But though Captain Tinong had wished, he couldn’t have done it. His wife held his mouth with both her hands, squeezing his little head against the back of the chair. Perhaps the poor man would have died of asphyxia, had not a new person come on the stage.
It was their cousin, Don Primitivo, who knew Amat by heart; a man of forty, large and corpulent, and dressed with the utmost care.
“Quid video?” he cried, upon entering; “what is going on?”
“Ah, cousin!” said the wife, weeping, and running to him, “I had you sent for, for I don’t know what will become of us! What do you advise—you who have studied Latin and understand reasoning——”
“But quid quæritis? Nihil est in intellectu quod prius non fuerit in sensu.” And he sat down sedately. The Latin phrases seemed to have a tranquillizing effect; the husband and wife ceased to lament, and came nearer, awaiting the counsel of their cousin’s lips, as once the Greeks awaited the saving phrase of the oracle.
“Why are you mourning? Ubinam gentium sumus?”
“You know the story of the uprising——”
“Well, what of it? Don Crisóstomo owes you?”
“No! but do you know that Tinong invited him to dinner, and that he bowed to him on the bridge——in the middle of the day? They will say he was a friend of ours!”
“Friend?” cried the Latin, in alarm, rising; “tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are yourself! Malum est negotium et est timendum rerum istarum horrendissimum resultatum. Hum!”