I heard the alcalde’s rasping voice give orders to leave the cain, and, not wishing to arouse his ill will, I tucked Hildegarde under my arm and went forth.
The better part of the day had flown while I slept the sleep of exhaustion, and now the afternoon seemed well spent.
Near by were a number of vehicles in which the worthy mayor and his ferocious army had sallied forth from town, most of them covered carts drawn by the everlasting mule, though there was one American ’bus, resplendent in gaudy paints, and to which were attached four horses.
We were to make our entry in style.
There was some confusion as the carts filled with the republican guards—men shouted and mules brayed horribly, for these excitable soldiers of hot temperaments can do nothing save under stress of much jabbering.
At last we were off.
A soldier sat beside the driver of the stage—the captain and three others crowded in after we were seated, while opposite us were the mayor and Hildegarde’s unworthy sire.
That ride—will I ever forget it?
The road was villainous, and it made me actually sore in the endeavor to protect my dear one from bruises—the stage jolted and bounced and rocked when the horses ran, with much of the pitching motion felt in a smack at sea when the waves toss wildly.
I almost pitied the stout old mayor, he was bounced about so, as though but a rubber ball. Twice I had him in my lap, and it required all my powers to protect Hildegarde, who sat in the very forward end of the seat.