Watching the proceedings from a window at the “Jockey Club Hotel” were the Marquis de la Torre and Natividad, both wild with impatience, for their only hope now lay in Garcia.

At Pisco, they had ended by discovering that the Bride of the Sun’s escort had embarked in the very steam-tug used to tow the Marquis’ own barges from the Chincha Islands to Callao. This once again proved that the scheme had been well thought out and prepared long in advance, the Indians about Maria-Teresa being in the plot.

Securing a boat in their turn, the pursuers followed to Mollendo. There they took the train, and reached Arequipa only a few hours after the Red Ponchos—Uncle Francis still supernaturally calm, and Natividad beginning to despair of everything.

Chance favored them when they landed in this city of mad people, who would not even trouble to answer questions. Dick recognized Huascar strolling through the streets, and tracked him to the house where Maria-Teresa and her brother were kept prisoners. This was a low adobe building on the edge of the suburbs, and quite close to the Rio de Chili. It was openly guarded by a dozen armed Indians in red ponchos. Dick and the Marquis soon found, however, that they could not even get as near as that line of guards. Fifty yards away from the house, Civil Guards stopped them, and ordered them back. Garcia’s own troops were guarding the Virgin of the Sun!

“Of course, Garcia cannot know,” said the Marquis. “I know him, and though he has faults, he is not a savage. He once wanted to marry Maria-Teresa. Let us go and find him.”

But Dick refused to lose sight of the adobe house. Had they listened to him, they would have forced their way to it at once. It was only after long arguing that Natividad convinced him such a step would be absurd. Lives are cheap during revolutions, and two or three corpses more or less in the Rio de Chili would not make it overflow its banks. Nor would they contribute greatly to the freeing of Maria-Teresa and little Christobal.

He promised to be reasonable, but would not go with them when they returned to the inn for a meal; instead, he took up his post in a boat on the river, and thence watched his fiancÉe’s prison and the armed men walking up and down before.

The Marquis and Natividad therefore, witnessed Garcia’s triumph alone. Uncle Francis had been lost, or rather, had been left alone in the middle of the street, staring up at the Misti. He was now doubtless in the crowd somewhere, taking notes.

Garcia in all his glory was a sight which did not please the Marquis.

“I never thought he was that kind of man,” he commented, “though I always suspected he had negro blood in his veins.”

“Drunk with success,” replied Natividad drily.

After the review, they followed the Dictator and his staff only to find their way barred by troops at the road leading down to the headquarters. Here the Marquis ordered the men out of the way with such insolence, and spoke with such assurance of “his friend Garcia,” that he was allowed to pass, Natividad clinging to his sleeve.

The subaltern in command at the guard-room took the Marquis’ card, and a moment later they were ushered upstairs. There were soldiers everywhere, some of them fast asleep on the staircase, their guns between their knees, so that the visitors had to pick their way upstairs over prostrate bodies.

Finally, their guide pushed open a door and ushered them into a bedroom, where Garcia was presiding over a meeting of the Cabinet he had appointed the previous day. Some of these high functionaries were seated on the Dictator’s bed, others on the table, and one on a bundle of soiled linen.

They were received more than courteously. Garcia, who was in his shirt-sleeves, and shaving, ran toward the Marquis with both hands outstretched, scattering white flakes from his shaving-brush as he came.

“Forgive me, seÑor,” he said. “Antique simplicity! Antique simplicity!... I receive you as I would a friend... for I trust you come as a friend, as a friend of the new Government. Let me introduce you.”

He began with the Minister of War, who was astride the bolster, and finished up with the Minister for Posts and Telegraphs, a hideous half-breed chewing cocoa-nut leaves.

“No fuss, you see,” babbled on Garcia. “Antique simplicity. Cato, and all that sort of thing.... Nothing like antiquity, sir, to make men.... The good padres taught us that, and I took the lesson to heart.” He laughed. “All that show is for outside... the crowds like it. You must amuse the crowd!... Did you see my review? Splendid, wasn’t it?... Magnificent soldiers.... And the rain., Did you see what I did? Effective, eh?”

