The editor of the Imparcial had at last had his great chance, and the Marinoni he had purchased second-hand from a Madrid printing office was working overtime. For edition after edition he drove home the praises of the rising stars of San Pietro. With the true journalistic spirit he had seized on the high lights of the romance, points which he knew would delight the gossip-loving patrons of his sheet, and the café loungers on the promenade of Corbo were regaled with stories of the love of Galva and Armand, which, if not strictly true, were at least richly garnished with the roses of romance and were well worth the reading.
As a counterblast, El Dia had appeared the morning following the death of the king, with a heavy, wordy, black-bordered leading article in which the influence of Spain was barely disguised. It had pointed out to the inhabitants of San Pietro that they would do well to move warily in the crisis now before them, and that, at least, they should stay the celebrations of joy until after the vault in Corbo Cathedral had closed over the remains of the late king, whose small virtues they unearthed and glorified.
But your Corbian is not given to moving warily, and neither can he pretend to a sorrow he does not feel. It is small wonder, therefore, that the gala colours of rejoicing should outweigh the trappings of woe with which a few axe-grinding friends of the late monarch bedecked their sorrowing persons.
From an attic window high up in a small and dirty hotel facing the Cathedral Square, and well shielded by the faded and torn curtains, a man had sat for days watching the animated scenes beneath him. He sat with his chin moodily resting in his hand, in his eyes the haunted look of a man who is hard pressed.
*****
Gabriel Dasso and the lieutenant had, after the encounter with Edward Povey in the shrubbery of the palace grounds, made their way to the house in the old town. The ex-dictator did not consider all was lost until Spain had had her say in the matter; he relied, too, on the army, a hope which would have been fully justified had he had only Prince Armand as an opponent.
But he well knew the natures of the gay-hearted youths who held commission in the San Pietran army, and, knowing this, he sighed, and a vision of a lovely face rose up before him, a face in which the dark eyes shone serenely and fearless, and luminous with fascination. He felt that only too readily would the swords fly from their scabbards to do service for Queen Miranda.
The men let themselves into the house in the old town and made their way to the dining-room. Dasso went over and drew the heavy curtains across the windows. There was wine on the table and he drank greedily. Mozara was standing dejectedly before the fire, jabbing viciously at the logs with his heel. The sight of the spur reminded him of something, and he gave a hard little laugh.
"We might have brought away our horses, Gabriel—we may need them," he said meaningly.
"Pshaw, we'll win yet." But Dasso's tone was not hopeful as he said it, and the hand that held the wineglass trembled a little, which was not usual with the hand of the ex-dictator.