Yet
a spark of interest would, at times, shine out from them at the sight
of a neat figure, or a pretty face, among the rustic belles, whose
love of bright and strongly contrasted colors in dress, attracted the
eye, and gave variety to the scene.
Some of these gentlemen stopped L'Isle to talk with him. But, avoiding
any prolonged conversation, he hastened across the _praca_, into one
of the narrow and uncleanly streets, along which he picked his way,
wishing that he had authority, for a few days, to turn the good people
of Elvas, clergy and all, into scavengers, and enter on a thorough
purification of the place, beginning with the persons of the people
themselves. A moral purification might possibly follow, but could not
possibly precede this physical cleansing. Walking along, divided
between these thoughts and the necessity of looking for the place he
was searching for, he heard himself called by some one behind him. He
turned; it was Commissary Shortridge himself, who being rather pursy,
was a little out of breath through his exertions to overtake him.
Now, there were a good many things that L'Isle despised. But, if there
was any thing that he did despise beyond all others, it was a
commissary--a fellow who makes his gains where all other men make
their losses; who devotes himself to his country's service for the
express purpose of cheating it; who seizes the hour of its greatest
want and weakness, to bleed it most freely; who, as often as he can,
_sells_ to his country straw for hay, chaff for corn, and bones for
beef; the master-stroke of whose art is to get passed, by fraudulent
vouchers, accounts full of imaginary articles, charged at fabulous
prices; in short, a man who loves war more than Mars or Achilles;
reaping, amidst its blood and havoc, a rich harvest in safety.
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