The change in Garcia’s manner was immediate. He did not want trouble with the Quichuas, his partisans and allies.
“But I can do nothing for you, señor. All this happened in Callao. Veintemilla is still master there, and you must go to him.”
“They are now in this very city, imprisoned in a house which is guarded by your own troops.”
“That is not possible. I should have known it. But if by some extraordinary fact this is so, you have not done wrong in coming to me.”
“I knew I would not appeal to you in vain. As long as I live, I shall not forget this service. I have friends in Lima, señor! And this gentleman also,” he pointed to Natividad. “The police of Callao is yours.... Only accompany us to the gates of the city, and set my children free, and my life and my fortune are yours.”
“I am afraid I cannot come myself, for I am expecting the British Consul. But I will send my Minister for War with you. You will find him just as useful.” Garcia turned and whistled for the dignitary in question, who seemed in no hurry to move. “Go and see what is happening,” he ordered, “and let me know.... I believe you are in error, gentlemen, but I will do what I can for you.”
Don Christobal and Natividad went out, followed by the Minister, whose enormous spurs made the hall and staircase echo. Garcia closed the door.
“I wonder what it all means,” he mused aloud, evidently much put out. “Ten to one, Oviedo Runtu is in it. If he really has carried off señorita de la Torre, the outlook for us at Lima is bad.”
The door opened, and an officer announced the British Consul. This official was a big tradesman of the town, who had secured the commissariat contracts to Garcia’s army by promising him the support of Great Britain.
Garcia began to speak of his soldiers, and the consul put in that the worth of an army resided more in the general who commanded it than in the men themselves. His compliment provoked a self-satisfied bow from Garcia, but he made the mistake of trying to improve it, and added: