won’t deny that I have met one or two with whom I was pleased, but it was nothing more.”
“Because your love has gone elsewhere; it went long ago; you may think I am mistaken, my darling Warrenia, but you will soon find I am not.”
Then both laughed, kissed and talked of other things.
CHAPTER IV
General Fernando De Bambos, President and Dictator of Zalapata, had summoned one of the most momentous councils of war in the history of the Republic. Those present were our old friend, Major Jack Starland, who was a guest of the General, and Captain Alfredo Guzman, Chief of Staff. The other leaders sulked because they were not invited to the conference, but General Bambos dared not trust them with the important matters that were oppressing his ponderous brain and had troubled him for weeks.
The meeting was held in the upper room of the east wing of the palace, safely removed from eavesdroppers, two armed guards on the outside of the door adding to the isolation of the council. General Bambos, though short of stature, weighed an eighth of a ton. His uniform gleamed with blue, scarlet and gold, and the crimson sash around his waist, with its gilt tassels almost touching the floor, was six inches nearer his head in front than at the rear. His crimson countenance was set off by a prodigious mustache, the waxed ends of which, when he grinned, tickled his temples. He was short-breathed, asthmatic and possessed a tempestuous temper. The big curved sword at his side flipped the ground when he strode to and fro, as was his custom while agitated, though during his calmer moods, the formidable weapon swung fairly clear of the floor.
Captain Guzman, Aide and Chief of Staff, was swarthy, deliberate and cool, and of moderate stature. He had proved himself a good soldier in more than one fight with their neighbors in that breeding-nest of revolutions.
At the present time, the Warrenia was absent for a few days at San Luis, down the river, while Jack Starland was the honored guest of General Bambos, who was eager to secure his valuable military ability for the republic. He really knew nothing of the young American’s experience in military matters, but he was not ignorant of the bravery of his people, and had learned how completely they crushed Spain in the late war. When he heard the youth addressed as “Major” he was immediately fired with the ambition to gain him as an ally, in the new revolution that was impending.
“Comrades,” said the General, as he heaved ponderously to his feet, addressing the two who sat at the table, listening expectantly to him, “you will agree with me that golden opportunities come to nations as well as to men. Such an opportunity has opened to the Republic of Zalapata.”
As he spoke, he leaned forward with his hands resting on the table, and the chubby fingers doubled in upon the palms. His huge mustache twitched, and his little black eyes shone upon the placid countenance of Captain Guzman, lolling in his chair at the farther end and languidly smoking a cigarette. The Captain calmly met the flickering glare and the General shifted it to Major Starland on his right, who was looking through the open window on the other side of the apartment, as if the blue sky, with its fleecy clouds, framed by the opening, was all that interested him. None the less, he was thinking hard and not a word escaped him.
“I repeat that such an opportunity has now opened to the Republic of Zalapata.”
The thin husky voice climbed several notes of the register, and the right hand of the speaker thumped so hard on the table that it shook. The noise would have been considerable, had not the impact been dulled by the fleshy cushion that smothered the knuckles of the orator.
Without stirring a muscle, Major Starland glanced sideways at the face of the General, who swung his head around like a turtle peeping from his shell and stared again at Captain Guzman. The latter snatched his cigarette from his lips and nodded quickly several times.
General Bambos swung back to the upright poise, or rather went a little beyond it since his bulky protuberance in front gave him the appearance of leaning backward. The deepening crimson of his countenance showed the profundity of his anger.
“How much longer shall we submit to the insults of that infamous tyrant, President Yozarro of the Republic of Atlamalco. Actuated by my fervent love of peace, my affection for my people, and my ardent desire for their happiness, I have acquiesced in wrong, vainly hoping that a sense of justice would restrain the oppressor from going too far. But he mistakes our calmness for fear, until every man of intelligence clearly perceives that unless resistance is made, – not simple resistance alone, but aggressive protest, the grand, glorious Republic of Zalapata will become a mere appanage of Atlamalco. I have remonstrated with General Yozarro, and in return he treats me with contumely and insult. My nature revolts, my blood is stirred – ”
To make more emphatic the ebullition of his circulation, General Bambos abruptly stopped speaking and snatched out his perfumed silk handkerchief from beneath the partly unbuttoned breast of his coat, and mopped his lumpy forehead. He had carefully conned his oration, but his surging emotion would not give him pause. The climax leaped from him. At the highest reach of his vibrant, staccato voice, he shouted:
“The time has come to draw the sword!”
Grasping the top of his scabbard with his left hand, and the handle of his sword with his right, he made a curving swing upward, while drawing the blade from its nestling place. There was always difficulty in doing this, since when the arm was extended to its limit, two or three inches of the point of the weapon remained in the sheath. The only way to overcome the hitch was to push downward and backward with the hand which inclosed the upper part of the scabbard. In his excitement, the General forgot this necessity, and, with the right arm extended to the highest elevation, the weapon was not free from the incumbrance at the other end. He tugged, swore under his breath and grew purple of countenance.
Major Starland, without the shadow of a smile, looked at the lower hand of the General and nodded meaningly. The other recovered his wits at the same moment, liberated the blade by the method indicated, and flourished it so far aloft that the keen point nipped the ceiling.
“The time has come to draw the sword! Liberty, justice, equality and right is the war cry of the patriots of Zalapata!”
Carefully adjusting his weapon so that it would not interfere, the General sagged down in his chair, and puffing from his exertion and excitement, looked into the faces of his friends to signify that he was now ready to listen to their sentiments. A brief silence followed, and then Major Starland said in an even voice:
“I
