“If I forced that house, Excellency, every one of our Quichua soldiers would rise. Runtu has only to make a sign, and they cut all our throats. That house is sacred, for the Red Ponchos and the mammaconas are escorting the ‘sacred imprints from Cajamarca to the Cuzco for the Interaymi fêtes. It is impossible, Excellency.” One look from the Dictator drove all his ministers from the room. When the door had closed on the last one, he turned to the Marquis.
“If your children are in that house, señor, it is terrible... but I can do nothing for you.” Don Christobal staggered under the blow, and leaned against the wall.
“Listen, Garcia,” he said in a strangled voice, “if this horrible crime is allowed, I shall make you personally responsible for it before the civilized world.”
He reeled, almost on the point of fainting. Garcia ran to his side, and held him up, but Don Christobal seemed to regain his forces at once.
“Hands off, you general of murderers!” he shouted.
Garcia went white, while the Marquis walked toward the door, turning his back on the Dictator though he expected to be stabbed at any moment. But Garcia controlled himself, and his lisping voice checked Don Christobal in surprise.
“Do not go yet, señor. I can do nothing for you, but I can at all events give you some advice.”
Don Christobal turned, but ignored the hand which waved to a chair, and waited. He had already wasted too much time here.
“Speak, sir,” he said; “time passes.”
“Have you any money?” asked Garcia bruskly.