Santosa lit a cigar and puffed for awhile in silence.
"I winked at it too long," he said, at last, "for I was dreaming of other things. So that I kept my own hands clean I did not care. Then you came, and I watched you. I saw that duty was the great thing, after all—even for a soldier. And I saw that even a gentleman might earn his pay decently."
Hemming smiled, and polished his eye-glass on the lining of his dinner-jacket.
"Thank you, old chap. You have a queer way of putting it, but I catch the idea," he said.
The captain bowed. "I will go away, but not very far, for I would like to be near, to help you in any trouble. Our dear friend Valentine, whom I love as a brother, is not yet strong. The President, whom I honour, is not a fighter, I think. The ladies should go to the coast."
"You are right," said Hemming, "but do not leave us for a day or two. I will consider your resignation. Now for a drink."
He rang the bell, and then pulled a chair close to Santosa. When Smith had gone from the room, leaving the decanter and soda-water behind him, the two soldiers touched glasses and drank. They were silent. The Brazilian felt better now, and the Englishman was thinking too hard to talk. A gust of wind banged the wooden shutters at the windows. It was followed by a flash of lightning. Then came the rain, pounding and splashing on the roof, and hammering the palms in the garden.
"That's sudden," said Hemming.
"Things happen suddenly in this country," replied Santosa.
Hemming leaned back and crossed his legs.