"This is a fool's errand," said he brusquely. "The protector is just playing into Bolivar's hands." "He knows what he is doing, I think." "That makes me the more angry. But for him the Spaniards would still be in possession of Peru; and now, rather than make a bother, he'll let the other fellow take the prize." "What would you have him do?" "Do?" cried he excitedly; "why, stand his ground. I would say, 'I have done all the hard work, I have made Peru free, and I am going to be master of the country. Let Bolivar or any one else come here at his peril!'" "Then there would be a three-cornered fight, and the Spaniards would have the best of it!" "That wouldn't be San Martin's fault. Do you think Bolivar cares how the country suffers as long as he comes out on top? Not he!" "If that is so, San Martin is certainly playing the better part." "The better part? a fig for the better part! He can beat Bolivar and the Spanish put together if he chooses. He is far and away the finest general in South America." "And one of the best men, if he acts as you say he will." But Guido was much too angry to take that view. When I added that without Bolivar's help we could hardly reduce the Spaniards to submission, he laughed scornfully and turned away. On the evening of July 25, 1822, the _Macedonia_ dropped anchor in the harbour of Guayaquil, and immediately afterwards two of Bolivar's officers came on board with a friendly greeting from their chief. "Caramba!" muttered Guido beneath his breath, "it makes me mad! It's like the old custom of garlanding a victim before offering him up as a sacrifice!" That night we slept on the schooner, disembarking the next day. The route was lined by Bolivar's soldiers, who saluted stiffly, and by thousands of people cheering wildly for their renowned visitor. "There it is, you see," whispered Guido; "the people want San Martin. If they had their way, Guayaquil would be a part of Peru, with him as president." "But they haven't," said I, "and Bolivar has; which makes all the difference." "Look!" exclaimed he contemptuously, as the carriage stopped; "isn't it like a circus show?" In front of a house stood a group of officers dressed in the most magnificent and gorgeous uniforms. As San Martin stepped from the carriage, one of them, moving a pace forward, embraced him. "That's Bolivar!" whispered Guido, and I gazed at the great captain with intense interest. Perhaps I was prejudiced against him, but he did not come up to my expectations. He was short, thin, and narrow-chested, his skin was sallow, his high but narrow forehead was deeply lined. His hair was black and curly; he had thick lips and beautiful white teeth, which he was fond of showing. His eyes were large and black but deeply sunken; now bright and sparkling, again dull and glassy. His features, to me at least, were harsh and unpleasing; but he was evidently a man of great energy, to whom action was as the breath of life.