THE SCREAMING WINDS OF NIGHT. I sat on the broad balcony of the British consulate at Mollendo, looking out over the blue waters of the Pacific. The soft breeze from the south seas imparted the glow of health. How proud I felt with the knowledge that no one dared insult me beneath the blue and crimson folds that waved above. Safe from the assassin's knife at the hands of some of Pierola's men, of whom I had been warned, I felt a certain refuge beneath the ensign of my country. "Don Juan, does that make me a Britisher, too?" asked Manuel, pointing to the flag above. "Yes, it protects you too. Pierola's men do not dare to harm us here." "Praised be the Virgin," replied Manuel, crossing himself. The great bells of the cathedral tolled out a funeral knell as a solemn procession marched to a transport ship. They were dust covered, haggard men, with a hunted look, chained in pairs. On either side marched a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets. Pierola's men were being taken to Lima. I arose from the balcony and went inside. They had to pass under the balcony of the British consulate to reach the wharf. I did not care to witness their misery and so remained indoors until their departure. The revolution over, there was nothing now to fear; Manuel packed my belongings and we returned to Arequipa. The general manager requested me to take care of the shops of Vincocaya. It would enable me to be quiet and recover from my wounds, as there was nothing to do but to see that the work was kept going. Meanwhile the excitement of the revolution would die out. Vincocaya is situated high in the Andes, above timber line, a desolate and dreary waste of rock and crag, where wild winds scream among the cliffs in the blackness of the night, as though a thousand imprisoned Joshuas were reaching upward for that sun which will stand still no more over the plains of Ajalon. Leaden clouds drift like winding sheets among the peaks and hover like a pall over cañon and deep ravine. The grave of Don Rodrigo was but a few miles distant, but I never visited it. There have been times when I regretted not stretching forth my hand to save him, but at the time, with a most violent hatred of the man and the many injuries I had received from him, and the attempt to save the bridge foremost in my mind, I found excuse for lack of the finer feelings. And, too, what would it benefit had he been saved? His life was spent in debauchery, the gambling table and plots to overthrow any government where a leader in opposition to the ruling power would promise him a political office.