Saxon made no reply.
“Say,” commented the irrepressible revolutionist, as they strolled into the arcade at the side of the main plaza, “you’ve changed a bit in appearance. You’re a bit heavier, aren’t you?”
Saxon did not seem to hear.
The plaza was gay with the life of the miniature capital. Officers strolled about in their brightest uniforms, blowing cigarette smoke and ogling the señoritas, who looked shyly back from under their mantillas.
From the band-stand blared the national air. Natives and foreigners sauntered idly, taking their pleasure with languid ease. But Rodman kept to the less conspicuous sides and the shadows of the arcade, and Saxon walked with him, unseeing and deeply miserable.
Between the electric glare of the plaza and the first arc-light of the Calle Bolivar is a corner comparatively dark. Here, the men met two army officers in conversation. Near them waited a handful of soldiers. As the Americans came abreast, an officer fell in on either side of them.
“Pardon, señors,” said one, speaking in Spanish with extreme politeness, “but it is necessary that we ask you to accompany us to the Palace.”
The soldiers had fallen in behind, following. Now, they separated, and some of them came to the front, so that the two men found themselves walking in a hollow square. Rodman halted.
“What does this signify?” he demanded in a voice of truculent indignation. “We are citizens of the United States!”
“I exceedingly deplore the inconvenience,” declared the officer. “At the Palace, I have no doubt, it will be explained.”