His eyes were
round and bulging, the sweat streamed unheeded from his temples.
He resembled some queer bloated marine monster just emerged from
the sea and momentarily dazzled by the light.
"You--You're mad," he finally gasped. "Esteban, tell her what it
means."
But this Esteban could not do, for he himself had not the faintest
notion of what was in store for him. War seemed to him a glorious
thing; he had been told that the hills were peopled with patriots.
He was very young, his heart was ablaze with hatred for the
Spaniards and for Pancho Cueto. He longed to risk his life for a
free Cuba. Therefore he said: "Rosa shall do as she pleases. If we
must be exiles we shall share each other's hardships. It will not
be for long."
"Idiot!" stormed the fat man. "Better that you gave her to the
sharks below San Severino. There is no law, no safety for women
outside of the cities. The island is in anarchy. These patriots
you talk about are the blacks, the mulattoes, the--lowest, laziest
savages in Cuba."
"Please! Don Mario!" the girl pleaded. "I cannot marry you, for--I
love another."
"Eh?"
"I love another. I'm betrothed to O'Reilly, the American--and he's
coming back to marry me."
De Castano twisted himself laboriously out of his chair and
waddled toward the door. He was purple with rage and
mortification.
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