And Senor Fuentes, puffing out his leathery cheeks, had inclined his
head slightly to the left, letting a thin, bluish jet of smoke escape
through his pursed lips. He had understood.
His Excellency was exasperated at the devastation. Not a single chair,
table, sofa, etagere or console had been left in the state rooms of the
Intendencia. His Excellency, though twitching all over with rage, was
restrained from bursting into violence by a sense of his remoteness and
isolation. His heroic brother was very far away. Meantime, how was he
going to take his siesta? He had expected to find comfort and luxury
in the Intendencia after a year of hard camp life, ending with the
hardships and privations of the daring dash upon Sulaco--upon the
province which was worth more in wealth and influence than all the rest
of the Republic's territory. He would get even with Gamacho by-and-by.
And Senor Gamacho's oration, delectable to popular ears, went on in the
heat and glare of the Plaza like the uncouth howlings of an inferior
sort of devil cast into a white-hot furnace. Every moment he had to wipe
his streaming face with his bare fore-arm; he had flung off his coat,
and had turned up the sleeves of his shirt high above the elbows; but
he kept on his head the large cocked hat with white plumes. His
ingenuousness cherished this sign of his rank as Commandante of the
National Guards. Approving and grave murmurs greeted his periods. His
opinion was that war should be declared at once against France, England,
Germany, and the United States, who, by introducing railways, mining
enterprises, colonization, and under such other shallow pretences, aimed
at robbing poor people of their lands, and with the help of these Goths
and paralytics, the aristocrats would convert them into toiling and
miserable slaves. And the leperos, flinging about the corners of their
dirty white mantas, yelled their approbation. General Montero, Gamacho
howled with conviction, was the only man equal to the patriotic task.
They assented to that, too.
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