MY HILDEGARDE.
CONTENTS
[CHAPTER I. GAY OLD BOLIVAR.]
[CHAPTER II. PERHAPS A FOOL’S ERRAND.]
[CHAPTER III. MAN PROPOSES—FATE DISPOSES.]
[CHAPTER IV. WORSE THAN STRANGERS NOW.]
[CHAPTER V. WHERE JEALOUSY CAN LURK, LOVE IS NOT DEAD.]
[CHAPTER VI. A BAD BLUNDER.]
[CHAPTER VII. THE LOST KEY.]
[CHAPTER VIII. MY TURN COMES.]
[CHAPTER IX. SAVING THE SATCHEL.]
[CHAPTER X. THE SAME FOOL.]
[CHAPTER XI. A STERN CHASE.]
[CHAPTER XII. THE LAST RESORT.]
[CHAPTER XIII. LIVELY WHILE IT LASTED.]
[CHAPTER XIV. HILDEGARDE EMBARKS.]
[CHAPTER XV. THE EMBERS ARE STIRRED.]
[CHAPTER XVI. PASSING THE FORT.]
[CHAPTER XVII. AT TWO BELLS.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOCKERY OF FATE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. “POOR, WEAK, OLD PAPA.”]
[CHAPTER XX. I TRY TO BRIDGE THE CHASM.]
[CHAPTER XXI. IN THE GRASP OF A HURRICANE.]
[CHAPTER XXII. THE HOUR OF PERIL.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. THE WRECK OF THE YACHT.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. A NIGHT OF TERROR.]
[CHAPTER XXV. ON THE BRINK OF ETERNITY.]
[CHAPTER XXVI. THROUGH THE UNDERTOW.]
[CHAPTER XXVII. STRANDED.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HOSPITALITY OF THE ALCALDE.]
[CHAPTER XXIX. THE GUARD I LOVED.]
[CHAPTER XXX. TO THE RESCUE.]
[CHAPTER XXXI. A REVOLUTIONIST.]
[CHAPTER XXXII. WE INVESTIGATE THE AZOTEA.]
[CHAPTER XXXIII. ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.]
[CHAPTER XXXIV. ONE GOOD TURN AND ANOTHER.]
[CHAPTER XXXV. HOW I CHARGED THE CITADEL.]
[CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAST STRAW.]
[CHAPTER XXXVII. THE AGE OF ENCHANTMENT.]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. A PRESIDENT FOR ONE NIGHT.]
[CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HAND OF THE WIZARD.]
[CHAPTER XL. WON AT LAST.]
CHAPTER I.
GAY OLD BOLIVAR.
I was tremendously jaded, weary of knocking about the world in the vain hope that a succession of strange sights, and rubbing elbows with queer people, might cause me to forget some very unpleasant events in my past; but which obstinately persisted in clinging to me with a zeal I could not appreciate. So it chanced that in my earnest endeavor to run away from the phantom that seemed to pursue me, I managed to double on my trail and actually overtook it.
It was in Bolivar, one of those semi-tropical cities on the great gulf to the South of our American republic. Of course, Bolivar was not the real name, but it will answer the purpose just as well, especially since a narration of the remarkable events that came under my observation there might stir up a hornet’s nest in the gay little republic, should the bare truth be set forth.
Somehow I quite fancied the place.
There was a bustle in the air rather unusual in Latin-American capitals, as though the good people had imbibed some Yankee ambition from their near contact with the States.
Particularly was this the case at this festal season of the year when, in common with most Spanish-speaking people, the citizens of Bolivar entered with heart and soul into the festival of flowers.