Surely, those were angry shouts; the mob had discovered the empty nest, and some of the inmates of neighboring houses might give them points as to the direction we had taken.
“It doesn’t matter—here are the horses,” said our magician, simply.
He led them out of a shed.
I had to rub my eyes, for I feared this was all a dream—feared that I was a boy again; reading the “Arabian Nights,” and that when I awoke, gone would be the splendid steeds, my gallant comrade in arms, the fair lady, and all.
But it was real—the horses curveted and whinnied their delight, and I wondered how Robbins had managed to secure such splendid mounts, forgetting that as secretary of war he had the power to requisition anything he desired, that would be for the public weal.
And only three hours in office—think what he might not have done in a month—a year!
Wretched Bolivar! But, then, some people never know when they are well off.
Two of the horses had side saddles—I had no idea there was such a thing in Bolivar, but he had ferreted them out; nothing seemed to escape his scent when on the track.
Hildegarde had always been a fine horsewoman, and Carmencita would take to the exercise with the readiness ever shown by confident youth.
We were all quickly mounted, and Robbins led the way; perhaps many an ex-president had quitted Bolivar in the same fashion; but we were only too thankful to shake the dust of the tropical metropolis from our shoes.