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.

Arm in arm the two leaders entered the house, Guido and I following
with Bolivar's staff. The saloon presented a striking scene, being
filled with officers in brilliant uniforms and by beautifully-dressed
ladies. A young girl, stepping forward, greeted San Martin, and placed
a laurel wreath of gold upon his head.

"What rubbish!" muttered Guido testily. "Doe