The Dictator | Page 3

to hear the rattle of rifle shots, shrill
trumpet calls, angry party cries, the clatter of desperate charges across
the open space, the angry despair of repulses, the piteous pageant of
civil war. Knightsbridge knew nothing of all that. Danes may have
fought there, the chivalry of the White Rose or the Red Rose ridden
there, gallant Cavaliers have spurred along it to fight for their king. All
that was past; no troops moved there now in hostility to brethren of
their blood. But to that one Englishman standing there, moody in spite
of the sunlight, the scene which his eyes saw was not the tranquil
London street, but the Plaza Nacional of Gloria, red with blood, and
'cut up,' in the painter's sense, with corpses.
'Shall I ever get back? Shall I ever get back?' that was the burden to
which his thoughts were dancing. His spirit began to rage within him to
think that he was here, in London, helpless, almost alone, when he
ought to be out there, sword in hand, dictating terms to rebels repentant
or impotent. He gave a groan at the contrast, and then he laughed a
little bitterly and called himself a fool. 'Things might be worse,' he said.
'They might have shot me. Better for them if they had, and worse for
Gloria. Yes, I am sure of it--worse for Gloria!'

His mind was back in London now, back in the leafy Park, back in
Knightsbridge. He looked down into the street, and noted that a man
was loitering on the opposite side. The man in the street saw that the
Dictator noted him. He looked up at the Dictator, looked up above the
Dictator, and, raising his hat, pointed as if towards the sky. The
Dictator, following the direction of the gesture, turned slightly and
looked upwards, and received a sudden thrill of pleasure, for just above
him, high in the air, he could see the flutter of a mass of green and
yellow, the colours of the national flag of Gloria. Mr. Paulo, mindful of
what was due even to exiled sovereignty, had flown the Gloria flag in
honour of the illustrious guest beneath his roof. When that guest looked
down again the man in the street had disappeared.
'That is a good omen. I accept it,' said the Dictator. 'I wonder who my
friend was?' He turned to go back into his room, and in doing so
noticed the laurel.
'Another good omen,' he said. 'My fortunes feel more summerlike
already. The old flag still flying over me, an unknown friend to cheer
me, and a laurel to prophesy victory--what more could an exile wish?
His breakfast, I think,' and on this reflection he went back into his
bedroom, and, opening the door through which Hamilton had talked to
him, entered the sitting-room.
CHAPTER II
A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER
The room which the Dictator entered was an attractive room, bright
with flowers, which Miss Paulo had been pleased to arrange
herself--bright with the persevering sunshine. It was decorated, like his
bedroom, with the restrained richness of the mid-eighteenth century.
With discretion, Paulo had slightly adapted the accessories of the room
to please by suggestion the susceptibilities of its occupant. A marble
bust of Cæsar stood upon the dwarf bookcase. A copy of a famous
portrait of Napoleon was on one of the walls; on another an engraving
of Dr. Francia still more delicately associated great leaders with South

America. At a table in one corner of the room--a table honeycombed
with drawers and pigeon-holes, and covered with papers, letters,
documents of all kinds--Hamilton sat writing rapidly. Another table
nearer the window, set apart for the Dictator's own use, had everything
ready for business--had, moreover, in a graceful bowl of tinted glass, a
large yellow carnation, his favourite flower, the flower which had come
to be the badge of those of his inclining. This, again, was a touch of
Miss Paulo's sympathetic handiwork.
The Dictator, whose mood had brightened, smiled again at this little
proof of personal interest in his welfare. As he entered, Hamilton
dropped his pen, sprang to his feet, and advanced respectfully to greet
him. The Dictator pointed to the yellow carnation.
'The way of the exiled autocrat is made smooth for him here, at least,'
he said.
Hamilton inclined his head gravely. 'Mr. Paulo knows what is due,' he
answered, 'to John Ericson, to the victor of San Felipe and the Dictator
of Gloria. He knows how to entertain one who is by right, if not in fact,
a reigning sovereign.'
'He hangs out our banner on the outer wall,' said Ericson, with an
assumed gravity as great as Hamilton's own. Then he burst into a laugh
and said, 'My dear Hamilton, it's all very well to talk of