ng about?"

"My Spanish," replied Vincenti, "runs about ten words to the minute;
his is something around two hundred. Whatever he's saying, he's
getting them warmed up."

"Friends and brothers," General Pilar was saying, "could I reach
out my hand this day across the lamentable silence of the grave to
Olivarra 'the Good,' to the ruler who was one of you, whose tears
fell when you sorrowed, and whose smile followed your joy--I would
bring him back to you, but--Olivarra is dead--dead at the hands of a
craven assassin!"

The speaker turned and gazed boldly into the carriage of the
president. His arm remained extended aloft as if to sustain his
peroration. The president was listening, aghast, at this remarkable
address of welcome. He was sunk back upon his seat, trembling with
rage and dumb surprise, his dark hands tightly gripping the carriage
cushions.

Half rising, he extended one arm toward the speaker, and shouted a
harsh command at Captain Cruz. The leader of the "Flying Hundred"
sat his horse, immovable, with folded arms, giving no sign of having
heard. Losada sank back again, his dark features distinctly paling.

"Who says that Olivarra is dead?" suddenly cried the speaker, his
voice, old as he was, sounding like a battle trumpet. "His body
lies in the grave, but to the people he loved he has bequeathed his
spirit--yes, more--his learning, his courage, his kindness--yes,
more--his youth, his image--people of Anchuria, have you forgotten
Ramon, the son of Olivarra?"

Cronin and Vincenti, watching closely, saw Dicky Maloney suddenly
raise his hat, tear off his shock of red hair, leap up the steps and
stand at the side of General Pilar. The Minister of War laid his
arm across the young man's shoulders. All who had known President
Olivarra saw again his same lion-like pose, the same frank, undaunted
expression, the same high forehead with the peculiar line of the
clustering, crisp black hair.

General Pilar was an experienced orator. He seized the moment of
breathless silence that preceded the storm.

"Citizens of Anchuria," he trumpeted, holding aloft the keys to Casa
Morena, "I am here to deliver these keys--the keys to your homes and
liberty--to your chosen president. Shall I deliver them to Enrico
Olivarra's assassin, or to his son?"

"Olivarra! Olivarra!" the crowd shrieked and howled. All vociferated
the magic name--men, women, children and the parrots.

And the enthusiasm was not confined to the blo