THE DICTATOR

BY JUSTIN McCARTHY, M.P.

AUTHOR OF 'DEAR LADY DISDAIN' 'DONNA QUIXOTE' ETC.

A NEW EDITION

London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1895

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. AN EXILE IN LONDON
CHAPTER II. A GENTLEMAN-ADVENTURER
CHAPTER III. AT THE GARDEN GATE
CHAPTER IV. THE LANGLEYS
CHAPTER V. 'MY GREAT DEED WAS TOO GREAT'
CHAPTER VI. 'HERE IS MY THRONE—BID KINGS COME BOW TO IT'
CHAPTER VII. THE PRINCE AND CLAUDIO
CHAPTER VIII. 'I WONDER WHY?'
CHAPTER IX. THE PRIVATE SECRETARY
CHAPTER X. A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
CHAPTER XI. HELENA
CHAPTER XII. DOLORES
CHAPTER XIII. DOLORES ON THE LOOK-OUT
CHAPTER XIV. A SICILIAN KNIFE
CHAPTER XV. 'IF I WERE TO ASK YOU?'
CHAPTER XVI. THE CHILDREN OF GRIEVANCE
CHAPTER XVII. MISS PAULO'S OBSERVATION
CHAPTER XVIII. HELENA KNOWS HERSELF, BUT NOT THE OTHER
CHAPTER XIX. TYPICAL AMERICANS—NO DOUBT
CHAPTER XX. THE DEAREST GIRL IN THE WORLD
CHAPTER XXI. MORGIANA
CHAPTER XXII. THE EXPEDITION
CHAPTER XXIII. THE PANGS OF THE SUPPRESSED MESSAGE
CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXPLOSION
CHAPTER XXV. SOME VICTIMS
CHAPTER XXVI. 'WHEN ROGUES——'
CHAPTER XXVII. 'SINCE IT IS SO!'

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE DICTATOR

THE DICTATOR

CHAPTER I

AN EXILE IN LONDON

The May sunlight streamed in through the window, making curious patterns of the curtains upon the carpet. Outside, the tide of life was flowing fast; the green leaves of the Park were already offering agreeable shade to early strollers; the noise of cabs and omnibuses had set in steadily for the day. Outside, Knightsbridge was awake and active; inside, sleep reigned with quiet. The room was one of the best bedrooms in Paulo's Hotel; it was really tastefully furnished, soberly decorated, in the style of the fifteenth French Louis. A very good copy of Watteau was over the mantel-piece, the only picture in the room. There had been a fire in the hearth overnight, for a grey ash lay there. Outside on the ample balcony stood a laurel in a big blue pot, an emblematic tribute on Paulo's part to honourable defeat which might yet turn to victory.

There were books about the room: a volume of Napoleon's maxims, a French novel, a little volume of Sophocles in its original Greek. A uniform-case and a sword-case stood in a corner. A map of South America lay partially unrolled upon a chair. The dainty gilt clock over the mantel-piece, a genuine heritage from the age of Louis Quinze, struck eight briskly. The Dictator stirred in his sleep.

Presently there was a tapping at the door to the left of the bed, a door communicating with the Dictator's private sitting-room. Still the Dictator slept, undisturbed by the slight sound. The sound was not repeated, but the door was softly opened, and a young man put his head into the room and looked at the slumbering Dictator. The young man was dark, smooth-shaven, with a look of quiet alertness in his face. He seemed to be about thirty years of age. His dark eyes watched the sleeping figure affectionately for a few seconds. 'It seems a pity to wake him,' he muttered; and he was about to draw his head back and close the door, when the Dictator stirred again, and suddenly waking swung himself round in the bed and faced his visitor. The visitor smiled pleasantly. 'Buenos dias, Escelencia,' he said.

The Dictator propped himself up on his left arm and