"What are you talking about!... Boats ... men ... peons!"
"Demonio!" roared Lubito, in admiration. "Is he not as deep as the devil's pit, Esteban! What are we talking about? Pues, mi General, we are talking about your men and your boats, your guns; they are below the rapids. They are gathering in from God knows where. When we saw them coming, Esteban and I came running here as fast as our legs would carry us, to know when you wanted us, here in Canalejos, to strike. Is it now? Is this the day? Shall we set fire to hell now? How is it, mi General? Now?"
The bull-fighter's cries vibrated with a curious edge. He whipped out an imaginary sword and saluted, tossing up his head and knot of hair.
"What part of Canalejos do we sack first! Send me where there are plenty of women!"
Esteban, with his stupid peon face, stood nodding.
"And me ... send me where I can find Madruja, mi General."
By this time Strawbridge had fathomed what had set off the imaginations of his self-appointed henchmen. He made a heavy gesture.
"That isn't my flotilla. It's the dictator's boats, come up from Rio at last." He stood staring at his two followers, with a new and profound depression coming over him. "So this is the end of it! This is the end of everything!" A great sigh burst from him. He struck his palm miserably against his breast. "Oh, Good God! Well, I'm ready to go."
He stumbled out of the priests' house. Each of the bewildered peons took one of his arms, and the three men set out around the buttresses of the cathedral and the adobe lean-tos, toward the terrain of the river. The pain of a complete and final leave-taking of Dolores was upon Strawbridge. The peons had not the least notion of the cause of their master's despair.
"But, mi General," demurred Lubito, uncertainly, "there are too many canoes for the trading party; the river is black with them. Caramba! if they are not your men—"