“But that is talk--good for the politicos. I am a military man. I do not
know what may happen. But I know what ought to be done--the mine should
march upon the town with guns, axes, knives tied up to sticks--por Dios.
That is what should be done. Only--”
His folded hands twitched on the hilt. The cigar turned faster in the
corner of his lips.
“And who should lead but I? Unfortunately--observe--I have given my word
of honour to Don Carlos not to let the mine fall into the hands of these
thieves. In war--you know this, Padre--the fate of battles is uncertain,
and whom could I leave here to act for me in case of defeat? The
explosives are ready. But it would require a man of high honour,
of intelligence, of judgment, of courage, to carry out the prepared
destruction. Somebody I can trust with my honour as I can trust myself.
Another old officer of Paez, for instance. Or--or--perhaps one of Paez’s
old chaplains would do.”
He got up, long, lank, upright, hard, with his martial moustache and
the bony structure of his face, from which the glance of the sunken
eyes seemed to transfix the priest, who stood still, an empty wooden
snuff-box held upside down in his hand, and glared back, speechless, at
the governor of the mine.