"Sounds pretty drastic, if I heard him right," Walthew remarked. "It's obvious that the authorities don't use half-measures. Did he say they had the deputation arrested and its leader shot?"

"So I understood," said Grahame. "How did you come to learn Castilian?"

"A notion of the old man's; he made me study languages. It's his ambition to ship the Walthew manufactures all over the world, and he got a footing in Cuba some time ago."

[Pg 10]They were silent for a few minutes, and then Grahame turned to the landlord.

[Pg 10]

"Are these things true?"

"It is possible," the other answered cautiously.

"Then are you not afraid of a revolution?"

"No, señor; why should I fear? When there is a revolution the wine trade is good."

"But suppose your customers get killed?"

The landlord smiled.

"They are philosophic politicians, señor. It is the untaught rabble that fights. These others drink their wine and argue over the newspapers. Besides, there will be no revolution yet. Some talk, perhaps; possibly a supporter of the Government stabbed in the dark."

"And that will be all?" Grahame asked with a keen glance.

"There will be nothing more. The President waits and watches until he knows his enemies. Then he gives an order and there is an end of them."

The man turned away, and when, shortly afterward, the plaza rang with fierce applause, a voice was raised in alarm. Others joined in, the crowd began to stream back from the steps, and the orator disappeared. Then the mass broke into running groups, and through the patter of their feet there came a steady, measured tread. It drew nearer; short, swarthy men in dirty white uniforms marched into the plaza, the strong light gleaming on their rifles. They wheeled and stopped in ranks extended across the square, and the rifles went up to their shoulders. Warning shouts fell from the roofs, the patter of feet grew faster, the 

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