From our
shady retreat we commanded a splendid view of the country over which
we had been riding all the morning, extending for many leagues behind
us, and while I smoked my cigar I talked to my companion, calling her
attention to the beauty of that wide, sunlit prospect.
"Do you know, Demetria," I said, "when the long winter evenings come,
and I have plenty of leisure, I intend writing a history of my
wanderings in the Banda Oriental, and I will call my book _The Purple
Land;_ for what more suitable name can one find for a country so
stained with the blood of her children? You will never read it, of
course, for I shall write it in English, and only for the pleasure it
will give to my own children--if I ever have any--at some distant date,
when their little moral and intellectual stomachs are prepared for
other food than milk. But you will have a very important place in my
narrative, Demetria, for during these last days we have been very much
to each other. And perhaps the very last chapter will recount this
wild ride of ours together, flying from that evil genius Hilario to
some blessed refuge far away beyond the hills and woods and the blue
line of the horizon. For when we reach the capital I believe--I think--I
know, in fact--"
I hesitated to tell her that it would probably be necessary for me to
leave the country immediately, but she did not encourage me to go on,
and, glancing round, I discovered that she was fast asleep.
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