They were worth five thousand
pesos at least, he told himself; they represented the price of
five slaves--five of his finest girls, schooled in housekeeping
and of an age suitable for breeding. An extravagance, truly! Don
Esteban knew the value of money as well as anybody, and he swore
now that he would give no more to the Church.
He looked up from his unhappy musings to find a gigantic,
barefooted negro standing before him. The slave was middle-aged;
his kinky hair was growing gray; but he was of superb proportions,
and the muscles which showed through the rents in his cotton
garments were as smooth and supple as those of a stripling. His
black face was puckered with grief, as he began:
"Master, is it true that Dona Rosa--" The fellow choked.
"Yes," Esteban nodded, wearily, "she is dead, Sebastian."
Tears came to Sebastian's eyes and overflowed his cheeks; he stood
motionless, striving to voice his sympathy. At length he said:
"She was too good for this world. God was jealous and took her to
Paradise."
The widowed man cried out, angrily:
"Paradise! What is this but paradise?" He stared with resentful
eyes at the beauty round about him. "See! The Yumuri!" Don Esteban
flung a long arm outward. "Do you think there is a sight like that
in heaven? And yonder--" He turned to the harbor far below, with
its fleet of sailing-ships resting like a flock of gulls upon a
sea of quicksilver.
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