``Well, I can't make it any plainer,'' Clay replied.``It isn't a question I will ask.But you say you want my advice.Well, my advice to my friend and to a man who is not my friend, differ.
And in this case it depends on whether what that thing--''
Clay kicked the paper which had fallen on the ground--``what that thing says is true.''
The younger man looked at the paper below him and then back at Clay, and sprang to his feet.
``Why, damn you,'' he cried, ``what do you mean?''
He stood above Clay with both arms rigid at his side and his head bent forward.The dawn had just broken, and the two men saw each other in the ghastly gray light of the morning.``If any man,''
cried Stuart thickly, ``dares to say that that blackguardly lie is true I'll kill him.You or any one else.Is that what you mean, damn you? If it is, say so, and I'll break every bone of your body.''
``Well, that's much better,'' growled Clay, sullenly.``The way you went on wishing you were dead and hating yourself made me almost lose faith in mankind.Now you go make that speech to the President, and then find the man who put up those placards, and if you can't find the right man, take any man you meet and make him eat it, paste and all, and beat him to death if he doesn't.
Why, this is no time to whimper--because the world is full of liars.Go out and fight them and show them you are not afraid.
Confound you, you had me so scared there that I almost thrashed you myself.Forgive me, won't you?'' he begged earnestly.
He rose and held out his hand and the other took it, doubtfully.
``It was your own fault, you young idiot,'' protested Clay.
``You told your story the wrong way.Now go home and get some sleep and I'll be back in a few hours to help you.Look!'' he said.He pointed through the trees to the sun that shot up like a red hot disk of heat above the cool green of the mountains.
``See,'' said Clay, ``God has given us another day.Seven battles were fought in seven days once in my country.Let's be thankful, old man, that we're NOT dead, but alive to fight our own and other people's battles.''
The younger man sighed and pressed Clay's hand again before he dropped it.
``You are very good to me,'' he said.``I'm not just quite myself this morning.I'm a bit nervous, I think.You'll surely come, won't you?''
``By noon,'' Clay promised.``And if it does come,'' he added, ``don't forget my fifteen hundred men at the mines.''
``Good! I won't,'' Stuart replied.``I'll call on you if I need them.'' He raised his fingers mechanically to his helmet in salute, and catching up his sword turned and strode away erect and soldierly through the debris and weeds of the deserted plaza.
Clay remained motionless on the steps of the pedestal and followed the younger man with his eyes.He drew a long breath and began a leisurely search through his pockets for his match-box, gazing about him as he did so, as though looking for some one to whom he could speak his feelings.He lifted his eyes to the stern, smooth-shaven face of the bronze statue above him that seemed to be watching Stuart's departing figure.
``General Bolivar,'' Clay said, as he lit his cigar, ``observe that young man.He is a soldier and a gallant gentleman.You, sir, were a great soldier--the greatest this God-forsaken country will ever know--and you were, sir, an ardent lover.I ask you to salute that young man as I do, and to wish him well.'' Clay lifted his high hat to the back of the young officer as it was hidden in the hanging vines, and once again, with grave respect to the grim features of the great general above him, and then smiling at his own conceit, he ran lightly down the steps and disappeared among the trees of the plaza.
