And it was she who rose up in all her despair as an unreconciled soul to say “no” to Leonardo, and it was the blood of his father, the obscure revolutionary who never saw the face of victory, and it was the years of hard work and postponed hopes, and, closer and more painful, the failure of his union with Julia. All of it shouted “no” to Leonardo, “no” to prudence, “no,” “no,” “no,” to a shadowy compromise, to bending the law, to a paid compliance. A deeply scarred loyalty held sway over Fernando; it kept him beyond the reach of the other man’s hints.

“What have you decided, ingeniero?”

Ulloa stood up and slowly walked over to the window. It was still raining.

“There is nothing to decide. My course is set.”

“Is that your final word?”

“Yes.”

This Fernando Ulloa was turning out to be a hard nut to crack. But Cifuentes wasn’t discouraged; there was still insistence, intrigue. There was still time, à period of time the ranchers would know how to prolong.

Suddenly Fernando felt a stinging in his feet, a sense of asphyxiation, an oppression, an anxious need to leave, to break out of this prison of rain, mud and hills.

“I’ll be going right away.”

And, in answer to a question the other man hadn’t asked, he added, “I have classes to teach tomorrow at the Instituto.”

It didn’t occur to Leonardo to try to detain him. There would be other occasions for continuing the dialogue. He stepped politely to one side to allow his guest to depart.

XIII

CHAPTER XIII

THE BUILDING THAT HOUSED the Instituto Superior was originally constructed as a convent. With the triumph of the liberal troops and the expropriation of goods from the clergy, it became government property. What use could be made of it? It was very large and very dark for an office building, but not sturdy enough for a barracks. The decision was made to convert it into a school.

The result was an irritating general inconvenience, an air of improvisation contradicted by the antiquity of the furniture and the smudged decrepitude of the maps and engravings. The dark, narrow, damp cells—instruments for the mortification of the flesh—fulfilled their mission on teachers and students who justified their miserable accommodations by attributing to them their inability to teach, or their lack of interest in learning.

Despite all this, the inhabitants of Ciudad Real were proud of their Instituto, the only and therefore the best one in the state. Every year, its. prestige attracted young men from all over Chiapas and even from towns on the borders of Tabasco and Guatemala. Languid natives of the lowlands, wily men from the heart of the country, and happy-go-lucky fellows from the coast brought income to the town’s boarding houses, liveliness to its avenues and sentimental unrest to its young girls.