"Hold your tongue, Peter. Jack is quite right. Unless a good man is put at the head of affairs, Don Hypolito will enter Tlatonac within the month. It's a mighty black look-out for the Government. Don Francisco ought to be shunted at once."
The peon ran alongside them, and kept up with their horses in the most wonderful manner. It was noon when they left Puebla de los Naranjos, and it was now late at night. In ten hours they had come nearly fifty miles. Their horses were quite worn out, owing to the incessant galloping. Now they were within a mile of the capital, and already, in the dim light, could see the line of walls looming in the distance. They were glad it was dark, or, rather, comparatively so, as it afforded them a certain amount of protection from wandering Indian scouts.
"The luck holds!" said Philip, thankfully, as they rode towards the Puerta de la Culebra. "We have not seen a single savage since we left Janjalla."
"Had it not been for your forethought, Philip, they would have had our scalps by this time."
"My thought, but your actions, Jack. It was lucky you knew the country."
"A mutual admiration society, you are!" cried Tim, whose spirits were wonderfully light. "How do you feel, Peter?"
"Worn out," replied the doctor, laconically.
"Faith. I'm not astonished. I'm bumped to death also. A hundred miles isn't bad for an inferior rider like myself."
"Oh, you are a war correspondent," began Peter, fretfully, when his remarks were cut short by an exclamation from Sebastian.
"Dios! the gates are open! Soldiers are coming out!"