He led them along a plank pavement which was just beginning to burn, until they reached the corner of the arena, opposite the church. Four skinny palms adorned the center of the square, and at the foot of one of these a mob was dancing round a fire. Above, something was hanging from a branch. The half-breed pointed to that thing.
“There is the corregidor,” he said.
Natividad, Dick and the Marquis stopped short, mute with horror. The half-breed whispered a few rapid words to Natividad, who turned to run.
“Come on! Come on!” he almost screamed.
“Why this hurry?” demanded Uncle Francis, phlegmatically.
“Why? Why?... Because they are going to eat him!”
“Not really?” drawled the scientist with mediocre interest. “Right away?”
But Natividad did not notice his tone. He was really running away, for he had not forgotten a scene in Lima, when the Guttierg brothers were torn from the presidency they had usurped by the same mob which had placed them there. Massacred, then hanged over the cathedral gates, they were finally roasted and devoured by the populace.
So fast did Natividad flee, that Dick and the Marquis could hardly keep up with him. Uncle Francis, bringing up the rear, was muttering to himself:
“Damn nonsense, sir, damn nonsense. They’re not going to frighten me.”