"Those of a gladiator," he insisted, shaking his head with an air of unquenchable conviction.
Upon this he launched into a panegyric of his respiratory apparatus with much enthusiasm and warmth. He could not have been more eloquent if he had been a commercial traveller and was offering it as a sample to a great commercial house. I congratulated him with equal enthusiasm on the possession of such a perfect example. Inspired by his own eulogies, he struck his chest, taking deep breaths, then sang the last aria of "Lucia." After that, who could have any doubts of his organs?
We returned to the house, he in an excellent humor, but not I; for in spite of his weight of testimony, I was not able to dismiss certain apprehensions. Indeed, as our pathway narrowed, and he walked ahead of me, his narrow shoulders, his long neck and drooping ears, did not remind me of the figure of Milon of Crotona nor any other winner in the Olympian games. It seemed to me that such magnificent lungs as he said he had would not have chosen such a poor lodging.
It was the hour of twilight. The park began to be filled with darkness and mystery. Although we were in the last days of September, the fresh blossoming flowers of that fortunate region filled the air with fragrance. The trees were as green and leafy as in early spring; the turf shone in eternal freshness. But mingled with the luxurious, romantic scent of heliotrope, roses, and violets came from surrounding orchards other heavier breaths of ripe fruits. The fruitful earth filled the air of heaven with the perfume of grapes and melons, pears and apples, drying hay and Indian corn.
In front of the house, seated in rocking-chairs, we found Cristina and her mother, Isabelita, Castell, and Matilde. Her children were running about the garden, cackling and gabbling like parrots, while their unhappy mother watched them with a melancholy smile. When we appeared in front of a close thicket of Indian cannas, Castell was seated beside Cristina, talking to her in low tones. She cast one glance at her husband, then at me, and at once lowered her eyes with a serious, pondering expression on her face; but raising them again, she scrutinized Emilio carefully, while he sat down, chatting and laughing with exaggerated volubility. Cristina got up, went over to him, and said:
"Emilio, you are pale. Do you feel ill?"
"I? What an idea! I never felt better. It is because I have been laughing all the afternoon. The captain has a stock of delicious anecdotes. At supper we must tell some of them; not all, though, for they are all colors."
She was not satisfied; but although she went and sat down, her eyes never quitted him. Castell made efforts to attract her attention, talking into her ear. The conduct of that man seemed to me the height of cynicism.
Soon it was quite dark, and we went into the dining-room, where it was light and the table ready. Just as we were going to sit down at it, a servant entered, and calling Martí apart, gave him a letter, with an air of mystery. He opened it at once and was not able to repress a movement of annoyance. Pocketing it and excusing himself for a few moments, he took his hat and went out. Our curiosity was excited, but nobody said anything. At last Cristina, whose anxiety was evident, asked the man:
"Who gave you the letter?"