"I am waiting," said Maria-Teresa. "So your Indians have killed one of my coolies?"
"The shameless ones laughed because our Indians fired cohetes in honor of the first quarter of the moon."
"I do not pay your Indians to pass their time in setting off fireworks."
"It was the occasion of the Noble Feast of the Moon."
"Yes, I know! The moon, and the stars, and the sun, and every Catholic festival as well! Your Indians do nothing but celebrate. They are lazy, and drunkards. I have stood them, so far because they were your friends, and you have always been a good servant, but this is too much."
"The shameless sons of the West are not your servants. They do not love you...."
"No, but they work."
"For nothing ... They have no pride.... They are the sons of dogs."
"They earn their wages.... Your men, I keep out of charity!"
"Charity!" The Indian stepped back as if struck, and his hand, swung clear of the poncho, was lifted over his head as if in menace. Then it dropped and he strode to the door. But before opening it, he turned and
