“But——”
“I, for example,” continued Brother Dámaso, raising his voice to cut off the words of his objector, “I, who count twenty-three years of plane and palm, can speak with authority. I spent twenty years in one pueblo. In twenty years one gets acquainted with a town. San Diego had six thousand souls. I knew each inhabitant as if I’d borne and reared him—with which foot this one limped, how that one’s pot boiled—and I tell you the reforms proposed by the Ministers are absurd. The Indian is too indolent!”
“Ah, pardon me,” said the young man, speaking low and drawing nearer; “that word rouses all my interest. Does it really exist from birth, this indolence of the native, or is it, as some travellers say, only an excuse of our own for the lack of advancement in our colonial policy?”
“Bah! ask Señor Laruja, who also knows the country well; ask him if the ignorance and idleness of the Indians are not unparalleled?”
“In truth!” the little dark man made haste to affirm; “nowhere will you find men more careless.”
“Nor more corrupt, nor more ungrateful.”
The young man looked about uneasily. “Gentlemen,” said he, still speaking low, “it seems to me we are the guests of Indians, and that these young ladies——”
“Bah, you are too timid: Santiago does not consider himself an Indian, besides, he isn’t here. These are the scruples of a newcomer. Wait a little. When you have slept in our strapped beds, eaten the tinola, and seen our balls and fêtes, you’ll change your tone. And more, you will find that the country is going to ruin; she is ruined already!”
“What does your reverence mean?” cried the lieutenant and Dominican together.