Why, not to be a revolutionist down in this country meant not to exist—at one time or another everybody was that.
So I rested content.
At the most, I supposed it only meant joining a howling mob, shouting wildly for the new president, Gen. Toreado, and making all the racket possible, until, finally, the alarmed government, fearful lest their lives might be in peril, fled across the border to a neighboring republic, where they, in turn, might sow the seeds of the next popular uprising.
Why, that would only be fun, after all, and I could look on it as compensation for the abject manner in which I had chased through these same streets on a former occasion.
Yes, I would be a revolutionist, and experience the wild exhilaration that possesses a Central American free state in the throes of an upheaval.
I had done more than that for mere love of adventure in the past—surely, I could endure what came my way now, since it was for a higher and far more worthy cause—love of a woman.
I wondered if she were confined in the same suite of rooms where Carmencita had led us on the night we defied all Bolivar.
Robbins must be growing quite familiar with the alcalde’s home quarters by this time, he had prowled about it so extensively.
I could not but admire the positive ease with which he led me to the little court where the fountain flashed, and the scent of flowers hung heavy in the night air; he never hesitated as though at a loss to tell where his course lay. There was a flight of stairs leading to the long balcony or porch fronting the upper story, allowing the occupants of those chambers an opportunity to sit where they could look down upon the enchanting scene below.
Twice we had met servants hurrying about their business, but Robbins was warned in time, and hustled me out of sight.