They ceased talking, for General Pilar had descended from the first carriage and had taken his stand upon the top step of Casa Morena. As the oldest member of the cabinet, custom had decreed that he should make the address of welcome, presenting the keys of the official residence to the president at its close. General Pilar was one of the most distinguished citizens of the republic. Hero of three wars and innumerable revolutions, he was an honoured guest at European courts and camps. An eloquent speaker and a friend to the people, he represented the highest type of the Anchurians. Holding in his hand the gilt keys of Casa Morena, he began his address in a historical form, touching upon each administration and the advance of civilization and prosperity from the first dim striving after liberty down to present times. Arriving at the régime of President Losada, at which point, according to precedent, he should have delivered a eulogy upon its wise conduct and the happiness of the people, General Pilar paused. Then he silently held up the bunch of keys high above his head, with his eyes closely regarding it. The ribbon with which they were bound fluttered in the breeze. “It still blows,” cried the speaker, exultantly. “Citizens of Anchuria, give thanks to the saints this night that our air is still free.” Thus disposing of Losada’s administration, he abruptly reverted to that of Olivarra, Anchuria’s most popular ruler. Olivarra had been assassinated nine years before while in the prime of life and usefulness. A faction of the Liberal party led by Losada himself had been accused of the deed. Whether guilty or not, it was eight years before the ambitious and scheming Losada had gained his goal. Upon this theme General Pilar’s eloquence was loosed. He drew the picture of the beneficent Olivarra with a loving hand. He reminded the people of the peace, the security and the happiness they had enjoyed during that period. He recalled in vivid detail and with significant contrast the last winter sojourn of President Olivarra in Coralio, when his appearance at their fiestas was the signal for thundering _vivas_ of love and approbation. The first public expression of sentiment from the people that day followed. A low, sustained murmur went among them like the surf rolling along the shore. “Ten dollars to a dinner at the Saint Charles,” remarked Mr. Vincenti, “that _rouge_ wins.” “I never bet against my own interests,” said Captain Cronin, lighting a cigar. “Long-winded old boy, for his age. What’s he talking about?” “My Spanish,” replied Vincenti, “runs about ten words to the minute; his is something around two hundred. Whatever he’s saying, he’s getting them warmed up.”