The stranger, after his first speech, had seen the sentries at the palace gates creep stealthily away; and now, over the heads of the awestruck crowd, he saw a little knot of guardias coming down the street at the double. Whistles shrilled, and the mob huddled together in sudden terror.
"Amigos," said the stranger urgently, in a lower voice, "the hour of liberation will not be long coming. To-night you have heard me sing many strange songs, which are the songs of freedom. Now, when you hear those songs again, and you have thought upon the words I have said to-night, follow the man who sings such songs as I sang, for he will be sent to lead you to victory. But now go quickly, or you will be taken and punished."
The mob needed no encouragement for that. Even while the peón spoke many of them had sneaked away into the dark side streets. As he spoke his last sentence, it was as if a cord had been snapped which held them, and they fled incontinently.
The peón straightened up and shook his fists at their backs.
"Fools!" he screamed. "Cowards! Curs! Is it thus that ye fight? Is it thus that ye overthrow tyrants?"
But his audience was gone, and from either side the guardias were closing in on him with drawn sabres.
"Guarro!" challenged one of them. "What is this raving?"
"I speak for liberty!" bawled the peón, reeling drunkenly on his pedestal. "I speak against the President, who does not know the name of his father, and against the Minister of the Interior, Manuel Concepcion de Villega, whom I call Seńor Jugo Procedente del Estercolero, the spawn of a dunghill- guarros, perruelos, hijos de la puta adiva . . ."
He let loose a stream of the vilest profanity and abuse in the language, so that even the hardened guardias were horrified.
They dragged him down and hustled him ungently to the police station, where they locked him up in a verminous cell for the night; but even then he cursed and rayed against the President and the Minister of the Interior, mingling his maledictions with snatches of unintelligible songs, until the jailer threatened to beat him unless he held his tongue. Then he was silent, and presently went to sleep.
In the morning they brought him before the magistrate. He was sober, but still rebellious. They asked him his name.
"Don Fulano de Tal," he replied, which is the Spanish equivalent of saying "Mr. So-and-So, Such-and-Such."
"If you are impertinent," said the magistrate, "I shall order you to receive a hundred lashes."
"My name is Sancho Quijote," said the peón sullenly.
He was charged, and the sentries from the palace testified to the treason of his speeches. So also did the guardias who had broken up his meeting. They admitted, in extenuation of his offense, that he had been very drunk.
He was asked if he had anything to say.
"I have nothing to say," he answered, "except that, drunk or not, I shall spit upon the names of the President and the Minister Of the Interior till the end of my days. As for you, seńor juez, you are no better than the guindillas who arrested me-you are all the miserable hirelings of the oppressors, paid to persecute those who dare speak for justice. But it will not be long before your pride is turned to humiliation."
"He is mad," whispered one guardia to another.
The peón was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment with hard labour, for there are no limits to the powers of summary jurisdiction in Pasala. He heard the verdict without emotion.
"It does not matter," he said. "I shall not stay in prison seven days. It will not be long before you know why."
When he reached the prison he asked to be allowed to send a message by telegraph to Ondia, the capital of Maduro.
"I am of Maduro," he confessed. "I should have returned to Ondia to-morrow, and I must tell my wife that I am detained."
He had money to pay for the telegram, but it was evening before permission was received for the message to be sent, for nothing is done hurriedly in Spanish America.
Twenty-four hours later there came from Ondia a telegram addressed to Manuel Concepcion de Villega, and it was signed with the name and titles of the President of Maduro. A free translation would have read: I am informed that a citizen of Maduro, giving the name of Sancho Quijote, has been imprisoned in Santa Miranda. If he is not delivered to the frontier by Wednesday noon my armies will advance into Pasala.
Shannet was closeted with De Villega when the message arrived, and for the moment he was no better able to account for it than was the Minister.
"Who is this man Quijote?" he asked. "It's a ridiculous name. Here is a book called Don Quijote, Quixote in English, and there is a man in it called Sancho Panza."
"I know that," said Don Manuel, and sent for the judge.
He heard the story of the peón's crime and sentence and was not enlightened. But he had enough presence of mind to accuse the magistrate of inefficiency for not having suspected that the name Sancho Quijote was a false one.
"It is impossible," said De Villega helplessly, when the magistrate had been dismissed. "By Wednesday noon-that hardly gives us enough time to get him to the frontier even if we release him immediately. And who is this man? A labourer, a stranger, of whom nobody knows anything, who suddenly appears in Santa Miranda with more money than he could have ever come by honestly, and preaches a revolution to a mob that he has first made drunk, He deserves his punishment, and yet the President of Maduro, without any inquiry, demands his release. It means war."
"He knew this would happen," said Shannet. "The judge told us-he boasted that he would not stay in prison seven days."
They both saw the light at the same instant.
"An agent provocateur--"
"A trap!" snarled De Villega. "And we have fallen into it. It is only an excuse that Maduro was seeking. They sent him here, with money, for no other purpose than to get himself arrested. And then this preposterous ultimatum, which they give us no time even to consider. ..."
"But why make such an intrigue?" demanded Shannet. "This is a poor country. They are rich. They have nothing to gain."
Don Manuel tugged nervously at his mustachios.
"And we cannot even buy them off," he said. "Unless we appeal to the Estados Unidos--"
Shannet sneered.
"And before their help can arrive the war is over," he said. "New Orleans is five days away. But they will charge a high price for burying the hatchet for us."
Dan Manuel suddenly sat still. His shifty little dark eyes came to rest on Shannet.
"I see it!" he exclaimed savagely. "It is the oil! You, and your accursed oil! I see it all! It is because of the oil that this country is always embroiled in a dozen wars and fears of wars. So far Pasala has escaped, but now we are like the rest. My ministry will be overthrown. Who knows what Great Power has paid Maduro to attack us? Then the Great Power steps in and takes our oil from us. I shall be exiled. Just now it is England, through you, who has control of the oil. Perhaps it is now America who tries to capture it, or another English company. I am ruined!"
"For God's sake stop whining!" snapped Shannet. "If you're ruined, so am I. We've got to see what can be done about it."
De Villega shook his head.
"There is nothing to do. They are ten to one. We shall be beaten. But I have some money, and there is a steamer in two days. If we can hold off their armies so long I can escape."
It was some time before the more brutally vigorous Shannet could bring the minister to reason. Shannet had the courage of the wild beast that he was. At bay, faced with the wrecking of his tainted fortunes, he had no other idea but to fight back with the desperate ferocity of a cornered animal.