At this moment, an extraordinary procession passed under the corregidor’s windows. A dancing, singing procession, at the head of which Natividad recognized his four troopers. He opened the window and shouted menaces, but they passed unheeding.
In a sad mood Natividad rejoined his companions. Without any explanation, he told them they must follow to Pisco, and they started again. Natividad, in a brown study meanwhile, would answer no questions.
Don Christobal, hearing that the Indians were making for Pisco, grew hopeful. He was known in the town, having a branch business there, with big guano dépôts, stores in the harbor, and a considerable coolie station on the Chincha Islands, which are just off the town. There he could speak with authority, and make the corregidor listen.
They reached Pisco dog-tired, on mounts that could hardly stand. Uncle Francis alone displayed a calm and unconcern which would have convinced the others he was mad, had they had time to notice him. The news of Garcia’s victory had just reached Pisco, and the mob was even more delirious than that of Canete.
The Marquis, taking the leadership, led the way to his dépôt and stores, only to find them completely deserted. There was not a single employee there to answer his questions.
“To the corregidor’s, then,” he ordered.
The four travelers had entered the main and only street of the town, and were riding toward the sandy central square when a thundering feu de joie made them pull up. The Indians were burning the sacred maize-leaf in honor of Garcia, to the grave danger of the little blue-and-white houses around. The inhabitants of these, well-to-do half-breeds, had locked themselves in, or taken to flight.
The madness of alcohol and the madness of fire crackers had taken firm hold of all that was visible of the population. The mob had pillaged a pisco distillery, and was enjoying itself thoroughly with that virulent spirit, which is made from a kind of Malaga grape, and takes its name from the town.
Natividad, casting round for a guide, found a half-breed sadly huddled under a doorway. He doubtless was one of those who had something to lose by the rioting; a house to be burned, or a cellar to be plundered.
“Follow me,” he said, when asked where the corregidor could be found.