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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Because they are poor?" inquired Sarrion, who did not move a step in response to Evasio Mon's lead. "Partly," admitted Mon, holding up one finger. "Because, my friend, none but the foolish are poor in this world." "Then why has the good God sent so many fools into the world?" "Because He wants a few saints, I suppose."
"But it was dark, and I could not see much," he added, seeming unconsciously to answer a question passing in his companion's mind; for Mon's pleasant eyes were measuring the distance. "I thought they brought him in here; for before I could descend help came, and the cutthroats ran away."
The light of Mon's lamp showed this holy man to be large and heavy of face, with the narrow forehead of the fanatic. With such a face and head, this could not be a clever man. But he is a wise worker who has tools of different temper in his bag. Too fine a steel may snap. Too delicately fashioned an instrument may turn in the hand when suddenly pressed against the grain.
"You cannot think," she said, "how completely forlorn I feel when he is away, or how I count the hours till he returns. All the children are as nothing when he is away. It seems as if the whole life of the house and home were gone." Again, how like a loving Scotch peasant wife: "There's na luck about the house, There's na luck at a' There's little pleasure in the house, When my guid mon's awa'."
I have long ceased to take an interest in the politics of this poor country, as you know." Mon's gesture seemed to indicate that Sarrion had only done what was wise and sensible in a matter of which it was no longer any use to talk. "But to my friends I still give a thought," went on the Count. "Two nights ago a man was attacked in this street by the usual street cutthroats, it is to be supposed.
"Damn him, you can hear his beastly voice all over the place." "Ef yore yoong mon's dead set to larn fa-armin', an' ef 'e've got a head on 'is shoulders our Jem can larn 'en. Ef 'e 'aven't, ah tall yo stra-aight, Mr. Ollyveer, ye med joost's well tak yore mooney and trow it in t' mistal." Roddy laughed. "I could have told them that," he said. "Money?" "Rather.
One can never tell what may arise in a brain that works beneath a crown." "We have reckoned with him. He is honest. That tells his tale. No honest king can hope to reign over this country in their new Constitution. It needs a Bourbon or a woman." The quick, colourless eyes rested on Mon's face for a moment, and who knows? perhaps they picked up Mon's secret in passing.
A moment later she heard him laughing and talking in the library. He had come on horseback and Sarrion accompanied him to the stables on his departure. They were both young for their years. The Spaniards of the north are thin and lithe and long-lived. Sarrion offered his hand for Mon's knee, who with this aid sprang into the saddle. He turned and looked towards the terrace.
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