“And I was terribly worried about Marie,” interrupted her mother who had listened to the conversation with deepest interest. “She had been gone for a week, and I hadn’t heard a word from her.”
“Oh! well, I don’t pity the Spaniards any for what the Americans did to them,” interjected Aguinaldo, with some emphasis.
“Be careful,” said old lady Sampalit, putting her finger on her lips, “don’t speak too loud.”
Aguinaldo continued in a lower voice: “They killed your husband. They shot Rizal. They strangled Dimigeuz. They tortured to death several hundred of our young fellows in the dungeons. They have left ridges of dead wherever their armies have moved among us. I tell you they deserved all they got.”
Mrs. Sampalit and Marie had grown heavy hearted. Aguinaldo looked at his watch. It was after ten P. M.
“I wonder,” said Aguinaldo, hesitatingly, “how I shall be able to get back to our lines tonight.”
“Don’t go!” said Marie, in an emphatic whisper, “stay over night!”
“Yes, do!” entreated the old lady, “I’m nervous.”
“It might be best; it would surely be the safest thing to do,” said Aguinaldo, in a meditating manner.
“We sleep on bamboo beds,” said Marie. “There stands mine. You may use it tonight, and I will sleep on the floor. I don’t mind. Mother and I frequently lie down on the floor near the window, when the nights are sultry.”