The voice was smooth and musical. A bearded man, in a heavy cloak, who had been sitting at a table close to Gonzalez’s elbow, was the speaker. He had turned and uttered the words in a very cool and quiet manner. That he was a Spaniard was evident by his pronunciation and appearance.
Gonzalez was astonished. He whirled quickly and glared at the stranger, scowling blackly, while his companions allowed their hands to slip to their bosoms in a sinister way.
The bearded stranger had a hat lopped over his eyes. He was smoking a small cigar.
“I beg your pardon for breaking in, señor,” he said, suavely; “but I heard you speaking slightingly of the Americans, and I could not refrain from correcting what I believe is a mistaken impression. I believe the Americans, in general, are as brave as our own people.”
Gonzalez showed his teeth.
“Indeed!” he exclaimed, fiercely. “Then I should advise you to go to America and live among the brave Yankees. It will be much more agreeable than for you to live in Spain, in case you continue to freely express your admiration of the Americans. Americans are not admired in Spain.”
“They are misunderstood.”
“Bah! they are sneaks! They stole Cuba from us.”
“If they desired Cuba so much, Spain could not prevent.”
“What do I hear?” roared Gonzalez. “This is treason!”