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Updated: June 21, 2025
He who wrote it, however, was far from sentimental. He was a fellow countryman of mine and of the late Abraham! who loved your country so much that he lived in it and died in it." And Magin sang again, more loudly, the first words of the song: "Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten, Dass ich so traurig bin; Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten, Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn."
"But certainly not, Monsieur," he replied, putting his hand into his pocket. The next moment a second shower of gold caught the light. And where the little circles of ripples widened in the river, a sharp fin suddenly cut the muddy water. "Oho! Mr. Shark loses no time!" cried Magin. He stopped smiling, and turned back to Gaston. "But we do.
And Britannia is a fat old woman! Also a rich one, who doesn't put her hand into her pocket to please her neighbors. Besides, I have a little affair with the Sheikh of Mohamera objects of virtue, indigo, who knows what? As you know, I am a versatile man." And swinging around on his stool, Magin began to play again. "But even fat old women sometimes know how to bite," objected Ganz.
I dare say you must know something about it since your men look as if they came from up that way. Is there a decent channel as far as Dizful?" "Ah!" uttered Magin slowly. "Are you thinking of going up there?" He considered the question, and his guest, with a flicker in his lighted eyes. "Well, decent is a relative word, you know.
I sometimes fear that in you the banker is inclined to exchange confidences with the chemist or even with the son of Papa who cashes a check. Eh?" Ganz cleared his throat. "In that case," he rejoined, "all you have to do is to ask him, when you meet him again at Bala Bala. And the English bank will no doubt be happy to accept the transfer of your account." Magin began to chuckle.
The agreeable Brazilian was not too much of a seigneur to shake his hand in welcome, or to lead him into the cabin where a young Lur was in the act of lighting candles. "It is so hot, and so many strange beasts fly about this river," Magin explained, "that I usually prefer to travel without a light. But we must see the way to our mouths! What will you have? Beer? Bordeaux? Champagne?"
The original lines of this once beautiful Mission are almost entirely changed but like all its sister missions it still retains much of its dear old atmosphere, and can boast of the tomb of Father Magin Catala who died there in 1836 "in the odor of sanctity." Mission Santa Clara was founded by Father Tomas de la Pena y Saradia; and its history is fascinating and romantic.
"We shall go together, after all," repeated Gaston. "And here is your place in the sun!" Magin still watched, as the little flame flickered through the windless air. But he did not move. "It will go out! And you have not the courage Apache!" "You will see, Prussian!"
Neither did Magin until the dark shadow of Umm-un-Nakhl divided the glitter in front of them. "Take the narrower channel," he ordered then. And when they were in it he added: "Stop, will you, and steer in there, under the shadow of the shore? I think we would better fortify ourselves for the work of the night. I at least did not forget the cognac, among my other objects of virtue."
The other he raised in the air, bowing to his guest. "To the victor!" he said. "And sit down, won't you? There is more than one glass in that bottle." Gaston was enchanted to sit down and to sip another cognac. "But, Monsieur," he exclaimed, looking about again, "you travel like an emperor!" "Ho!" laughed Magin, with a quick glance at Gaston. "I am well enough here. But there is one difficulty."
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