General Matajente and SeÑor Cisneros acted as hosts one afternoon, a week after the stirring events related in the last two chapters, and entertained as guests at luncheon those who were about to undertake the overland journey north. The tables were set in the grand salle of the big hotel on the tip of La Punta.

The truce agreed upon by the commanders of the land and sea forces would end with the going down of the sun on the morrow, and it was expected that warlike operations would be renewed with vigor. This meant active work for the general, and as his friends would leave for the States within twenty-four hours, he had suggested this means of bidding farewell.

Don Isaac was also there, and so were SeÑor and SeÑora Caceras and Bella. The latter would, of course, remain in Peru; at least everybody thought they would remain, until, immediately after rising from the table, Mr. Dartmoor announced that he had persuaded SeÑor Caceras to send his wife and daughter to the States with them. There was much rejoicing among the young people at this, for they had been drawn very close by the perils through which they had passed.

“I don’t see how it is possible for me to get ready,” said the seÑora.

“Try,” urged Mrs. Dartmoor. “I will help you to-night and to-morrow morning.”

“I would advise you to make the journey, madam,” said Don Isaac “Your daughter does not seem to have been well since her exciting experience.”

“No, she has not, and I suppose the journey, especially the sea voyage, would be of great benefit.”

“Indeed it will,” assented Mrs. Dartmoor. “Rosita also needs a change. She has become very nervous. For that matter, I think we have all been somewhat upset by these trying times. I wish your husband could accompany us.”

“I may be able to do so, at least as far as Panama,” he said.

“Then I shall go,” said SeÑora Caceras.

Bella brightened at this, and Harvey, who had appeared somewhat worried when the conversation had taken a doubtful tone, exclaimed in unromantic, but no less hearty, tones, “Isn’t that bully!”

“General Matajente, I wish that you could go,” said Mrs. Dartmoor.

“Duty, seÑora, compels me to remain.”

“And you, SeÑor Cisneros?”

“I must return to Huari.”

From the large salle in which luncheon had been served they went to the broad veranda above, where there were many chairs, and from where they could enjoy the beautiful view of the bay, the seacoast city beyond, and Lima in the distance.

Both Carl and his father felt a twinge of sadness when they saw the suite of rooms where they had passed so many happy months before Mrs. Saunders had returned to the States with Harold, but this was followed by the glad thought that they would soon be speeding north, homeward bound.

While the adults drew chairs near the centre of the broad balcony, the young people walked to the end, from where they could command a better view of the bay and also of San Lorenzo.

“Oh, those were happy days when we could row over there in the practice boats!” exclaimed Louis, pointing to the big island.

“Are not these days happy, sir?” asked Bella Caceras.

“Y-e-s,” he stammered, somewhat confused. “You know, I meant——”

“Well, what did you mean?” she demanded laughingly.

“It was a different kind of happiness,” said Harvey, coming to the rescue.

“You said that very prettily; didn’t he, Rosita?”

“Yes, he did. But tell the honest truth, boys, where would you rather be—out in the bay, or talking with us here, on the veranda?”

“Here,” replied Carl.

“So I say,” Louis replied.

“And you, Harvey?”

“I would rather be out in the bay, and have you girls with us.”

At this they all laughed heartily.

“Look, there’s another ship coming to join the fleet!” exclaimed the youngest lad, pointing seaward; and they saw a seventh vessel farther out, heading toward the six that composed the blockading squadron.

“It was there that you were capsized, was it not?” asked Bella of Louis.

“Yes, just off the end of San Lorenzo, near where the Blanco Encalada is cruising. My! Carl, but that was an anxious evening! I don’t believe I ever told you how frightened I was during the hours that we clung to the overturned cat-boat.”

“No, and I never told you. I think we kept one another’s courage up, don’t you?”

“Yes I’m sure we did.”

“Let’s leave this place,” said Harvey, “and go where the others are. It makes me homesick to look out over the bay.”

“Why?” asked the girls.

“Because the ships are all gone. It’s like going through a house where everybody is dead.”

“Ugh! what a comparison!”

Captain Saunders was talking when they came near, and they drew up chairs and listened. He had been telling those near him of a lonely six months he had passed in Nicaragua, soon after the close of the war, when he had been compelled to remain in that country as an attachÉ to the United States legation.

“I had not been long married,” he was saying, “and had left Mrs. Saunders and Carl in the States, for there was no steamship communication then, and the voyage to many parts of the Central American coast was made in sailing vessels. It was a very lonely life, there were few congenial spirits, and the one or two who were companionable were as homesick as I. On three occasions I was sorely tempted to go on board a steamer and sail for New York, and it is curious to note how old associations influenced me at such times.”

