The general threw on his overcoat and looked out the window.
“A beautiful February day, isn’t it, Hugo?” he asked his aide.
Hugo helped the general button his coat and shook his head.
“You’re taking a big risk walking around Montevideo without a guard,” Hugo muttered. “The relatives of the officers shot in Paysandú have already reached the capital and are eager for your death. Take at least two soldiers with you!”
“My best protection is the people of Uruguay!” General Flores smiled and brushed the dust off his hat. “I’m not afraid of death.”
“Why?” Hugo asked in surprise.
“Because my death will only prove the righteousness of our cause. And future generations will truly appreciate everything we’ve done for our country.”
“Do you think anyone will remember us in the future?” “Hugo asked.
“They won’t just remember us. Treatises will be written about us, and paintings will be painted.”
General Flores stepped out onto the street and took a deep breath.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several figures that, like shadows, glided along the wall and headed toward him.
The general turned to face them and took a step toward them.
“Uruguay will be free, and its people will live happily!” he exclaimed.
The last thing he saw were the menacing daggers aimed at his chest.
Already lying on the pavement, he heard one of the assassins grind his teeth and rasp:
“This is for our brothers who were shot in Florida and Paysandú.”
The February Uruguayan sun cast its final rays upon the body of General Venancio Flores.