much as of his power.

The whole District worshipped as a sacred flagstaff that bronzed,
muscular, massive figure, which floated a huge, flowing, gray-flecked
mustache from its upper end.

"Don Ramón, you ought to remove that bush," his clerical friends would
say to him with a smile of affectionate banter. "Why, man, you look just
like Victor Emmanuel himself, the Pope's jailer."

But though don Ramón was a fervent Catholic (who never went to mass),
and hated all the infidel turnkeys of the Holy Father, he would grin and
give a satisfied twirl at the offending mouth-piece, quite flattered at
bottom to be likened to a king.

The _patio_ of the Brull mansion was the throne of his sovereignty. His
partisans would find him there, pacing up and down among the green boxes
of plantain trees, his hands clasped behind his broad, strong, but now
somewhat stooping back--a majestic back withal, capable of supporting
hosts and hosts of friends.

There he "administered justice," decided the fate of families, settled
the affairs of towns--all in a few off-hand but short and decisive
words, like one of those ancient Moorish kings who, in that selfsame
territory, centuries before, legislated for their subjects under the
open sky. On market-days the _patio_ would be thronged. Carts would stop
in long lines on either side of the door. All the hitching-posts along
the streets would have horses tied to them, and inside, the house would
be buzzing like a bee-hive with the chatter of that rustic gentry.