“I have been here twenty-four hours. We are both still alive and Cuba is not yet free. My fiery nature will not brook such delays. Can you not lead me to el Capitan-General, so that I may fulfil muh destiny?”
Andrés clasped his hand. “Maravilloso!” he cried. “We Cubans are not so precipitado. We bide our tiempo. Let me tell you our watchword, college-yell, secretissimo! ‘Wait, wait for ’98!’ Ah, then, Cuba shall be libre. Meanwhile we conspire, oh! so discreetly.”
⁂
At Escobar’s house, the entire family sat in a silent circle, upon gilt chairs. A crystal chandelier cast upon them an icy flood of light, bathed them in a vitreous fluid, preserving them in a hard pallor forever—think of that! The Escobars had been much besought by ambitious undertakers desiring to use this really effective embalming process.
Andrés and Joseph came in. Andrés, silent, faultless, sat down immobile. But Joseph and Narcissa, the daughter, withdrew to the balcony.
It was night. Narcissa was decidedly fetching. But, fetch her darnedest, she could not fetch Joseph.
“I love you,” said she.
Joseph put his arm, one arm, around her shoulders, not her waist, and kissed her cheek, not her lips—once.
“Lissen,” said he, “love is not for me. You know my name. Have you grasped its significance? Read your bible! Moreover,” he continued, “I am devoted to one purpose. I must shoot el Capitan-General in his gold-laced—well—that is—in his gold-laced uniform—yes. And get shot myself in—well—that is a detail, a mere detail. Anyhow, thus shall Cuba be libre.”
“Now lissen you to me,” said Narcissa. “I’m in trouble. I’m engaged to marry a fat planter of fifty. I loathe him. I shall kill him or myself. Get me out of this. Get me on a steamer, so I can go to my aunt in New York. Help me!”