Quietly bidding Bolivar farewell, we followed one of the high officials, who let us out through a private door, and escorted us to the quay. There we boarded the schooner, which in less than an hour was under way. The protector went straight to his cabin without speaking. He was bitterly disappointed at the result of the interview, but all that passed his lips on the subject was, "Bolivar is not the man we took him to be." These words were said as we paced the deck together next morning, and they were spoken more to himself than to us.
"It has happened as I predicted," remarked Guido that afternoon, "and the rest will follow. As soon as he has put things in order, he will leave Peru to make room for Bolivar. And he will not let people know the reason; he will even make Bolivar's path smoother."
"You would plant it thick with thorns, I suppose?"
"I would plant it with naked swords!"
"Ah, Guido," I cried, "that is not San Martin's teaching!"
"No," said he surlily; "it's a lesson of my own composing."
The voyage passed uneventfully, and on the twentieth of August the Macedonia once more sailed into the Bay of Callao.
During our absence a riot had taken place in Lima; but the people received San Martin enthusiastically, coming down in thousands to the port, and escorting him to his country house in triumph.
I said little of what had taken place to any one except my father, and he was able to judge of things by other signs. The protector, who told him Bolivar had agreed to help Peru with troops, worked feverishly day and night, until the opening of the first Peruvian Congress. Then removing his sash of authority, he resigned his office, and formally handed over the care of the country to the new Parliament. That same evening my father and I called at his house, where we found Guido, ever faithful, waiting in the anteroom.
"Where is the general?" asked my father.