Cavendish was unusually quiet that evening. The unrestrained gaiety of the streets fascinated him. He could not understand why a people, only just beaten in war, should take so light-heartedly to amusements and rejoicing. The Rioguayans had discovered that there was far more liberty under the British flag than there had been under the late republic.
Suddenly there came the sound of men shouting in execration.
"What's that?" exclaimed Cavendish, his hand gripping the flap of his revolver holster. "Some of our men being knocked about?"
"No fear," replied Mackenzie reassuringly. "The Dagoes wouldn't risk doing that—even if they wanted to. Come on, let's see what the row's about."
A crowd taking up the whole width of the spacious Calle Almeira swept along, brandishing sticks and waving sombreros and yelling threats.
Standing on the steps of a café, the three chums could see a strong body of civil police forcing their way through the press. In the centre of the guards were three or four men looking horribly scared. They were bleeding from wounds in the head, caused by missiles hurled by the mob, who threatened to rush the none too determined police.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Peter. "There's Don Ramon Diaz."
It was. Ramon and the other principal officials of the late Government had been brought in from the capital to be tried at San Antonio. Even if they had a fair trial, which was doubtful, they were practically certain to be condemned and shot. That was one of the penalties of holding office in an unstable South American republic—autocratic power one day, degradation and a firing party the next. In the present case, it looked doubtful whether the prisoners could be taken through the mob, some of whom had just thrown noosed ropes over the electric lamp standards in the Plaza.
Gone was Ramon's sickly smile. It was the first time Peter had seen him without that sneering, fatuous grin. He was trembling violently and clinging desperately to the civil guard on his left.
"Poor blighter!" ejaculated Peter.