"Something's going to happen," he said quietly.
Then he pressed his comrade's arm as a man appeared on the highest step of the church, and the murmur of the crowd swelled into a roar:
"Viva Castillo! Viva el libertador!"
The tall figure bowed and held up a hand, and for a moment there was silence; then a clear voice rang out, and Grahame tried to catch the sonorous Castilian words. He was too far off, and some escaped him, but he heard enough to gather that it was a grim indictment of the rulers of the country. The man spoke with fire and passion, using lavish gestures, and the cries that answered showed that he could work upon the feelings of the crowd.
The café had emptied, and its stout proprietor lounged, napkin in hand, near Grahame's table.
"Sounds pretty drastic, if I heard him right," Walthew remarked. "It's obvious that the authorities don't use half-measures. Did he say they had the deputation arrested and its leader shot?"
"So I understood," said Grahame. "How did you come to learn Castilian?"
"A notion of the old man's; he made me study languages. It's his ambition to ship the Walthew manufactures all over the world, and he got a footing in Cuba some time ago."
They were silent for a few minutes, and then Grahame turned to the landlord.
"Are these things true?"