AbsorRed by his thoughts, shaken by the mental storm through which he had just passed, Dick did not notice what was happening about him, and was nearly ridden down by a detachment of hussars clearing a way to the theater. The hussars were escorting an open carriage drawn by four splendidly-caparisoned horses, and seated in the carriage were two men: General Garcia, in all the glory of the fullest of full uniforms, and beside him, in immaculate evening-dress, Oviedo Runtu.

When he saw the Indian, Dick made as if to rush after the carriage, but he was swept away in a swirl of the crowd and, hardly knowing how, carried right into the theater on that human flood. He at once tried to escape, but could not battle his way back to the door. Garcia, surrounded by a glittering staff, was bowing to the cheering crowd from the front of the presidential box. Dick was so placed that he could not see Oviedo Runtu. The Indian, modestly hidden behind a column, left Garcia to wrestle with his glory alone.

A French actress, “of the Comédie Fran?aise,” if the bills were to be believed, came before the footlights and recited Spanish verse, in which Garcia was hailed as “the Savior of the country.”

Then the curtain rose, revealing a pedestal, on which was the bust of a general. It had served several times before for a like purpose, but this time it was supposed to represent Garcia. Round it was grouped the whole company, which intoned a triumphal chorus. Then, one by one, the actors filed past the bust, each with his little speech and a wreath.

The bust was almost buried in flowers when an Indian girl appeared. She was wearing the Quichua costume:—a little tunic open at the neck, and a dozen skirts of various colors worn one on the other; over her shoulders, a woolen mantlet, secured at the throat by a spoon-shaped brooch.

She was greeted with a roar of delight by the Indian part of the audience. And she, in her turn, that nothing might be lacking in Garcia’s triumph, sang something in Indian, something by which the Indians also put all their hope and trust in the Savior of the Country. At the last verse she shouted, as was only meet, “Long live Garcia!” the crowd taking up the echo. There were other voices, however, shouting, “Huayna Capac Runtu!”

A gorgeous din followed. Every Indian in the theater jumped up, cheering, joined by scores of half-breeds who suddenly remembered their descent and, tired of being treated with contempt by the whites, joined in the roar of “Long live Huayna Capac Runtu!” The purely Peruvian element sat motionless in stalls and boxes.

Meanwhile, in the presidential box, Garcia had drawn to his constellated bosom the resplendent shirt-front of the bank-clerk, embracing before all the illustrious descendant of the Inca kings. The house, enthusiastic before, became delirious.

The gala was over, and Dick was carried out of the theater as he had been swept in. He had seen enough to realize how useless had been the Marquis’ visit to the Dictator. Garcia was helpless without the Indians, and the real master of the situation was Oviedo. Dick had now no hope but in Huascar. It was eleven o’clock, and he hurried back to the inn.

There he found Natividad and the Marquis equally anxious at his protracted absence. As to Uncle Francis, nobody had seen him since the arrival at Arequipa, and nobody worried about him. Dick told them of his meeting with Huascar; he was convinced now of the Indian’s good faith.

They did not exchange another word until midnight, anxiously peering out of the windows for some sign to confirm their hopes. Natividad was as anxious as his two companions. He was a kind-hearted man, and had gone so far into the adventure that he could no longer withdraw without loss of self-esteem. Moreover, he was so compromised, administratively speaking, that, all things taken into consideration, he could not do better than stand by the Marquis to the end. Whatever the result, he was sure that Don Chris-tobal would not let him starve.

Midnight came, and the twelve strokes rang out from the church tower.

The theater had long since given up its last enthusiasts, and the square was now more or less deserted. All the paper lanterns had gone out, but the night was a clear one, and they could easily distinguish the shadows moving homewards under the arcades. None of them, though, came toward the inn. A quarter past twelve. Not one of the three men in the room dared say a word!

At half-past twelve, still nothing! The Marquis heaved a strangled sigh. At a quarter to one, Dick went over to the little lamp smoking on the table, took out his revolver, and opened it to see that it was loaded and working properly.

“Huascar has fooled us like children,” he said, vainly striving to control his voice. “He came here in broad daylight, with the knowledge of his accomplices, and threw sand in our eyes. He has kept us quiet for hours that were priceless to them, and might have been to us. I have no hope left. Maria-Teresa is lost, but I shall see her again if I die for it.”

He left the room. Don Christobal, catching up his cloak and arming himself as well, followed, Natividad in his wake. They............