“Ahem, ahem!” again coughed the silversmith, shifting his quid of buyo from one cheek to the other. “Believe me, Chichoy, of Quiroga the Chinaman! I heard it in the office.” “Nakú, it’s certain then,” exclaimed the simpleton, believing it at once. “Quiroga,” explained the clerk, “has a hundred thousand pesos in Mexican silver out in the bay. How is he to get it in? Very easily. Fix up the pasquinades, availing himself of the question of the students, and, while every-body is excited, grease the officials’ palms, and in the cases come!” “Just it! Just it!” cried the credulous fool, striking the table with his fist. “Just it! That’s why Quiroga did it! That’s why—” But he had to relapse into silence as he really did not know what to say about Quiroga. “And we must pay the damages?” asked the indignant Chichoy. “Ahem, ahem, a-h-hem!” coughed the silversmith, hearing steps in the street. The footsteps approached and all in the shop fell silent. “St. Pascual Bailon is a great saint,” declared the silversmith hypocritically, in a loud voice, at the same time winking to the others. “St. Pascual Bailon—” At that moment there appeared the face of Placido Penitente, who was accompanied by the pyrotechnician that we saw receiving orders from Simoun. The newcomers were surrounded and importuned for news. “I haven’t been able to talk with the prisoners,” explained Placido. “There are some thirty of them.” “Be on your guard,” cautioned the pyrotechnician, exchanging a knowing look with Placido. “They say that to-night there’s going to be a massacre.” “Aha! Thunder!” exclaimed Chichoy, looking about for a weapon. Seeing none, he caught up his blowpipe. The silversmith sat down, trembling in every limb. The credulous simpleton already saw himself beheaded and wept in anticipation over the fate of his family. “No,” contradicted the clerk, “there’s not going to be any massacre. The adviser of”—he made a mysterious gesture—“is fortunately sick.” “Simoun!” “Ahem, ahem, a-h-hem!” Placido and the pyrotechnician exchanged another look. “If he hadn’t got sick—” “It would look like a revolution,” added the pyrotechnician negligently, as he lighted a cigarette in the lamp chimney. “And what should we do then?” “Then we’d start a real one, now that they’re going to massacre us anyhow—” The violent fit of coughing that seized the silversmith prevented the rest of this speech from being heard, but Chichoy must have been saying terrible things, to judge from his murderous gestures with the blowpipe and the face of a Japanese tragedian that he put on. “Rather say that he’s playing off sick because he’s afraid to go out. As may be seen—” The silversmith was attacked by another fit of coughing so severe that he finally asked all to retire. “Nevertheless, get ready,” warned the pyrotechnician. “If they want to force us to kill or be killed—”