extended their glasses toward him with a mighty shout, he assumed that
Maraquita had been proposing his health.

"They say 'To the liberator of Paranoya!'" kindly translated the
Peerless One. "You must excuse," said Maraquita tolerantly, as a bevy
of patriots surrounded Roland and kissed him on the cheek. "They are so
grateful to the savior of our country. I myself would kiss you, were it
not that I have sworn that no man's lips shall touch mine till the
royal standard floats once more above the palace of Paranoya. But that
will be soon, very soon," she went on. "With you on our side we can not
fail."

What did the woman mean? Roland asked himself wildly. Did she labor
under the distressing delusion that he proposed to shed his blood on
behalf of a deposed monarch to whom he had never been introduced?

Maraquita's next remarks made the matter clear.

"I have told them," she said, "that you love me, that you are willing
to risk everything for my sake. I have promised them that you, the rich
Senor Bleke, will supply the funds for the revolution. Once more,
comrades. To the Savior of Paranoya!"

Roland tried his hardest to catch the infection of this patriotic
enthusiasm, but somehow he could not do it. Base, sordid, mercenary
speculations would intrude themselves. About how much was a good,
well-furnished revolution likely to cost? As delicately as he could,
he put the question to Maraquita.

She said, "Poof! The cost? La, la!" Which was all very well, but hardly