So we left the circus behind—for they were still keeping up the delectable chorus over the garden wall in a manner that would have won great praise on the comic opera stage.
My one thought now was to cover the acres of ground separating us from the “pebbly strand,” where the dimpling waters of the Caribbean kissed the shore of Tobasco, one time a republic.
The good city of Bolivar would ere long be a very unhealthy place for a fellow of my size: doubtless I had been recognized as a Yankee by some of the rabble. Words I had shouted would have betrayed this fact, if nothing else, and there were few enough of my breed in the capital, so that my identification would be easy.
Truly, the sooner my feet trod the deck of my saucy little vessel, the better for my peace of mind. They have an uncomfortable way of standing a fellow up before a file of barefoot soldiers, and against a dead wall, in these revolutionary republics, and then trying the case after the execution; and when one considers what wretched shots these fellows are, the fear lest they might miss their mark and require a second volley, would be greater than the actual pangs of dissolution.
For the moment I had forgotten what Hildegarde had so vehemently declared about ever setting foot on my yacht.
Really, there was no other refuge—it was Hobson’s choice.
If she proved obdurate, and ventured to fly in the face of good fortune, we must adopt some other plan, for I was grimly determined she should owe her escape to my much abused boat.
Escape—from what?
Well, there was the riotous mob back yonder, danger enough in itself; but, going back to the prime cause—escape from what?
That reminded me of the fact that as yet I had not the faintest inkling concerning the nature of the peril that menaced her in the house of Bolivar’s worthy alcalde.