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HE Gould carriage was the first to return from the harbor to the empty town. On the ancient pavement, laid out in patterns, sunk into ruts and holes, the portly Ignacio, mindful of the springs of the Parisian-built landau, had pulled up to a walk, and Decoud in his corner contemplated moodily the inner aspect of the gate. The squat, turreted sides held up between them a mass of masonry with bunches of grass growing at the top, and a gray, heavily scrolled armorial shield of stone above the apex of the arch with the arms of Spain nearly smoothed out, as if in readiness for some new device typical of the impending progress.

The explosive noise of the railway-trucks seemed to augment Decoud's irritation. He muttered something to himself, then began to talk aloud in curt, angry phrases thrown at the silence of the two women. They did not look at him at all; while Don José, with his semi-translucent, waxy complexion, overshadowed by the soft gray hat, swayed a little to the jolts of the carriage by the side of Mrs. Gould.

"This sound puts a new edge on a very old truth."

Decoud spoke in French, perhaps because of Ignacio on the box above him; the old coachman, with his broad back filling a short silver-braided jacket, had a