not entirely dead to noble impressions. Alvarado was an old soldier, a grave and prudent general, who had given him no trouble. He afterward said of him,—"That Alvarado is a good soldier, but he doesn't understand our warfare."
At San Juan they brought before him a Frenchman named Barreau, who had written about him as only a Frenchman can write. Facundo asked him if he was the author of the abusive articles, and was answered in the affirmative.
"Then what do you expect?"
"Death, sir;" said the man; but Quiroga threw him a purse, saying, "There, take that, and go somewhere else to be hung."
At Tucuman, Quiroga one day lay stretched on a bench, when an Andalusian came up and asked for the General.
"He is in there," said Quiroga; "what do you want with him?"
"I have come to pay the four hundred dollars' contribution he has charged upon me,—the fellow gets his living easy."
"Do you know the General, friend?"
"No, and I don't want to know him, the rogue!"
"Come in and take a drink," said Quiroga, but at that moment an aide came up, and began: "General."
"General!" cried the man, opening his eyes, "so you are the General! Ah, General," he continued, falling on his knees, "I am a poor devil,—you wouldn't be the ruin of me, the money is all ready, General,—come, don't be angry, now!"
