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 He began to turn the cigar in his lips a little nervously, and went on:

"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 honor 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 honor, of intelligence, of judgment, of courage, to carry out the prepared destruction—somebody I can trust with my honor 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 mustache 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, speechlessly, at the governor of the mine.