The guitarist had again his song—
“To him who weds a beauteous bride,
And to the holy temple hied:
She has sworn, and now stands with wedded heart:
She enters free—in irons must depart.”
“Bomba!” soon cried one of the most expert in matters of toasts. “I drink to this excellent doctor, whom God sent to our country that we might attain a greater age than Methuselah! But I add one condition, that in case of longevity to me, he will not prolong either the life of my wife, or my purgatory.”
This toast provoked an explosion of applause.
“What do you say to all this?” demanded all the guests at the wedding of Manuel.
“What do I say? That I say nothing.”
“Badly answered! Get along—wake up, and propose a toast.”
Manuel took a glass of lemonade, and said—
“I drink to the newly married, to our friends, to our commandant, and to the resurrection of Fort St. Cristobal!”
“Long live the commandant!” cried all present. “And you, Manuel, who know how to compose couplets, sing something.”