At length， after a prodigious galloping and curvettingof red-sashed majors， gold-laced colonels and epaulettedgenerals， the procession formed for its annual progress downthe Calle Grande to the Casa Morena， where the ceremonyof welcome to the visiting president always took place.
The Swiss band led the line of march. After it prancedthe local comandante， mounted， and a detachment ofhis troops. Next came a carriage with four members ofthe cabinet， conspicuous among them the Minister ofWar， old General Pilar， with his white moustache and hissoldierly bearing. Then the president’s vehicle， containingalso the Ministers of Finance and State； and surroundedby Captain Cruz’s light horse formed in a close double fileof fours. Following them， the rest of the officials of state，the judges and distinguished military and social ornamentsof public and private life.
As the band struck up， and the movement began， likea bird of ill-omen the Valhalla， the swiftest steamshipof the Vesuvius line， glided into the harbor in plain view ofthe president and his train. Of course， there was nothingmenacing about its arrival—a business firm does not go towar with a nation—but it reminded Senor Espirition andothers in those carriages that the Vesuvius Fruit Companywas undoubtedly carrying something up its sleeve for them.
By the time the van of the procession had reached thegovernment building， Captain Cronin， of the Valhalla，and Mr. Vincenti， member of the Vesuvius Company，had landed and were pushing their way， bluff， hearty andnonchalant， through the crowd on the narrow sidewalk.
Clad in white linen， big， debonair， with an air of goodhumoredauthority， they made conspicuous figures
among the dark mass of unimposing Anchurians， as theypenetrated to within a few yards of the steps of the CasaMorena. Looking easily above the heads of the crowd，they perceived another that towered above the undersizednatives. It was the fiery poll of Dicky Maloney against thewall close by the lower step； and his broad， seductive grinshowed that he recognized their presence.
Dicky had attired himself becomingly for the festiveoccasion in a well-fitting black suit. Pasa was close by hisside， her head covered with the ubiquitous black mantilla.
Mr. Vincenti looked at her attentively.
“Botticelli’s Madonna， he remarked， gravely. “I wonderwhen she got into the game. I don’t like his getting tangledwith the women. I hoped he would keep away from them.”
Captain Cronin’s laugh almost drew attention from theparade.
“With that head of hair！ Keep away from the women！
And a Maloney！ Hasn’t he got a license？ But， nonsenseaside， what do you think of the prospects？ It’s a species offilibustering out of my line.”
Vincenti glanced again at Dicky’s head and smiled.
“Rouge et noir，” he said. “There you have it. Make yourplay， gentlemen. Our money is on the red.”
“The lad’s game，” said Cronin， with a commending lookat the tall， easy figure by the steps. “But ’tis all like fly-bynighttheatricals to me. The talk’s bigger than the stage；there’s a smell of gasoline in the air， and they’re their ownaudience and scene-shifters.”
They ceased talking， for General Pilar had descendedfrom the first carriage and had taken his stand upon thetop step of Casa Morena. As the oldest member of thecabinet， custom had decreed that he should make theaddress of welcome， presenting the keys of the officialresidence to the president at its close.
General Pilar was one of the most distinguished citizensof the republic. Hero of three wars and innumerablerevolutions， he was an honored guest at European courtsand camps. An eloquent speaker and a friend to thepeople， he represented the highest type of the Anchurians.
Holding in his hand the gilt keys of Casa Morena， hebegan his address in a historical form， touching uponeach administration and the advance of civilization andprosperity from the first dim striving after liberty down topresent times. Arriving at the regime of President Losada，at which point， according to precedent， he should havedelivered a eulogy upon its wise conduct and the happinessof the people， General Pilar paused. Then he silently heldup the bunch of keys high above his head， with his eyesclosely regarding it. The ribbon with which they werebound fluttered in the breeze.
“It still blows，” cried the speaker， exultantly. “Citizens ofAnchuria， give thanks to the saints this night that our airis still free.”
Thus disposing of Losada’s administration， he abruptlyreverted to that of Olivarra， Anchuria’s most popular ruler.
Olivarra had been assassinated nine years before while inthe prime of life and usefulness. A faction of the Liberalparty led by Losada himself had been accused of thedeed. Whether guilty or not， it was eight years before theambitious and scheming Losada had gained his goal.
Upon this theme General Pilar’s eloquence was loosed.
He drew the picture of the beneficent Olivarra with aloving hand. He reminded the people of the peace， thesecurity and the happiness they had enjoyed during thatperiod. He recalled in vivid detail and with significantcontrast the last winter sojourn of President Olivarra inCoralio， when his appearance at their fiestas was the signalfor thundering vivas of love and approbation.
The first public expression of sentiment from thepeople that day followed. A low， sustained murmur wentamong them like the surf rolling along the shore.
