played a calm and unconcern which would have convinced the others he was mad, had they had time to notice him. The news of Garcia's victory had just reached Pisco, and the mob was even more delirious than that of Canete.
The Marquis, taking the leadership, led the way to his depôt and stores, only to find them completely deserted. There was not a single employee there to answer his questions.
"To the corregidor's, then," he ordered.
The four travelers had entered the main and only street of the town, and were riding toward the sandy central square when a thundering feu de joie made them pull up. The Indians were burning the sacred maize-leaf in honor of Garcia, to the grave danger of the little blue-and-white houses around. The inhabitants of these, well-to-do half-breeds, had locked themselves in, or taken to flight.
The madness of alcohol and the madness of fire crackers had taken firm hold of all that was visible of the population. The mob had pillaged a pisco distillery, and was enjoying itself thoroughly with that virulent spirit, which is made from a kind of Malaga grape, and takes its name from the town.
Natividad, casting round for a guide, found a half-breed sadly huddled under a doorway. He
