“So I must go ahead and recruit?”
“Of course.”
“All right. I’m living outside of the town now, in a hut on the Campo de la Verdad; you see I don’t like to stay in the city.”
“You have done well.”
“The house faces the river, and has a horseshoe over the vestibule. Come and see me tomorrow.”
“At what time?”
“In the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there.”
During the subsequent days, Quentin went every afternoon to Pacheco’s house in the Campo de la Verdad; sat down in a cloth-bottomed rocking-chair; put his feet on the window sill, and smoked his pipe.
He listened to the conversation, and gazed indifferently at the town.