“There you are saying too much, my friend,” broke in Lechuza. “Remember that we were speaking of actual experiences, not inventing tales of black fogs and glass palaces and men walking on their heads, and I know not what other marvels.” “Do you know that what I am telling you is untrue?” I indignantly asked. “Surely, friend, you do not consider us such simple persons in the Banda Orientál as not to know truth from fable?” And this from the fellow who had just told us of his tragical encounter with Apollyon, a yarn which quite put Bunyan's narrative in the shade! It was useless talking; my irritation gave place to mirth, and, stretching myself out on the grass, I roared with laughter. The more I thought of Lechuza's stern rebuke the louder I laughed, until I yelled with laughter, slapping my thighs and doubling myself up after the manner of Mariano's hilarious visitor from purgatory. My companions never smiled. Rivarola came back with the bucket of water, and, after staring at me for some time, said, “If the tears, which they say always follow laughter, come in the same measure, then we shall have to sleep in the wet.” This increased my mirth. “If the whole country is to be informed of our hiding-place,” said Blas the timid, “we were putting ourselves to an unnecessary trouble by running away from San Paulo.” Fresh screams of laughter greeted this protest. “I once knew a man,” said Mariano, “who had a most extraordinary laugh; you could hear it a league away, it was so loud. His name was Aniceto, but we called him El Burro on account of his laugh, which sounded like the braying of an ass. Well, sirs, he one day burst out laughing, like the Captain here, at nothing at all, and fell down dead. You see, the poor man had aneurism of the heart.” At this I fairly yelled, then, feeling quite exhausted, I looked apprehensively at Lechuza, for this important member of the quartet had not yet spoken. With his immense, unspeakably serious eyes fixed on me, he remarked quietly, “And this, my friends, is the man who says it is wrong to steal horses!” But I was past shrieking now. Even this rich specimen of topsy-turvy Banda Orientál morality only evoked a faint gurgling as I rolled about on the grass, my sides aching, as if I had received a good bruising. CHAPTER XX