I knew well enough what he meant. My face and hair showed just sufficiently under the polo helmet, but I wasn't so much like Gerald without it.
Still, it was grand to be myself for half a second and hear those cheers.
The carriage had stopped in front of the cathedral, with its guard of insurgents, so I dismounted and followed the President up the steps, at the top of which the old Archbishop was waiting to receive him—with uplifted hands, just as he had stood when the coffin, with La Buena Presidente in it, had been borne up those steps three months before. By his side stood General Zorilla, grim and fierce-looking, and I did so wish that I knew enough Spanish to ask him, as a joke, whether he had any more of those blue warrants knocking about him. I wondered if he would have smiled.
In we all went, the Provisional Government trooping after us, and jolly glad I was to take off Gerald's polo helmet and get into the cool for a few minutes.
The cathedral was crowded with people, who stood up as we entered and turned their faces towards us. I saw some of them look surprised, and heard a murmur of 'No! Don Geraldio!' when they saw me, and just as I was thinking what I ought to do, old Zorilla put his hand on my shoulder, whispered something in Spanish, and beckoned me out again.
I guessed what was wrong, and clapped the helmet on, but that wasn't it—Gerald's people were already giving trouble. They were to have marched out to some barracks, on the other side of the town, where a huge meal had been prepared for them, but they were still pouring into the square, pushing the regulars and the people back against the railings on the other side, and didn't show any inclination to leave it, although I could see their officers, going in among them, pointing away to where they should have marched. They were calling out for Gerald; all over the square I could hear his name being called—it was most extraordinary; I could feel that trouble was brewing; they looked like wild cattle driven into a strange place, very nervous and suspicious and liable at the least thing to stampede, and I knew what would happen if they once got into a panic. The regulars, too, looked 'jumpy,' uncertain what they should do, and I saw some artillery men stealthily opening an ammunition limber. The townspeople were streaming out of the square as fast as they could, and I knew that if a single shot was fired, there'd be an awful massacre.
Zorilla made me get on my horse and we rode in among them.
Immediately they saw me they broke out into wild huzzahs, and a fierce roar of 'Don Geraldio! Don Geraldio! Viva Don Geraldio!' simply filled the square. Zorilla, smiling grimly, rode away, evidently thinking that he was better out of it.
I knew what I was expected to do, the 'Gnome' was at my side looking anxiously at me, so I nodded to him, pointed across the square, and began forcing my way among them in the direction they ought to go. The 'Gnome' sang out half-a-dozen orders in a stentorian voice, and the whole, huge, half-terrified, half fierce-looking mob came along after us, as good as gold.
Well, that was simply another triumphal procession for Gerald; the little machetos were all round me, they fought for the honour of leading my horse, and, thank goodness, I got them out of the square and the city without anything going wrong.