A FOG IN SANTONE
It is slow work trying to meet death by that route. Some quicker way must be found. They leave the saloon and plunge again into the mist. The sidewalks are mere flanges at the base of the houses; the street a cold ravine, the fog filling it like a freshet. Not far away is the Mexican quarter. Conducted as if by wires along the heavy air comes a guitar’s tinkle, and the demoralizing voice of some señorita singing:
“En las tardes sombrillos del invierno
En el prado a Morar me reclino,
Y maldigo mi fausto destino—
Una vida la mas infeliz.”
En el prado a Morar me reclino,
Y maldigo mi fausto destino—
Una vida la mas infeliz.”
The words of it they do not understand—neither Toledo nor Memphis, but words are the least important things in life. The music tears the breasts of the seekers after Nepenthe, inciting Toledo to remark:
“Those kids of mine—I wonder—by God, Mr. Goodall, of Memphis, we had too
17
