n within a few
miles of Vincocaya, where they picked up the body of Don Rodrigo
Garcia and buried it near the track. He would have exulted over my
death, but I cannot say that I felt any satisfaction because he was
dead. It only brought sad memories of the past.

XVI.

THE SCREAMING WINDS OF NIGHT.

I sat on the broad balcony of the British consulate at Mollendo,
looking out over the blue waters of the Pacific. The soft breeze from
the south seas imparted the glow of health. How proud I felt with the
knowledge that no one dared insult me beneath the blue and crimson
folds that waved above. Safe from the assassin's knife at the hands of
some of Pierola's men, of whom I had been warned, I felt a certain
refuge beneath the ensign of my country.

"Don Juan, does that make me a Britisher, too?" asked Manuel, pointing
to the flag above.

"Yes, it protects you too. Pierola's men do not dare to harm us
here."

"Praised be the Virgin," replied Manuel, crossing himself.

The great bells of the cathedral tolled out a funeral knell as a
solemn procession marched to a transport ship. They were dust covered,
haggard men, with a hunted look, chained in pairs. On either side
marched a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets. Pierola's men were
being taken to Lima.

I arose from the balcony and went inside. They had to pass under the
balcony of the British consulate to reach the wharf. I did not care to
witness their misery and so remained indoors until their departure.
The revolution over, there was nothing now to fear; Manuel packed my
belongings and we returned to Arequipa.

The general manager requested me to take care of the shops of
Vincocaya. It would enable me to be quiet and recover from my wounds,
as there was nothing to do but to see that the work was kept going.
Meanwhile the excitement of the revolution would die out.

Vincocaya is situated high in the Andes, above timber line, a desolate
and dreary waste of rock and crag, where wild winds scream among the
cliffs in the blackness of the night, as though a thousand imprisoned
Joshuas were reaching upward for that sun which will stand still no
more over the plains of Ajalon. Leaden clouds drift like winding
sheets among the peaks and hover like a pall over canyon and deep
ravine. The grave of Don Rodrigo was but a few miles distant, but I
never visited it. There have been times when I regretted not
stretching forth my hand to save him, but at the time, with