What struck our energetic American as unexpected was the air of repose which rested upon the scene, giving little hint of the excitement reigning outside. Slowly along the streets, as if there was no occasion for haste, moved trains of mules bearing on their backs bags of coffee, or quite enveloped under huge bales of fodder, which had the appearance at a distance of some huge, lifeless bulk upon legs. Then there were bodies of foot soldiers, wearing blue uniforms with scarlet trousers and facings, also moving with a deliberation which at least bespoke their importance. This sight was enlivened by the appearance of an open fiacre whirled along the street by a pair of small but fiery horses, driven by a coachman from his high box seat, the gold trimmings to his hat and coat rivaled for brightness by the ornaments on his top boots. Evidently the carriage bore some person of importance in haste to his destination.
The cause of this undue haste, as well as the disturbance of the equanimity of this everyday sight, was explained by the sounds of another party approaching. Then, as the travelers upon the streets moved with unaccustomed celerity to one side, a body of men mounted upon high-stepping horses, strikingly caparisoned and carefully groomed, appeared in sight, the riders presenting a bold effect in their uniforms of white duck and high black boots.
"The president's bodyguard," said Ronie. "General Castro and his troops have returned, and we have got here just in the nick of time."
"There is the general riding in the center," declared Harrie. "How the people are cheering him! It cannot be that they knew of his coming so soon. Shall we follow them?"
"Perhaps we might as well," said Ronie. "I suppose Francisco is in the train somewhere. Ay, look, boys! there he comes. Doesn't he look fine? He has the natural military bearing of his race. Well, I am glad of his good fortune."
With these words Ronie began to move along with the crowd which had quickly collected, and cheering lustily began to surge ahead in the direction taken by the martial train that now moved along the street farther than they could look. It was not long before they found themselves surrounded by a jostling, but good-natured, mob, each member of which seemed determined to keep in sight of the marching column. The band had now begun to play, and as the strains of martial music filled the air, Ronie Rand was conscious of hearing a voice muttering in a deep, sullen tone:
"Curses upon him! His triumph shall be short. Soon shall the sons of——"
The rest, if spoken aloud, and the words given seemed to have been uttered involuntarily, were lost to our hero, but he caught his breath at what he had heard. It was not the import of the words, but the tone of the speaker which caused such emotion that he could constrain himself with difficulty from trying to break through the mob and find him. It was the voice of Manuel Marlin, of San Carlos!
So satisfied was Ronie of this fact that he immediately tried to push his way forward so as to reach the man, whispering for his companions to follow. But people in a crowd like that give away slowly, when they can, and when Ronie had reached the spot where the other must have been at that time he was missing. Nor could he find any trace of him.
"I am sure it was he," he said to Harrie and Jack, as soon as he explained his sudden action. "But he has slipped away from me."