Daring all this verbiage, Garcia was thinking hard, and watching the new-comers’ faces. He was far from being a fool. Were they, or were they not, ambassadors from Veintemilla? Would he accept a compromise, if they came to offer it? In a moment his mind was made up; he would refuse, and risk everything on the result of this rising, his large fortune and his life included.

At last the Marquis was able to speak.

“I have come to ask the assistance of the master of Peru.”

At these words the Dictator, who was washing the soap from his face, looked up in surprise over a towel. He knew that the Marquis was a personal friend of Veintemilla. Natividad looked away uneasily, for he was compromising himself horribly.

“The master of Peru,” repeated the Marquis, “whose motto is ‘Liberty for all.’ I want him to restore to me my two children, who have been stolen.”

“Stolen! What do you mean, seÑor? Those who have done this thing shall be punished. I swear it by my ancestor, Pedro de la Vega, who gave his life for the True Faith, and was killed by the infidels in the year of grace 1537 at the Battle of Xauxa, in which he received seventeen wounds while fighting at the side of the illustrious Christobal de la Torre!”

The Marquis had always said that Garcia was in no way descended from Pedro de la Vega, and Garcia knew it.

“Those same infidels have now carried off my daughter, Excellency.”

“The beautiful seÑorita! But what do you mean by infidels? What infidels?”

“She has been kidnaped from Callao by the Quichuas... as a sacrifice to their gods during the Interaymi.”

“Sacrifice!... Interaymi... but that cannot be, seÑor.”

“I am sure of what I say, Excellency, and she has certainly been carried off. Let me introduce seÑor Perez, the inspector superior of the police of Callao. Like myself, he is devoted to your cause. He will tell you the same thing. Speak, Natividad.”

Horrified at the form of the Marquis’ introduction, Natividad stammered a corroboration. If Garcia did not win now, all that was left for him to do was to cross the Bolivian frontier.

The change in Garcia’s manner was immediate. He did not want trouble with the Quichuas, his partisans and allies.

“But I can do nothing for you, seÑor. All this happened in Callao. Veintemilla is still master there, and you must go to him.”

“They are now in this very city, imprisoned in a house which is guarded by your own troops.”

“That is not possible. I should have known it. But if by some extraordinary fact this is so, you have not done wrong in coming to me.”

“I knew I would not appeal to you in vain. As long as I live, I shall not forget this service. I have friends in Lima, seÑor! And this gentleman also,” he pointed to Natividad. “The police of Callao is yours.... Only accompany us to the gates of the city, and set my children free, and my life and my fortune are yours.”

“I am afraid I cannot come myself, for I am expecting the British Consul. But I will send my Minister for War with you. You will find him just as useful.” Garcia turned and whistled for the dignitary in question, who seemed in no hurry to move. “Go and see what is happening,” he ordered, “and let me know.... I believe you are in error, gentlemen, but I will do what I can for you.”

Don Christobal and Natividad went out, followed by the Minister, whose enormous spurs made the hall and staircase echo. Garcia closed the door.

“I wonder what it all means,” he mused aloud, evidently much put out. “Ten to one, Oviedo Runtu is in it. If he really has carried off seÑorita de la Torre, the outlook for us at Lima is bad.”

The door opened, and an officer announced the British Consul. This official was a big tradesman of the town, who had secured the commissariat contracts to Garcia’s army by promising him the support of Great Britain.

Garcia began to speak of his soldiers, and the consul put in that the worth of an army resided more in the general who commanded it than in the men themselves. His compliment provoked a self-satisfied bow from Garcia, but he made the mistake of trying to improve it, and added:

“For, between you and me, Excellency, those troops of yours are not worth much, and if you had not been there to...”

“Not worth much! What the devil do you mean! Do you know what kind of fighting they have been doing in the mountains? Not worth much, indeed! Did you see a single laggard...”

“No, but the guard are all sound asleep now.”

“Asleep!” Garcia swore, and ran to the door.