Carmencita was so very proud of me she could not seem to take her eyes from my face, and I even felt embarrassed, which showed I had not yet become accustomed to being worshiped as a hero.
There was but a poor chance of securing much comfort on this night in these humble quarters; perhaps, when I had been duly inaugurated, we might have a presidential palace on the order of the alcalde’s big affair, where we could entertain.
Hildegarde was led to a cot where she might snatch a little sleep, covered with a shawl; while I, being an old campaigner, asked for nothing better than a chair.
As for the secretary of war, he promptly declared that since old Bolivar seemed determined to make a night of it, he believed it a part of his new duties to be upon the street, studying the character of the people, and entering into the spirit of the hour.
If ever there was a watchdog, Robbins was one—a jewel beyond compare; and so long as he remained on guard, small reason had I to worry.
I busied myself in seeing that Hildegarde was comfortable, and even insisted upon placing the Mexican shawl over her.
Then I kissed her good-night, and went away to the outer room, where I was to compose myself in a chair as best I could.
Little did I expect to sleep—there were too many wonderful things rioting through my mind to allow of my settling down.
I began to believe that, after all, Dame Fortune, weary of giving me hard knocks, had determined to shower favors in my lap; my recent experience was almost as dazzling as anything from the romantic pages of the “Arabian Nights,” of which I had been so fond as a boy.
Where would it end?