“What stories?”

“Stories—­too terrible to mention.  I wonder if they can be true.”

“Lies, all of them!” Longorio asserted.

“For instance, they tell me that you shoot your prisoners?”

“Of course!” Then, at her shocked exclamation, he explained:  “It is a necessity of war.  Listen, senora!  We have twelve million Indians in Mexico and a few selfish men who incite them to revolt.  Everywhere there is intrigue, and nowhere is there honor.  To war against the government is treason, and treason is punishable by death.  To permit the lower classes to rise would result in chaos, black anarchy, indescribable outrages against life and property.  There is but one way to pacify such people—­exterminate them!  Mexico is a civilized nation; there is no greater in the world; but she must be ruled with an iron hand.  Soldiers make rulers.  I am still a young man, and—­at present there is but one other capable of this gigantic task.  For the time being, therefore, I permit myself to serve under him, and—­I salute him.  Viva Potosi!” The speaker lifted his glass and drank.  “Madero was a wicked believer in spells and charms; he talked with the dead.  He, and those who came after him, fired the peons to revolt and despoiled our country, leaving her prone and bleeding.  We of the Cientificos have set ourselves to stop her wounds and to nourish her to life again.  We shall drive all traitors into the sea and feed them to the sharks.  We shall destroy them all, and Mexico shall have peace.  But I am not a bloodthirsty man.  No, I am a poet and a lover at heart.  As great a patriot as I am, I could be faithless to my country for one smile from the woman I adore.”

Alaire did not color under the ardent glance that went with this declaration.  She deliberately changed the subject.

“This morning while we were in the office of the jeje de armas,” she said, “I saw a poor woman with a baby—­she was scarcely more than a child herself—­whose husband is in prison.  She told me how she had come all the way from the country and is living with friends, just to be near him.  Every day she goes to the carcel, but is denied admission, and every day she comes to plead with the jefe de armas for her husband’s life.  But he will not see her, and the soldiers only laugh at her tears.”

“A common story!  These women and their babies are very annoying,” observed the general.

“She says that her husband is to be shot.”

“Very likely!  Our prisons are full.  Doubtless he is a bad man.”

“Can’t you do something?”

“Eh?” Longorio lifted his brows in the frankest inquiry.

“That poor girl with her little, bare, brown-eyed baby was pitiful.”  Alaire leaned forward with an earnest appeal in her face, and her host smiled.

“So?  That is how it is, eh?  What is her name?”

“Inez Garcia.  The husband’s name is Juan.”

“Of course.  These peladors are all Juans.  You would like to appear as an angel of mercy, eh?  Your heart is touched?”