that moment the windings and turnings of the river led them to talk
about straightening the channel and, as a matter of course, about the
port works. Ben-Zayb, the journalist with the countenance of a friar,
was disputing with a young friar who in turn had the countenance of an
artilleryman. Both were shouting, gesticulating, waving their arms,
spreading out their hands, stamping their feet, talking of levels,
fish-corrals, the San Mateo River, [2] of cascos, of Indians, and so
on, to the great satisfaction of their listeners and the undisguised
disgust of an elderly Franciscan, remarkably thin and withered,
and a handsome Dominican about whose lips flitted constantly a
scornful smile.

The thin Franciscan, understanding the Dominican's smile, decided
to intervene and stop the argument. He was undoubtedly respected,
for with a wave of his hand he cut short the speech of both at the
moment when the friar-artilleryman was talking about experience and
the journalist-friar about scientists.

"Scientists, Ben-Zayb--do you know what they are?" asked the Franciscan
in a hollow voice, scarcely stirring in his seat and making only a
faint gesture with his skinny hand. "Here you have in the province
a bridge, constructed by a brother of ours, which was not completed
because the scientists, relying on their theories, condemned it as
weak and scarcely safe--yet look, it is the bridge that has withstood
all the floods and earthquakes!" [3]

"That's it, _puñales,_ that very thing, that was exactly what I was
going to say!" exclaimed the friar-artilleryman, thumping his fists
down on the arms of his bamboo chair. "That's it, that bridge and
the scientists! That was just what I was going to mention, Padre