“But the proclamations! Abominable, public, infamous!”
“Oh, quite wrong, of course.”
“You admit it!”
“He must be pardoned.”
“To-morrow.”
“Now!”
“Oo-aa!” from the Plaza, that hair-raising yell.
The Mayor shivered. Then he gathered up his dignity with the gracefulness of a lady picking up her skirts, and finished the game like a fallen but romantic potentate. “Enough,” he said. “I yield.”
We drove to the Plaza, Jimmie Hagan on the carriage-springs behind, the Mayor and I standing on the seat and holding hands for the public to see the unlimited affection we had; the paymaster and the officer in pink and white on the seat facing, waving their hats with unnatural joy, and the other official on the seat with the driver.
But what a sight was the Plaza! What a howling mass of faces, open mouths, hands gesticulating, all fading and dimly seen at a few hundred feet from the carriage, for the night was falling fast.