"And how about her people? They're bad hombres. Even the government lets them alone—fortunately for you."
"They won't make no trouble about that Markeeña. He is quite dead, I think."
"By Jove! You're a cold-blooded brute!"
"Señor! You told me once that nobody had ever married a San Blas female, eh?"
"Yes. Even the old Spaniards tried it, but the blood is clean, so far; something unusual, too, in this country."
Inocencio began to laugh silently, as if at a joke. "Some day, maybe, you will see a San Blas half-breed playing in the streets of Colon," said he.
"I don't believe it."
"I'll bet you my wages—two hundred pesos. Come! I'll show you."
"You get out of here," said the American, roughly. "That's something I don't allow anybody to joke about." And, when the mulatto had gone, he continued aloud: "By Heaven! this is sure a tough country for a white man!"
Inocencio strode through the streets toward the swamp that lies behind the town, oblivious to the grilling midday heat that smote him from above, from the concrete walks beneath, and from the naked walls on every side. It was before the days of the American occupation, and the streets were nothing more than open cesspools, the stench from which offended sorely. Buzzards flapped among the naked children at play in the mire beside the sewer ditches.