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His voice choked; he was silent and sank again into his chair. “And Comonfort,” he muttered presently, “strives to conciliate wretches such as these. He is a man, Feliz, who with all his courage believes a poor compromise better than a long fight. Ah, the world believes Mexicans savage, unappeasable, blood-thirsty. How can they be otherwise with these blind leaders who precipitate them into those ditches which they fondly hope will prove roads to liberty and peace!”

Feliz looked at him with disquietude. “What, Vicente,” she said, “are you a man to be blown about by every wind,—a mere ordinary revolutionist seeking a new chief for each fresh battle?”

Vicente flushed at the insinuation. “One cause and a thousand chiefs if need be,” he said. “But there is now a man in Mexico, Feliz, who must inevitably become the head of this movement,—who, like the cause, will remain the same through all mischances. To-day he is the friend of Comonfort, but who knows? To-morrow—”

“He may be his enemy,” ejaculated Feliz. “I wonder if in all this land there can be found one man who can be faithful!”