The Indian is eloquent on the subjects of slavery and Spanish rule, both of which he warmly denounces. He is careful to remind me, that although he speaks the Spanish language, and is governed by Spanish laws, he is no more a Spaniard than is an American an Englishman. There is something in common between these nationalities, he says, whereas between a Cuban and a Spaniard there is a very wide gulf!
My patriotic friend gets so excited over these and other favourite topics that, afraid of the consequences of his conversation, I propose a smoke.
'What!' he exclaims, approaching me in what seems a threatening attitude. 'Is it possible that you have any tobacco, and that you are going to smoke some here?'
Lest the Indian should be no smoker himself and dislike the odour of tobacco, I tell him that if he objects, I will postpone my harmless whiff until after captivity.
He does object; but after contemplating my scanty supply of cigarettes as I restore them to my pocket, he observes with a sigh:
'I was once an inveterate smoker!'
'Till you very wisely gave up the vice,' I add.
'No!' says he, 'I did not give it up. It was my accursed captors who withheld it from me. I have not smoked for many long months, and I would often give ten years of my life for one little cigarette!'
'Try one of mine,' I suggest, extracting the packet again which alas! contains my last four.
'Gracias; no,' he replies, 'I shall be depriving you, and you will find cigarettes scarce in these quarters!'