At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.
Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the Red Ponchos—Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad beginning to despair of everything.
Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos. Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were guarding the Virgin of the Sun!
“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”
But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd. Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little Christobal.
He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat on the river, and thence watched his fiancée’s prison and the armed men walking up and down before.
The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.
Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.
“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”
“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.