whispered, as with authority, that he was a bandit from the Sierra Maduro, over the border beyond Esperanza, who had crossed into Pasala to spend his money and rest until the rurales of Maduro tired of seeking him and he could return to his old hunting grounds with safety. Then it was remarked that on his little finger was a signet ring bearing a heraldic device, and with equal authority it was said that he was the heir to a noble Mexican family indulging his hobby of moving among the peones as one of themselves and distributing charity where he found it merited. Against this, an other school of thought affirmed that he was a peon who had murdered his master and stolen his ring and his money.
The peon heard these whisperings and laughingly ignored them. His manner lent more support, however, to either of the two former theories than to the third. He was tall for a peon, and a man of great strength, as was seen when he bought a whole keg of wine and lifted it in his hands to fill his goblet as if it had weighed nothing at all. His eyes were blue, which argued that he was of noble descent, for the true peon stock is so mixed with the native that the eyes of that sea-blue colour are rare. And again, the bandit theory was made more plausible by the man's boisterous and reckless manner, as though he held life cheap and the intense enjoyment of the day the only thing of moment, and would as soon be fighting as drinking. He had, too, a repertoire of strange and barbarous songs which no one could understand.
'Drink up, amigos!' he roared from time to time, 'for this is the beginning of great days for Pasala!'
But when they asked him what they might mean, he turned away their questions with a jest, and called for more wine.
Few of his following had seen such a night for many years.
From house to house he went, singing his strange songs, and bearing his keg of wine on his shoulder. One or two guardias would have barred his way, or, hearing the rumours which were gossiped about him, would have stopped and questioned him; but the peon poured them wine or flung them money, and they stood aside.
Towards midnight, still singing, the man led his procession up the Calle del Palacio. The crowd followed, not sure where they were going, and not caring, for they had drunk much.
Now, the Calle del Palacio forms the upright of the T which has been described, and halfway down it, as has been stated, is the palace from which it takes its name.
In the street opposite the palace gates the peon halted, set down his keg, and mounted unsteadily upon it. He stood there, swaying slightly, and his following gathered round him. .. 'Viva! Viva!' they shouted thickly.
The peon raised his hands for silence.
'Citizens!' he cried, 'I have told you that this is the beginning of great days for Pasala, and now I will tell you why. It is because at last we are going to suffer no more under this Manuel Conception de Villega. May worms devour him alive, for he is a thief and a tyrant and the son of a dog! His taxes bear you down, and you receive nothing in return. The President is his servant, that strutting nincompoop, and they are both in the pay of the traitor Shannet, who is planning to betray you to Maduro. Now I say that we will end this to-night.'
'Viva!' responded a few doubtful voices.
'Let us finish this slavery,' cried the peon again. 'Let us storm this palace, which was built with money wrung from the poor, where your puppet of a President and this pig of a De Villega sleep in luxury for which you have been tortured! Let us tear them from their beds and slay them, and cast them back into the gutter from which they came!'
This time there were no 'Vivas!' The awfulness of the stranger's blasphemy had sobered the mob as nothing else could have done. It was unprecedented-incredible. No one had ever dared to speak in such terms of the President and his minister-or, if they had, it was reported by spies to the comisarios, and guardias came swiftly and took the blasphemers away to a place where their treason should not offend the ears of the faithful. Of course the peon had spoken nothing but the truth. But to tear down the palace and kill the President! It was unheard of. It could not be done without much discussion.
The stranger, after his first speech, had seen the sentries at the palace gates creep stealthily away; and now, over the heads of the awestruck crowd, he saw a little knot of guardias coming down the street at the double. Whistles shrilled, and the mob huddled together in sudden terror.
'Amigos,' said the stranger urgently, in a lower voice, 'the hour of liberation will not be long coming. To-night you have heard me sing many strange songs, which are the songs of freedom. Now, when you hear those songs again, and you have thought upon the words I have said to-night, follow the man who sings such songs as I sang, for he will be sent to lead you to victory. But now go quickly, or you will be taken and punished.'
The mob needed no encouragement for that. Even while the peon spoke many of them had sneaked away into the dark side streets. As he spoke his last sentence, it was as if a cord had been snapped which held them, and they fled incontinently.
The peon straightened up and shook his fists at their backs.
'Fools!' he screamed. 'Cowards! Curs! Is it thus that ye fight? Is it thus that ye overthrow tyrants?'
But his audience was gone, and from either side the guardias were closing in on him with drawn sabres.
'Guarro!' challenged one of them. 'What is this raving?'
'I speak for liberty!' bawled the peon, reeling drunkenly on his pedestal. 'I speak against the President, who does not know the name of his father, and against the Minister of the Interior, Manuel Concepcion de Villega, whom I call Senor Jugo Procedente del Estercolero, the spawn of a dunghill- guarros, perruelos, hijos de la puta adiva . . .'
He let loose a stream of the vilest profanity and abuse in the language, so that even the hardened guardias were horrified.
They dragged him down and hustled him ungently to the police station, where they locked him up in a verminous cell for the night; but even then he cursed and rayed against the President and the Minister of the Interior, mingling his maledictions with snatches of unintelligible songs, until the jailer threatened to beat him unless he held his tongue. Then he was silent, and presently went to sleep.
In the morning they brought him before the magistrate. He was sober, but still rebellious. They asked him his name.
'Don Fulano de Tal,' he replied, which is the Spanish equivalent of saying 'Mr. So-and-So, Such-and- Such.'
'If you are impertinent,' said the magistrate, 'I shall order you to receive a hundred lashes.'
'My name is Sancho Quijote,' said the peon sullenly.
He was charged, and the sentries from the palace testified to the treason of his speeches. So also did the guardias who had broken up his meeting. They admitted, in extenuation of his offense, that he had been very drunk.
He was asked if he had anything to say.
'I have nothing to say,' he answered, 'except that, drunk or not, I shall spit upon the names of the President and the Minister Of the Interior till the end of my days. As for you, senor juez, you are no better than the guindillas who arrested me-you are all the miserable hirelings of the oppressors, paid to persecute those who dare speak for justice. But it will not be long before your pride is turned to humiliation.'
'He is mad,' whispered one guardia to another.
The peon was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment with hard labour, for there are no limits to the powers of summary jurisdiction in Pasala. He heard the verdict without emotion.
'It does not matter,' he said. 'I shall not stay in prison seven days. It will not be long before you know why.'
When he reached the prison he asked to be allowed to send a message by telegraph to Ondia, the capital of Maduro.
'I am of Maduro,' he confessed. 'I should have returned to Ondia to-morrow, and I must tell my wife that I am detained.'
He had money to pay for the telegram, but it was evening before permission was received for the message to be sent, for nothing is done hurriedly in Spanish America.
Twenty-four hours later there came from Ondia a telegram addressed to Manuel Concepcion de Villega, and it was signed with the name and titles of the President of Maduro. A free translation would have read: I am informed that a citizen of Maduro, giving the name of Sancho Quijote, has been imprisoned in Santa Miranda. If he is not delivered to the frontier by Wednesday noon my armies will advance into Pasala.
