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“The times are out of joint, my dear José Bernardo.” The Baron de Canabrava smiled. “Even the most intelligent people are unable to make their way through the jungle we’re living in.”

“I never was intelligent. That’s not a virtue characteristic of landowners,” Colonel Murau growled. He made a vague gesture toward the outdoors. “I’ve spent half a century here, only to see everything beginning to fall apart in my old age. My one consolation is that I’m going to die one day soon and won’t live to see the total ruin of this country.”

He was indeed a very elderly man, mere skin and bones, with deeply tanned skin and gnarled hands that frequently scratched at his ill-shaven face. He was dressed like a peon, in a pair of faded pants and an open shirt topped by a rawhide vest that had lost all its buttons.

“These bad times will end soon,” Adalberto de Gumúcio said.

“Not for me.” The landowner cracked his knuckles. “Do you know how many people have left this part of the country in the last few years? Hundreds of families. The drought of ’77, the mirage of the coffee plantations in the South, of rubber in the Amazon, and now that accursed Canudos. Do you have any idea how many people are going off to Canudos? Leaving everything behind: houses, animals, work? To go up there to wait for the Apocalypse and the coming of King Dom Sebastião.” He looked at them, overwhelmed by human stupidity. “I’m not intelligent, but I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Moreira César will set Epaminondas up as governor of Bahia and he and his men will give us so much trouble that we’ll be forced to sell our haciendas at a sacrifice price, or give them away free, and go off too.”

There was a little table with cool drinks and a basket of sweet biscuits, which no one had touched, in front of the baron and Gumúcio. The baron opened a little box of snuff, offered some to his friends, and inhaled with delectation. He sat there for a moment with his eyes closed.

“We’re not going to hand Brazil over to the Jacobins on a platter, José Bernardo,” he said, opening his eyes. “Despite the fact that they’ve laid the groundwork very cleverly, they’re not going to be able to pull their maneuver off.”

“Brazil is already theirs,” Murau interrupted him. “The proof is that Moreira César’s coming here, by order of the government.”

“He was given command of the expedition because of pressure from the Military Club in Rio, a minor Jacobin stronghold that took advantage of the fact that President Moraes was ill,” the baron said. “The truth of the matter is that this is a plot against Moraes. It’s as plain as day what their plan is. Canudos is the pretext for their man to earn even more glory and prestige. Moreira César crushes a monarchist conspiracy! Moreira César saves the Republic! Isn’t that the best possible proof that only the army can guarantee the safety of the nation? So the army is swept into power, and it’s the Dictatorial Republic.” He had been smiling up until then, but now his manner grew grave. “We are not going to allow that, José Bernardo. Because we’re the ones who are going to crush the monarchist conspiracy, not the Jacobins.” He grimaced in disgust. “We can’t act like gentlemen, old boy. Politics is a job for ruffians.”

These words released some spring within old Murau, for his face brightened and he burst out laughing.

“Very well, I surrender, you ruffians,” he exclaimed. “I’ll send Throat-Slitter mules, guides, provisions, and whatever else he needs. Must I also quarter the Seventh Regiment here?”

“I can assure you he won’t pass through your land.” The baron thanked him. “You won’t even have to see his face.”

“We can’t allow Brazil to believe that we’ve risen up in rebellion against the Republic and are even plotting with England to restore the monarchy,” Adalberto de Gumúcio said. “Don’t you realize that, José Bernardo? We must put an end to this plot, as quickly as possible. Patriotism isn’t a game.”

“It’s one Epaminondas has been playing, and playing very well,” Murau muttered.

“That’s true,” the baron admitted.