VIII
Yet Mexico always weathers her storms.
Even in revolution, unless one chances to be caught at the particular scene of the disturbance, this land is supremely tranquil.
In Tapachula the only evidence of the turmoil was an ever-lengthening line of brown-faced prisoners sitting crossed-legged on the street before the commandancia, picking with their machetes at the rank weeds that grew up among the cobblestones.
As in Hermosillo a moon smiled down over the low flat roofs. The lilting song of the marimba echoed hauntingly through the dim streets. And the plaintive notes of a gendarme’s whistle assured the world that all was well.