I descended again to the river for a swim, but had not yet stretched out for a siesta when there came pushing through the undergrowth three more "soldiers," this time all armed with muskets.
"What's up now?"
"The colonel wants to see you in the comandancia."
"But I just saw your famous colonel."
"No, that was only the teniente."
When I reached the hilltop again, dripping with the heat of noonday, I was permitted to sit on an adobe brick in the sacred shade. The colonel was sleeping. He recovered from that tropical ailment in time, and a rumor came floating out that he was soon to honor us with his distinguished presence. The soldiers made frantic signs to me to rise to my feet. Like Kingslake before the Turkish pasha, I felt that the honor of my race and my own haughty dignity were better served by insisting on social equality even to a colonel, and stuck doggedly to the adobe brick. The rumor proved a false alarm anyway. No doubt the great man had turned over in his sleep.
By and by the lieutenant came to say the commander was in his office, and led the way there. At the second door of the mud-and-straw building he paused to add in an awe-struck whisper:
"Take off your hat and wait until he calls you in."
Instead I stepped toward the entrance, but the teniente snatched at the slack of my shirt with a gasp of terror:
"Por Diós! Take off your revolver! If the colonel sees it…."