The windows, lit up by
the flush of the setting sun, glowed like live coals; in the
foreground, just below San Francisco el Grande, bulked the red tanks
of the gas factory with their high steel beams, amidst the obscure
rubbish-heaps; from the centre of the city rose tiny towers and low
chimneys which belched forth black puffs of smoke that seemed to rest
motionless in the tranquil atmosphere. At one side, upon a hill,
towered the Observatory, whose windows sparkled with the sun; at the
other, the Guadarama range, blue with crests of white, was outlined
against the clear, transparent heavens furrowed by red clouds.
"Bah," added Vidal, after a moment's silence, turning to Manuel.
"You've got to come with us; we'll make a gang."
"That's the talk," stammered Bizco.
"All right. I'll see," responded Manuel unwillingly.
"What do you mean, you'll see? The gang's already formed. We'll call
it the gang of The Three."
"Fine!" shouted Bizco.
"And we'll help each other?" inquired Manuel.
"Of course we will," assured his cousin. "And if any one of us should
prove a traitor...."
"If any one proves a traitor," interrupted Bizco, "his guts'll be
ripped out." And to lend force to his declaration he drew out his dirk
and plunged it viciously into the table.
At nightfall the three returned by the road to the Toledo bridge and
separated at that point, after arranging to meet on the morrow.
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