“That’s true, father,” cried Lucien; “it must be conquered by a civilised nation, and the Turks be driven out, or held in subjection, if Europe is to have peace. Depend on’t they will be at their old tricks ere long.”
“I should like to be commander-in-chief when the war of conquest begins,” said Mariano.
“A poor job you’d make of it, my son,” said Francisco.
“Why so, father?”
“Why? because hot blood and a giddy head with a revengeful spirit are not the best elements wherewith to construct a commander-in-chief.”
“Ah! father, with every wish to be respectful I cannot refrain from reminding you of a certain pot which was reported once to have called a kettle black. Ha!” continued Mariano, turning towards the little old lady, “you should have seen him, granny, in the Bagnio of Algiers, when the guards were inclined to be rather hard on some of the sick—”
“No, no!” interrupted the old lady, shaking her head; “don’t talk of that.”
“Well, I won’t, except to say that I’m thankful we are well out of it.”
“It seems all like a strange dream,” returned the old lady thoughtfully.
“So it does, mother,” murmured Francisco, “so it does,—an almost incredible dream.”