carrying their fathers and philosophers weeping in the dust. America perhaps, Don Quixote—” he was still brandishing the sword, it was that sabre really, he thought, in María’s room—”if only you’d stop interfering, stop walking in your sleep, stop sleeping with my wife, only the beggars and the accursed.” The machete fell with a rattle. The Consul felt himself stumbling backwards until he fell over a tussock of grass. “You stole that horse,” he repeated. The Chief of Rostrums was looking down at him. Sanabria
