“Yes,” said Dorn. “That is true. You may find him there. But as for Pompee and me, we will remain. He may come here tired and hungry. Besides,” his eyes had gone dreamy, “I like this old Citadel. It is scary and most spooky at night, but by day it is so old, so massive, so grand. And then, at any moment I may come upon one end of the ‘Rope of Gold’ sticking out from the masonry. Then how rich we all shall be.” A low laugh followed this last remark.
So Curlie had gone away down the trail toward the village of Terre Plaisance. And here he was sitting across from Dot drinking limeade, talking now and then of matters of no great consequence, and dreaming long dreams in between.
“A revolution,” he thought now. “How wildly thrilling that would be. And yet it would be tragic. These natives can’t fight against our airplanes, our gas, our machine guns. And yet—”
He thought of the long and bitter struggle that had been going on in Nicaragua and of the war between the invincible Napoleon and the Blacks of Haiti and how the Blacks of Haiti had won. After that he was not so sure.
“We must put an end to it,” he said, speaking aloud.
“To what?” said the girl.
“To the revolution.”
“Oh, yes. We must. If we can.”
“You do not want the revolution?”
“Oh no! No!” She shuddered.