BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

and brown sombreros, looked particularly picturesque, but the short figure of the President, arrayed in plain evening dress, appeared rather out of place amid all this military finery. The only token of his Excellency’s rank was a broad yellow silk ribbon, embroidered with the opal, which he wore across his breast. Miguel Maraquando and Tim were in the carriage with the President, and the Irishman recognised his friends with a wave of his hand.

      “Tim is in high society,” said Peter, with a grin. “We will have to call him Don Tim after this.”

      “We’ll call you ‘Donkey’ after this, if you make such idiotic remarks,” replied Jack, severely. “Be quiet, doctor, and listen to the speechifying.”

      The President was received with acclamation by those in the alameda, which showed that Tlatonac was well disposed towards the established Government. It is true that one or two friends of Xuarez attempted to get up a counter demonstration; but the moment they began hissing and shouting for Don Hypolito, the serenos pounced down and marched them off in disgrace. His Excellency, attended by Don Miguel and several other members of the Junta, came forward, hat in hand, to the front of the band-stand, and, after the musicians had stopped playing the “Fandango,” began to speak. Gomez was a fat little man, of no very striking looks; but when he commenced speaking, his face glowed with enthusiasm, and his rich, powerful voice reached everyone clearly. The man was a born orator, and, as the noble tongue of Castille rolled sonorously from his mouth, he held his mixed audience spell-bound. The listeners did not believe in his assurances, but they were fascinated by his oratory.

      It was a sight not easily forgotten. The warm twilight, the brilliant equatorial vegetation, the equally brilliant and picturesque crowd, swaying restlessly to and fro; far beyond, through a gap in the trees, in the violet atmosphere, the snow-clad summit of Xicotencatl, the largest of Cholacacan volcanoes, and everywhere the vague languor of the tropics. Gomez, a black figure against the glittering background of uniforms, spoke long and eloquently. He assured them that there would be no war. Don Hypolito Xuarez had no supporters; the Junta was about to banish him from the country; the prosperity of Cholacaca was fully assured; it was to be a great nation; he said many other pleasant things, which flattered, but deceived not the Tlatonacians.

      “Yes, señores,” thundered the President, smiting his breast, “I, who stand here—even, I, Francisco Gomez, the representative of the Republic of Cholacaca—tell you that our land still rests, and shall rest under the olive tree of Peace. We banish Don Hypolito Xuarez—we banish all traitors who would crush the sovereign people. The rulers of Cholacaca, elected by the nation, are strong and wise. They have foreseen this tempest, and by them it will be averted. Believe not, my fellow-countrymen, the lying rumours of the streets! I tell you the future is fair. There will be no war!”

      At this moment he paused to wipe his brow, and then, as if to give the lie to his assertion, in the dead silence which followed, was heard the distant boom of a cannon. Astonished at the unfamiliar sound, the Tlatonacians looked at one another in horror. Gomez paused, handkerchief in hand, with a look of wonderment on his face. No one spoke, no one moved, it was as though the whole of that assemblage had been stricken into stone by some powerful spell.

      In the distance sounded a second boom, dull and menacing, there was a faint roar far away as of many voices. It came nearer and nearer, and those in the alameda began to add their voices to the din. Was the city being shelled by the revolting war-ships; had Don Hypolito surprised the inland walls with an army of Indians. Terror was on the faces of all—the clamour in the distance came nearer, waxed louder. A cloud of dust at the bend of the avenue, and down the central walk, spurring his horse to its full speed, dashed a dishevelled rider. The horse stopped dead in front of the band-stand, scattering the people hither and thither like wind-driven chaff; a young man in naval uniform flung himself to the ground, and ran up to the astonished President.

      “Your Excellency, the fleet have revolted to Don Hypolito Xuarez! He is entrenched in the rebel town of Acauhtzin. I alone have escaped, and bring you news that he has proclaimed war against the Republic!”

      A roar of rage went up to the sky.

      “The opal! The prophecy of the Chalchuih Tlatonac!” cried the multitude. “Viva el Republica! Death to the traitor Xuarez!”

      Gomez was listening to the messenger, who talked volubly. Then the President turned towards the people, and, by a gesture of his hand, enjoined silence. The roar at once sank to a low murmur.

      “What Don Rafael Maraquando says is true,” said Gomez, loudly. “This traitor, Xuarez, has seduced the allegiance of the fleet—of Acauhtzin. The Republic must prepare for war——”

      He could speak no further, for his voice was drowned in the savage roaring of the multitude. Everyone seemed to have gone mad. The crowd of people heaved round the band-stand like a stormy sea. A thousand voices cursed the traitor Xuarez, lauded the Republic, and repeated the prophecy of the harlequin opal. The whole throng was demoralised by the news.

      “War! War! To Acauhtzin!” roared the throats of the mob. “Death to Xuarez! Viva el Republica! Viva libertad!”

      Gomez made a sign to the band, which at once burst out into the Fandango of the Opal. A thousand voices began singing the words, a thousand people began to dance wildly. Ladies waved their handkerchiefs, men shouted and embraced one another, and amid the roar of the mob and the blare of the band, Don Francisco Gomez entered his carriage and drove away escorted by the cavalry.

      Tim fought his way through the crowd down from the band-stand, and reached the Maraquando part, where he found the three ladies, more excited than frightened, standing for safety in the circle formed by the five men. Two of the men were embracing—Don Miguel and his son.

      “It’s a great day for Cholacaca,” cried Tim, excitedly. “I wouldn’t have missed it for a fortune. Viva el Republica! Ah, Peter, my boy, this is better than the butterflies.”

      “My son! my son, how did you escape?” said Don Miguel, throwing his arms round Rafael’s neck.

      “I will tell you all at the house, my father,” replied the young man. “Let us go now with the ladies to our home. Señores,” he added, turning to the Englishmen, “you will come, too, I trust?”

      It was no easy matter to get through the crowd, but ultimately the five men managed to push a path to a caleza for the ladies, placed them therein, and when it drove off, hastened themselves to the Casa Maraquando.

      The whole city was in commotion. In the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres a crowd had collected to salute the great yellow standard of the Republic, which streamed from the tower of the Palacio Nacional.

      “The opal! the opal! The prophecy of the Tlatonac Chalchuih,” roared the crowd, stamping and yelling.

      “They will believe in that stone more than ever now,” whispered Philip to Jack, as they entered the zaguan of Maraquando’s house. “What do you think of it, Jack?”

      “Oh, it’s easy to prophesy when you know,” retorted Jack, scornfully. “Of course, Xuarez told the Indians he was going to revolt, and the priests of the temple have used the information to advertise the stone. Of course it grew red, and prophesied war under the circumstances. That is all the magic about the affair.”

      In the patio the ladies were waiting for them in a state of great excitement, and welcomed Don Rafael as one returned from the dead. He embraced his sister, cousin, and aunt; which privilege was rather envied by the four friends, as regards the first two, and was then formally introduced to the Englishmen. His eye flashed as he saluted Tim and heard his vocation.

      “You will have plenty to write about, Señor Correspoñsal,” he said, fiercely; “there will be a war, and a bitter war too. I have barely escaped with my life from Acauhtzin.”

      “Tell me all about it, Señor,” said Tim, taking out his pocket-book; “and the news will go off to London to-night.”

      “A thousand regrets, Señor Correspoñsal, that I cannot give you a detailed account at present, but I am worn out. I have not slept for days!”

      “Pobrecito,”