nessed Garcia's triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.
Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.
"I never thought he was that kind of man," he commented, "though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins."
"Drunk with success," replied Natividad drily.
After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters. Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and spoke with such assurance of "his friend Garcia," that he was allowed to pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.
The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis' card, and a moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere, some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over prostrate bodies.
Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a bedroom, where Garcia was
