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know. His face flushed red at so foolish a remark. Señora Fombombo smiled briefly and kindly and went her way down the passage, a somber, religious figure. Presently she opened one of the dull mahogany doors and disappeared.

The general stood looking after his wife thoughtfully and then answered the question which he knew was in his guest's mind:

“My wife wears that costume on account of a vow. Her sister was ill in Madrid, and my wife vowed to the Virgin that if her sister were restored she would wear a Carmelitish habit.”

“And she's doing it?” ejaculated Strawbridge, in an amazed voice.

The general made a gesture.

“Her sister was restored.”

The American began impulsively:

“Well, I must say that's rather rough on… Why, her vow had nothing to do with… You know her sister would have…” It seemed that none of the sentences which the American began could be concluded with courtesy. Finally he was left suspended in air, with a slight perspiration on his face. He drew out a silk handkerchief, dabbed his face, and wiped his wrists.

“General,” he floundered on to solider ground, “now, about how many rifles are you going to want?”

The dictator looked at him, almost as much at loss as the drummer had been.

“Rifles?”

“Yes,” proceeded the drummer, becoming quite his enthusiastic self again at this veering back to business. “You see, it will depend upon what you are going to do with 'em, how many you will need. If you are just going to hold this state which you have… er… seized, why, you won't need so