She was clad in a long robe of white, her dark hair flowing unconfined down her shoulders. Her bare arms, exquisitely molded, and of a tint that vied with her dress in purity, were crossed upon her breast. There was no fear in her eyes as she faced the abashed men and boys before her.
“This is my house, Senores,” she said calmly. “What do you want?”
Involuntarily the leaders of the mob fell back, awed by the girl’s courage and dignity. There was a murmur of voices, ending in a chorus of admiration and homage.
“La Reina! La Reina!” they cried. “La Reina de los Indios!”
Then the sharp-witted Pedro, resuming command over his ragged troops, stepped forth, waving to the others to keep silence.
“It is nothing, Senora,” he said, bowing with an awkward grace that played sad pranks with the box of blacking hanging from his neck. “We are patriots of Colombia marching to Panama. We mean no harm to you.” Then, turning to the emboladores, he shouted, with his old enthusiasm:
“Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Viva la Reina! Baja los Yankees!”
The crowd took up the familiar call, and with one of those quick changes of sentiment that sometimes sweeps over such gatherings, fell into a march, cheering the motionless “Reina de los Indios” as they filed past her, and leaving the Calle de los Flores to its accustomed dreams and quiet.