The Swiss band led the line of march. After it pranced the local _comandante_, mounted, and a detachment of his troops. Next came a carriage with four members of the cabinet, conspicuous among them the Minister of War, old General Pilar, with his white moustache and his soldierly bearing. Then the president’s vehicle, containing also the Ministers of Finance and State; and surrounded by Captain Cruz’s light horse formed in a close double file of fours. Following them, the rest of the officials of state, the judges and distinguished military and social ornaments of public and private life. As the band struck up, and the movement began, like a bird of ill-omen the _Valhalla_, the swiftest steamship of the Vesuvius line, glided into the harbour in plain view of the president and his train. Of course, there was nothing menacing about its arrival—a business firm does not go to war with a nation—but it reminded Señor Espirition and others in those carriages that the Vesuvius Fruit Company was undoubtedly carrying something up its sleeve for them. By the time the van of the procession had reached the government building, Captain Cronin, of the _Valhalla_, and Mr. Vincenti, member of the Vesuvius Company, had landed and were pushing their way, bluff, hearty and nonchalant, through the crowd on the narrow sidewalk. Clad in white linen, big, debonair, with an air of good-humoured authority, they made conspicuous figures among the dark mass of unimposing Anchurians, as they penetrated to within a few yards of the steps of the Casa Morena. Looking easily above the heads of the crowd, they perceived another that towered above the undersized natives. It was the fiery poll of Dicky Maloney against the wall close by the lower step; and his broad, seductive grin showed that he recognized their presence. Dicky had attired himself becomingly for the festive occasion in a well-fitting black suit. Pasa was close by his side, her head covered with the ubiquitous black mantilla. Mr. Vincenti looked at her attentively. “Botticelli’s Madonna,” he remarked, gravely. “I wonder when she got into the game. I don’t like his getting tangled with the women. I hoped he would keep away from them.” Captain Cronin’s laugh almost drew attention from the parade. “With that head of hair! Keep away from the women! And a Maloney! Hasn’t he got a license? But, nonsense aside, what do you think of the prospects? It’s a species of filibustering out of my line.” Vincenti glanced again at Dicky’s head and smiled. “_Rouge et noir_,” he said. “There you have it. Make your play, gentlemen. Our money is on the red.” “The lad’s game,” said Cronin, with a commending look at the tall, easy figure by the steps. “But ’tis all like fly-by-night theatricals to me. The talk’s bigger than the stage; there’s a smell of gasoline in the air, and they’re their own audience and scene-shifters.”