AT SANTIAGO
Toral. Shafter.
Toral—Ah, Señor, it was an anxious night—that of July 2. The angel of sleep did not visit me, and my pillow—I shame not to say it—was wet with tears.
Shafter—Me too. I never swore so much in my life. I tried every way to sleep, but couldn’t make it go.
Tor.—How sad! Señor, we are no longer enemies, and we are alone. May I hope that Heaven will put it into your heart to tell me whyyouslept not that unhappy night?
Sh.—That’s an easy one: I had made up my mind to demand your surrender.
Tor.—Ah, what a tender heart; what sensibility! It pained you, the thought of humiliating me.
Sh.—Not a bit of it; what worried me was the fear that you would refuse.
Tor.—And then there would be such—what you call effusion of blood. You are all compassion.
Sh.—Effusion of nothing. If you did not surrender to me I was going to surrender to you. My army was rotten with fever. Now what keptyouawake, old man?
Tor.—The fear that you would surrender first. God o’ my soul!—we could not eat you!