co were packed with a mad mob of people. Climbing
to the railings and to the steps of the house itself, men prominent in
the life of the city called for "_Vivas_" for the new President, for
Senora Rojas, for the Rojas revolution. Below them, those who had been
wounded in the fight just over were lifted high on the shoulders of
the mob, and in it, struggling for a foothold, were many women, their
cheeks wet with tears, their cries of rejoicing more frantic even than
those of the men.

For a mad quarter of an hour the crowd increased in numbers, the
shouting in vehemence; and then, suddenly, there fell a shocked and
uneasy silence. Men whispered together fearfully. In the eyes of all
were looks of doubt and dismay. From man to man swept the awful rumor
that at San Carlos, Rojas had not been found.

It was whispered that, from the fortress, messengers had brought the
evil tidings. The worst had come to pass. At the last moment the
defenders of San Carlos had cheated them of their victory. Rojas had
been assassinated, and his body thrown to the harbor sharks.

From the mob rose a great, moaning cry, to be instantly drowned in
yells of rage and execration. A leader of the Rojas party leaped to
the steps of the portico. "Their lives for his!" he shrieked. "Death
to his murderers! To the fortress!"

Calling for vengeance, those in the garden surged toward the gates;
but an uncertain yell from the mob in the street halted them. They
turned and saw upon the balcony above the portico the figure of Senora
Rojas. With one arm raised, she commanded silence; with the other, she
pointed to the long window through which she had just appeared.
Advancing toward the edge of the balcony, the mob saw two young girls
leading between them, erect and soldierly, a little, gray-haired man.

Amazed, almost in terror, as though it looked on one returning from
the grave, for an instant there was silence. And then men shrieked and
sobbed, and the night was rent with their exultant yell of welcome.

With their backs pressed against the railings of the garden, Peter and
McKildrick looked up at the figures on the balcony with eyes that saw
but dimly.

"So Roddy got away with it," said Peter. "Pino Vega, please write!
_Viva_ the White Mice!"

With a voice that shook suspiciously, McKildrick protested.

"Let's get out of this," he said, "or I shall start singing the
doxology."

An hour later, alone on the flat roof of Miramar, leaning on the