"It has been a long time," Hall said. "A very long time, Don Anibal. A century."
Tabio smiled. "Time is of no matter. It is the present and the future which counts, eh, viejo?"
"Of course, ilustre."
"My family and my good friends are afraid that I am dying," Tabio said, smiling as if at some secret joke he wanted to share with Hall. "I am an old dog. An old prison dog. Tell them, viejo, tell them that our breed doesn't die so easily, no?"
Hall could only nod and pat the sick man's hand.
"Do I sound like a dying man?"
Hall swallowed hard, managed to grin. "You? What nonsense, Don Anibal! I was at the Congress the other day. I watched you and listened to you speak. It was a great speech, Anibal."
"It was not a great speech. But it was good because I spoke the truth. And do you know, Mateo, that the truth is better than any great speech?" Tabio was breathing with increased difficulty. He slumped back against the pillows, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the doctors quicken, and he turned to them and winked. "Not yet," he smiled. Meekly, he allowed one of the doctors to hold a tumbler of colored liquid under his mouth. He sipped some of it through a bent glass tube, then turned to Hall again.
"Where were you sitting?" he asked.
"In the diplomatic box with Duarte and the Mexican Ambassador. Don't try to talk to me, Anibal. Save your strength. I'll be here for a long time, and when you're out of bed and on your feet again, perhaps we can have a real visit and sit up all night talking as we used to talk."