About the same time a note was sent through Ambassador Naón stating that "in view of the causes which have prompted the United States to declare war against the government of the German Empire," the Argentine government recognizes "the justice of that decision."
Thus the spirit of Pan Americanism was saved, and we are justified in believing that there will come a reaction which will restore the disturbed equilibrium and save the mighty interests involved." Ambassador Naón believes, however, that Pan Americanism has many obstacles in the way of its complete realization.
Then, in a remarkable passage, we are told of the direful result entailed by this punishment upon his land: "Sa tierre ert a ce jour nommee Lorgres, ch'est verites prouvee, Lorgres est uns nons de dolour Nommes en larmes et en plours, Bien doit iestre en dolour nommes Car on n'i seme pois ne bles Ne enfes d'omme n'i nasqui Ne puchielle n'i ot mari, Ne arbres fueille n'i porta Ne nus pres n'i raverdia, Ne nus oysiaus n'i ot naon Ne se n'i ot beste faon, Tant que li rois fu mehaignies Et qu'il fu fors de ses pechies, Car Jesu-Crist fourment pesa Qu'a la mescreant habita."
“Again,” thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal agony escaped the prisoner. “Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!” “Tell quick, or we’ll squeeze your brains out. Relax a little, Naon.” “In the boat mast.” Hiram spit the words out one by one. “In the cabin. There is a peg. Pull it out. The mast is hollowed. You will find the papers.
In an article on "The European War and Pan Americanism" Ambassador Naón of the Argentine Republic draws the following interesting conclusions, conclusions that are all the more interesting because his country was not one of those that took the course to which he gives his approval.
The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phœnician’s forehead with a fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull. “Twist!” commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim’s arms. Naon pressed the cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips of the Phœnician. His beady eyes started from his head, but he did not speak.
Now, black-hearted Cyclops,”—Cimon’s tone was not gentle,—“where are your papers?” Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together. “Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none.” “Bah!” threw out Cimon, “I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still? Good, see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a miracle. A cord and belaying-pin, Naon.”
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