That was the end of the laughter, of the jests, of the play-acting.
After that it was grim, grim, bitter and miserable. We dogs had had our day. We soldiers of either fortune had tasted our cup of triumph, and though it was only a taste, it had flown to our brains like heavy wine, and the headaches and the heartaches followed fast. For some it was more than a heartache; to them it brought the deep, drugged sleep of Nirvana.
The storm broke at the moment I turned from Lowell on the steps of the palace, and it did not cease, for even one brief breathing space, until we were cast forth, and scattered, and beaten.
As Lowell left me, General Laguerre, with Aiken at his side, came hurrying down the hall of the palace. The President was walking with his head bowed, listening to Aiken, who was whispering and gesticulating vehemently. I had never seen him so greatly excited. When he caught sight of me he ran forward.
“Here he is,” he cried. “Have you heard from Heinze?” he demanded. “Has he asked you to send him a native regiment to Pecachua?”
“Yes,” I answered, “he wanted natives to dig trenches. I sent five hundred at eight this morning.”
Aiken clenched his fingers. It was like the quick, desperate clutch of a drowning man.
“I’m right,” he cried. He turned upon Laguerre. “Macklin has sent them. By this time our men are prisoners.”
Laguerre glanced sharply at the native guard drawn up at attention on either side of us. “Hush,” he said. He ran past us down the steps, and halting when he reached the street, turned and looked up at the great bulk of El Pecachua that rose in the fierce sunlight, calm and inscrutable, against the white, glaring masses of the clouds.
“What is it?” I whispered.