“How was that?” inquired Don Isaac.

“The first,” said the captain, “occurred one hot afternoon while I was lying in a hammock under a cypress tree. It was a very oppressive day and I was endeavoring to sleep, when suddenly from somewhere came the notes of violin music. Somebody was playing, ‘Maryland, my Maryland.’ The air at once brought before my mind the two years I had passed at college in northern Ohio, for one of my old fraternity songs had been set to this music. I saw the fresh green campus, bordered with maples, the gray weather-stained dormitories, the red brick gymnasium, and before me passed one after another of my old college friends. An irresistible longing came to rise and hurry to the land where they lived, away from that land of strangers.”

“And the second time?” asked SeÑor Cisneros.

“Was one night while lying awake and tortured with fever I heard the strains of ‘Home, Sweet Home.’ Then came a picture of my wife and child, of the wooden house, opposite the Episcopal church, in the little village where I had left them. I could see the yard, the well-sweep, yes, and I could hear the wooden roller creak as the bucket was hauled from the cool depths; and in my longing I believe I called out for some of that cold, crystal water which I had drunk when a boy.”

“The third?”

“The third,” said Captain Saunders, sitting upright, “was at Greytown, or San Juan del Norte, on a Christmas day. I was looking out into the bay when there rounded a cape and steamed in full view a ship of graceful lines, and I saw fluttering from her gaff——”

“Oh, father!” interrupted Carl. “A man-of-war is coming into the harbor!”

They all jumped to their feet, and hastened to the end of the veranda.

“There,” said the captain, “there’s the picture I saw. Look! The stars and stripes! An American war-ship has arrived.”

It was so. A cruiser, of graceful lines and tapering masts, was moving slowly over the passive waters of the bay, and streaming from her halyards was Old Glory. They watched her in silence as she steamed to a point opposite Chucuito, where the anchor was let go, and then the stillness of the afternoon was broken by the discharge of cannon as her forward guns fired a salute to the Peruvian flag that had been broken at the fore truck.

“That must be the Pensacola,” said Harvey.

“Yes, and Brown is her captain,” Captain Saunders exclaimed.

“Why has she come here, do you suppose?” asked Mr. Dartmoor.

“To take Americans and other foreigners to the north before a general bombardment is begun. Brown has probably received word that Chile contemplates aggressive action, and he has come to our rescue. Dartmoor, our overland journey need not be undertaken. We can sail north in an American man-of-war.”

A half hour later they left the hotel and went by the little train, some to Chucuito and others to Callao. While walking to the station, Bella Caceras, who had been very quiet ever since the advent of the Pensacola, stepped to Captain Saunders’s side and said to him:—

“I’m so sorry. No, not exactly sorry, because I’m glad for your sake, but I’m sorry for ours.”

“Sorry about what, young lady?”

“That mamma and I cannot go to the United States.”

“But why can’t you go?”

“You said, didn’t you, that the war vessel would take away Americans and other foreigners? We are Peruvians.”

“Bless my heart!” ejaculated the captain, “if you look at old Brown only half as wistfully as you do at me, he will not only take you, but will surrender his cabin for your occupancy. Of course you will go, if any of us do. I promise that.”

Whereat Bella became happy again, and ran to the side of her mother and father, to whom she told the good news.

That evening the American consul sent word to the members of the foreign colony that Captain Brown of the Pensacola would take all citizens of the United States on board the Pensacola on the morrow and carry them to Panama, and that he extended like invitations to other non-combatants who wished to escape from the beleaguered city.

“The word ‘non-combatant’ applies to you, Miss Bella,” said Captain Saunders, smiling at the young Peruvian.

He was right. The commander of the cruiser was glad that he could grant passage to the friends of the Saunders and Dartmoors, and by three o’clock the next day those who had planned the overland trip were stowed away, bag and baggage, on the American man-of-war. As she steamed out of port an hour later, two persons waved good-bys from the Peruvian state barge, that had been pulled out into the harbor. One was General Matajente and the other SeÑor Cisneros.

The war-ship steamed near the Blanco Encalada, and through a speaking-trumpet Captain Brown thanked the admiral for permitting his entrance into the harbor. Then the course was shaped for the north.

At five o’clock the land was but a blue haze in the distance. Carl, Louis, and Harvey stood at the stern rail and watched the fading outlines.

“Good-by, Peru,” said Carl, finally. “I suppose I shall never see you again.”

“Poor Peru!” exclaimed Louis. “She has been kind to us. I wonder what her future will be?”

Harvey said nothing, but to him the shore line was even more dim than to the others, for a mist had formed in his eyes.