Red Rose ridden
there, gallant Cavaliers have spurred along it to fight for their king.
All that was past; no troops moved there now in hostility to brethren of
their blood. But to that one Englishman standing there, moody in spite
of the sunlight, the scene which his eyes saw was not the tranquil
London street, but the Plaza Nacional of Gloria, red with blood, and
'cut up,' in the painter's sense, with corpses.

'Shall I ever get back? Shall I ever get back?' that was the burden to
which his thoughts were dancing. His spirit began to rage within him to
think that he was here, in London, helpless, almost alone, when he ought
to be out there, sword in hand, dictating terms to rebels repentant or
impotent. He gave a groan at the contrast, and then he laughed a little
bitterly and called himself a fool. 'Things might be worse,' he said.
'They might have shot me. Better for them if they had, and worse for
Gloria. Yes, I am sure of it--worse for Gloria!'

His mind was back in London now, back in the leafy Park, back in
Knightsbridge. He looked down into the street, and noted that a man was
loitering on the opposite side. The man in the street saw that the
Dictator noted him. He looked up at the Dictator, looked up above the
Dictator, and, raising his hat, pointed as if towards the sky. The
Dictator, following the direction of the gesture, turned slightly and
looked upwards, and received a sudden thrill of pleasure, for just above
him, high in the air, he could see the flutter of a mass of green and
yellow, the colours of the national flag of Gloria. Mr. Paulo, mindful
of what was due even to exiled sovereignty, had flown the Gloria flag in
honour of the illustrious guest beneath his roof. When that guest looked
down again the man in the street had disappeared.

'That is a good omen. I accept it,' said the Dictator. 'I wonder who my
friend was?' He turned to go back into his room, and in doing so noticed
the laurel.

'Another good omen,' he said. 'My fortunes feel more summerlike already.
The old flag still flying over me, an unknown friend to cheer me, and a
laurel to prophesy victory--what more could an exile wish? His
breakfast, I think,' and on this reflection he went back into his
bedroom, and, opening the door through which Hamilton had talked to him,
entered the sitting-room.

CHAPTER II

A GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER

The room which the Dictator entered was an attractive room, bright with
flowers, which Miss