Lechuza’s narrative gave great satisfaction. I said nothing, feeling half stupid with amazement, for the man apparently told it in the full conviction that it was true, while the other listeners appeared to accept every word of it with the most implicit faith. I began to feel very melancholy, for evidently they expected something from me now, and what to tell them I knew not. It went against my conscience to be the only liar amongst these exceedingly veracious Orientals, and so I could not think of inventing anything.
“My friends,” I began at length, “I am only a young man; also a native of a country where marvellous things do not often happen, so that I can tell you nothing to equal in interest the stories I have heard. I can only relate a little incident which happened to me in my own country before I left it. It is trivial, perhaps, but will lead me to tell you something about London—that great city you have all heard of.”
“Yes, we have heard of London; it is in England, I believe. Tell us your story about London,” said Blas encouragingly.
“I was very young—only fourteen years old,” I continued, flattering myself that my modest introduction had not been ineffective, “when one evening I came to London from my home. It was in January, in the middle of winter, and the whole country was white with snow.”
“Pardon me, Captain,” said Blas, “but you have got the cucumber by the wrong end. We say that January is in summer.”
“Not in my country, where the seasons are reversed,” I said.
“When I rose next morning it was dark as night, for a black fog had fallen upon the city.”
“A black fog!” exclaimed Lechuza.
“Yes, a black fog that would last all days and make it darker than night, for though the lamps were lighted in the streets they gave no light.”
“Demons!” exclaimed Rivarola; “there is no water in the bucket. I must go to the well for some or we shall have none to drink in the night.”
“You might wait till I finish,” I said.
“No, no, Captain,” he returned. “Go on with your story; we must not be without water.” And, taking up the bucket, he trudged off.
“Finding it was going to be dark all day,” I continued, “I determined to go a little distance away, not out of London, you will understand, but about three leagues from my hotel to a great hill, where I thought the fog would not be so dark, and where there is a palace of glass.”
“A palace of glass!” repeated Lechuza, with his immense round eyes fixed sternly on me.
“Yes, a palace of glass—is there anything so wonderful in that?”
“Have you any tobacco in your pouch, Mariano?” said Blas.
“Pardon, Captain, for speaking, but the things you are telling require a cigarette, and my pouch is empty.”
“Very well, sirs, perhaps you will now allow me to proceed,” I said, beginning to feel rather vexed at these constant interruptions. “A palace of glass large enough to hold all the people in this country.”
“The Saints assist us! Your tobacco is dry as ashes, Mariano,” exclaimed Blas.
“That is not strange,” said the other, “for I have had it three days in my pocket. Proceed, Captain. A palace of glass large enough to hold all the people in the world. And then?”
“No, I shall not proceed,” I returned, losing my temper. “It is plain to see that you do not wish to hear my story. Still, sirs, from motives of courtesy you might have disguised your want of interest in what I was about to relate; for I have heard it said that the Orientals are a polite people.”
“There you are saying too much, my friend,” broke in Lechuza. “Remember that we were speaking of actual experiences, not inventing tales of black fogs and glass palaces and men walking on their heads, and I know not what other marvels.”
“Do you know that what I am telling you is untrue?” I indignantly asked.
“Surely, friend, you do not consider us such simple persons in the Banda Orientál as not to know truth from fable?”
And this from the fellow who had just told us of his tragical encounter with Apollyon, a yarn which quite put Bunyan’s narrative in the shade! It was useless talking; my irritation gave place to mirth, and, stretching myself out on the grass, I roared with laughter. The more I thought of Lechuza’s stern rebuke the louder I laughed, until I yelled with laughter, slapping my thighs and doubling myself up after the manner of Mariano’s hilarious visitor from purgatory. My companions never smiled. Rivarola came back with the bucket of water, and, after staring at me for some time, said, “If the tears, which they say always follow laughter, come in the same measure, then we shall have to sleep in the wet.”
This increased my mirth.
“If the whole country is to be informed of our hiding-place,” said Blas the timid, “we were putting ourselves to an unnecessary trouble by running away from San Paulo.”
Fresh screams of laughter
