The journalist seemed to take a lively interest in this conversation which he had started, but he instinctively turned his eyes to the windows every time a shell burst, for now explosions far and near, the screeching of shells and the falling of walls indicated clearly that we were the center of a bombardment.
At each explosion the doctor looked at the adjutant-major, who kept on eating quietly, as if to say, “Are you going to stay here much longer?”
The explosions came nearer and all around us. We could see plainly the bits of steel which whistled by the windows, grazing the walls which they destroyed. We could hear the plaster falling down the staircase.
As the servant brought the desserts—a Camembert, crackers, fruit, and white wine—a violent explosion of a new arrival nearby tore the window, stuffed with paper, from its hinges and the draught of air half overturned the orderly who let the platter fall on the table, to the great damage of the tablecloth where the white wine ran out....
“Bigre!” said the major.
“I think it’s time to get into the cellar.”
The engineer was only waiting for this invitation to stop the conversation and was half out of his chair when the major took his arm and sat him down again.
“In short, Portugal owed its title of Historical Conquistador to its navy.”