They got up, and picked the straw off their clothes, like feathers from a goose.
They left the farm. It was a superb day. When they drew near the Cementerio de la Salud, they descended to the river, and traversing the Alameda del Corregidor, between the Seminary and the Arabian mill, they came out at the bridge gate.
“This afternoon at the Casino,” said Don Paco, who once within the city was beginning to regain his presence of mind.
“At what time?”
“At dusk.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now you see what one does for one’s ideas,” said Don Paco in the Casino. “One sacrifices one’s self for the Revolution, and for the Country; one faces the odium of the Moderates for years and years; one exposes one’s self to all the dangers imaginable; and even then they do not count one among the founders. They speak of Olózaga, of Sagasta.... I tell you it is an outrage.”
“Hello, Don Paco,” greeted Quentin. “Are you all rested from your bad night?”
“Yes. Let us interview those men.”
“Whenever you wish.”