“A project, a plot, an adventure!  One of two things, Senor Mathematician:  it is either the discovery of aerial navigation, or else some love affair.”

“It is serious, very serious.  Go to bed, sleep a while, and afterward we will talk about it.”

“I will go to bed, but I will not sleep.  You may say all you wish to me.  All that I ask is that you will say as little as possible about Orbajosa.”

“It is precisely about Orbajosa that I wish to speak to you.  But have you also an antipathy to this cradle of illustrious men?”

“These garlic-venders—­we call them the garlic-venders—­may be as illustrious as you choose, but to me they are as irritating as the product of the country.  This is a town ruled by people who teach distrust, superstition, and hatred of the whole human race.  When we have leisure I will relate to you an occurrence—­an adventure, half-comic, half-tragic—­that happened to me here last year.  When I tell it to you, you will laugh and I shall be fuming.  But, in fine, what is past is past.”

“In what is happening to me there is nothing comic.”

“But I have various reasons for hating this wretched place.  You must know that my father was assassinated here in ’48 by a party of barbarous guerillas.  He was a brigadier, and he had left the service.  The Government sent for him, and he was passing through Villahorrenda on his way to Madrid, when he was captured by half a dozen ruffians.  Here there are several dynasties of guerilla chiefs—­the Aceros, the Caballucos, the Pelosmalos—­a periodical eruption, as some one has said who knew very well what he was talking about.”

“I suppose that two infantry regiments and some cavalry have not come here solely for the pleasure of visiting these delightful regions.”

“Certainly not!  We have come to survey the country.  There are many deposits of arms here.  The Government does not venture, as it desires, to remove from office the greater number of the municipal councils without first distributing a few companies of soldiers through these towns.  As there is so much disturbance in this part of the country, as two of the neighboring provinces are already infested, and as this municipal district of Orbajosa has, besides, so brilliant a record in all the civil wars, there are fears that the bravos of the place may take to the roads and rob all they can lay hands on.”

“A good precaution!  But I am firmly convinced that not until these people die and are born over again, not until the very stones have changed their form, will there be peace in Orbajosa.”

“That is my opinion too,” said the officer, lighting a cigarette.  “Don’t you see that the guerilla chiefs are the pets of this place?  Those who desolated the district in 1848 and at other epochs, or, if not they, their sons, are employed in the market inspector’s office, at the town gates, in the town-hall, in the post-office; among them are constables, sacristans, bailiffs.  Some have become powerful party leaders and they are the ones who manage the elections, have influence in Madrid, bestow places—­in short, this is terrible.”