Frankly, I
confess, my plans were quite--ah!--vague. I wish to--briefly, to resign,
in favor of this young--ah--bachelor."
"Don't go rotting me," complained Heywood, and his sallow cheeks turned
ruddy. "I merely bring up these points. And five is this: your
compound's very cramped, where the nunnery could shelter the goodly
blooming fellowship of native converts."
Chantel laughed heartily, and stretched his legs at ease under the
table.
[Illustration: Portuguese Nunnery:--Sketch Map.]
"What strategy!" he chuckled, preening his moustache. "Your mythical
siege--it will be brief! For me, I vote no to that: no rice-Christians
filling their bellies--eating us into a surrender!" He made a pantomime
of chop-sticks. "A compound full, eating, eating!"
One or two nodded, approving the retort. Heywood, slightly lifting his
chin, stared at the speaker coldly, down the length of their
council-board. The red in his cheeks burned darker.
"Our everlasting shame, then," he replied quietly. "It will be
everlasting, if we leave these poor devils in the lurch, after cutting
them loose from their people. Excuse me, padre, but it's no time to
mince our words.
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