If one is striving for an ultimate good, señor, one cannot haggle about the price.”
“But that isn't doing those fellows right!” cried Strawbridge, pointing vehemently toward the canal they had left behind. “It isn't doing those particular individuals right!”
“A great many Americans did not want to join the army during the war. Was it right to draft them?” Gumersindo paused a moment, and then added: “No, Señor Strawbridge; back of every aristocracy stands a group of workers represented by the ‘reds.’ It is the price of leisure for the superior man, and without leisure there is no superiority. Where one man thinks and feels and flowers into genius, señor, ten must slave. Weeds must die that fruit may grow. And that is the whole content of humanity, señor, its fruit.”
Two hours later the negro pointed out a distant town purpling the horizon. It was Canalejos.
Strawbridge rode forward, looking at General Fombombo's capital city. The houses were built so closely together that they resembled a walled town. As the buildings were constructed of sun-dried brick, the metropolis was a warm yellow in common with the savannahs. It was as if the city were a part of the soil, as if the winds and sunshine somehow had fashioned these architectural shapes as they had the mesas of New Mexico and Arizona.
The whole scene was suffused with the saffron light of deep afternoon. It reminded the drummer of a play he had seen just before leaving New York. He could not recall the name of the play, but it opened with a desert scene, and a beggar sitting in front of a temple. There was just such a solemn yellow sunset as this.
As the drummer thought of these things the motor had drawn close enough to Canalejos for him to make out some of the details of the picture. Now he could see a procession
