He was silent for a full half minute, thinking of the dead love. When he spoke again it was very gently.
“No, dead love comes not again, Harker mio. You never saw her, Carlotta mia. That was where they killed her, so some say: others say there: I shall never know. She was not like me, one of power, but one of exquisite life.
“Lopez, Jorge, Zarzas and Don Livio. Jorge, whom they called Pluma Verde, and that other dog, El Cuchillo. Ha, those woman-killers, they repented. Listen. Lopez cut his veins in prison, but not enough: no, he was alive. He and El Cuchillo and Pluma Verde and Zarzas and Don Livio they all came up those stairs on their knees and kissed where she died before they were shot. Ay de mi, Carlotta mia, pobrecita. It was sweet, but it did not bring her back.
“It is with me now as with the slave: I work that I may not think. God prisons us all in sorrow of some sort, so that we may seek our escapes. I seek, now, only one escape. Don José’s throat in my hands, and Rafael’s throat in my teeth; then, then, then will she be paid.
“But, Harker mio, old Venturer, my great kind benefactor, I want such men as you. This Santa Barbara is great, great; there is no place like it on earth: only I want men: I have brains, plenty, but only two hands. I want hands like yours. Will you join me? Choose your work, what say you, and be with me. What would you like?”
“I’d like to congratulate you, sir.”
“What for? My fortune?”
“No, sir, your gratitude.”
He was pleased with the answer. “Ha, yes,” he said, “the ingratitude of a king. But it is often hard to be grateful to individuals: it is easier to be grateful to the world.
“I see you are not married, Harker. You, too, have sorrowed.