Our worthy alcalde had doubtless passed through many revolutions in his time—he knew only too well what those cries and that tumult portended, and when a change of dynasty was imminent far be it from him to allow such minor matters as the capture of two Yengees to keep him from weightier business.
They were on the street, just as every man in Bolivar was at that hour; when morning came the result would be unanimous, whether the revolution succeeded or not, for in that region every one is outwardly heart and soul with the powers that be.
We walked through deserted apartments, we traversed a patio where no sign of porter or watchman might be seen, and thus we came once more to the calle.
I felt a savage joy at being free—thirty hours in a Bolivar dungeon is about all any ordinary man can stand, and since my rescue Robbins had kept me so busy that up to the present I was hardly in a condition to realize how much cause there was for rejoicing.
The riotous proceedings did not occur near the home of the alcalde—it was at the public plaza where the exciting drama was being played.
I knew Robbins was desirous of immediately thrusting his individuality into the game, and now that the way appeared clear, there seemed really no apparent reason why he should not be allowed to follow his bent.
Surely I ought to be able to protect one little woman, armed as I was.
I told him this, at which he shouted:
“Good, Morgan! It was what I wanted to propose, but hardly knew how you’d take it. Go right along this street until you come to the cathedral—you know the place. I think about there you’ll find the girl waiting to conduct you to safe quarters.”
“Hurrah!” I cried, enthusiastically.