I put up at the Posado de los Generales (recommended by the commandant), and the day after my arrival I delivered the letters confided to me by Senor Moreno. This done, I felt safe; for (as I thought) there was nothing else in my possession by which I could possibly be compromised. I did not deliver the letters separately. I gave the packet, just as I had received it, to a certain Senor Carera, the secret chief of the patriot party in Caracas. I also gave him a long verbal message from Moreno, and we discussed at length the condition of the country and the prospects of the insurrection. In the interior, he said, there raged a frightful guerilla warfare, and Caracas was under a veritable reign of terror. Of the half-dozen friends for whom I had brought letters, one had been garroted; another was in prison, and would almost certainly meet the same fate. It was only by posing as a loyalist and exercising the utmost circumspection that he had so far succeeded in keeping a whole skin; and if he were not convinced that he could do more for the cause where he was than elsewhere, he would not remain in the city another hour. As for myself, he was quite of Moreno’s opinion, that the sooner I got away the better.

“I consider it my duty to watch over your safety,” he said. “I should be sorry indeed were any harm to befall an English caballero who has risked his life to serve us and brought us such good news.”

“What harm can befall me, now that I have got rid of that packet?” I asked.

“In a city under martial law and full of spies, there is no telling what may happen. Being, moreover, a stranger, you are a marked man. It is not everybody who, like the commandant of La Guayra, will believe that you are travelling for your own pleasure. What man in his senses would choose a time like this for a scientific ramble in Venezuela?”

And then Senor Carera explained that he could arrange for me to leave Caracas almost immediately, under excellent guidance. The teniente of Colonel Mejia, one of the guerilla leaders, was in the town on a secret errand, and would set out on his return journey in three days. If I liked I might go with him, and I could not have a better guide or a more trustworthy companion.

It was a chance not to be lost. I told Senor Carera that I should only be too glad to profit by the opportunity, and that on any day and at any hour which he might name I would be ready.

“I will see the teniente, and let you know further in the course of to-morrow,” said Carera, after a moment’s thought. “The affair will require nice management. There are patrols on every road. You must be well mounted, and I suppose you will want a mule for your baggage.”

“No! I shall take no more than I can carry in my saddle-bags. We must not be incumbered with pack-mules on an expedition of this sort. We may have to ride for our lives.”

“You are quite right, Senor Fortescue; so you may. I will see that you are well mounted, and I shall be delighted to take charge of your belongings until the patriots again, and for the last time, capture Caracas and drive those thrice-accursed Spaniards into the sea.”

Before we separated I invited Senor Carera to almuerzo (the equivalent to the Continental second breakfast) on the following day.

After a moment’s reflection he accepted the invitation. “But we shall have to be very cautious,” he added. “The posada is a Royalist house, and the posadero (innkeeper) is hand and glove with the police. If we speak of the patriots at all, it must be only to abuse them.... But our turn will come, and por Dios! then ”

The fierce light in Carera’s eyes, the gesture by which his words were emphasized, boded no good for the Royalists if the patriots should get the upper hand. No wonder that a war in which men like him were engaged on the one side, and men like el Commandant Castro on the other, should be savage, merciless, and “to the death.”

As I had decided to quit Caracas so soon, it did not seem worth while presenting the letter to one of his brother officers which I had received from Commandant Castro. I thought, too, that in existing circumstances the less I had to do with officers the better. But I did not like the idea of going away without fulfilling my promise to call on Zamorra’s old friend, Don Senor Ulloa.

So when I returned to the posada I asked the posadero (innkeeper), a tall Biscayan, with an immensely long nose, a cringing manner, and an insincere smile, if he would kindly direct me to Senor Ulloa’s house.

“Si, senor,” said the posadero, giving me a queer look, and exchanging significant glances with two or three of his guests who were within earshot. “Si, senor, I can direct you to the house of Senor Ulloa. You mean Don Simon, of course?”

“Yes. I have a letter of introduction to him.”

“Oh, you have a letter of introduction to Don Simon! if you will come into the street I will show you the way.”

Whereupon we went outside, and the posadero, pointing out the church of San Ildefonso, told me that the large house over against the eastern door was the house I sought.

“Gracias, senor,” I said, as I started on my errand, taking the shady side of the street and walking slowly, for the day was warm.

I walked slowly and thought deeply, trying to make out what could be the meaning of the glances which the mention of Senor Ulloa’s name had evoked, and there was a nameless something in the posadero’s manner I did not like. Besides being cringing, as usual, it was half mocking, half menacing, as if I had said, or he had heard, something that placed me in his power.

Yet what could he have heard? What could there be in the name of Ulloa to either excite his enmity or rouse his suspicion? As a man in authority, and the particular friend of an ex-president of the Audiencia Real, Don Simon must needs be above reproach.

Should I turn back and ask the posadero what he meant? No, that were both weak and impolitic. He would either answer me with a lie, or refuse to answer at all, qui s’excuse s’accuse. I resolved to go on, and see what came of it. Don Simon would no doubt be able to enlighten me.

I found the place without difficulty. There could be no mistaking it a large house over against the eastern door of the church of San Ildefonso, built round a patio, or courtyard, after the fashion of Spanish and South American mansions. Like the church, it seemed to have been much damaged by the earthquake; the outer walls were cracked, and the gateway was encumbered with fallen stones.

This surprised me less than may be supposed. Créoles are not remarkable for energy, and it was quite possible that Senor Ulloa’s fortunes might have suffered as severely from the war as his house had suffered from the earthquake. But when I entered the patio I was more than surprised. The only visible signs of life were lizards, darting in and out of their holes, and a huge rattlesnake sunning himself on the ledge of a broken fountain. Grass was growing between the stones; rotten doors hung on rusty hinges; there were great gaps in the roof and huge fissures in the walls, and when I called no one answered.

“Surely,” I thought, “I have made some mistake. This house is both deserted and ruined.”

I returned to the street and accosted a passer-by.

“Is this the house of Don Simon Ulloa?” I asked him.

“Si, Senor,” he said; and then hurried on as if my question had half-frightened him out of his wits.

I could not tell what to make of this; but my first idea was that Senor Ulloa was dead, and the house had the reputation of being haunted. In any case, the innkeeper had evidently played me a scurvy trick, and I went back to the posada with the full intention of having it out with him.

“Did you find the house of Don Simon, Senor Fortescue?” he asked when he saw me.

“Yes, but I did not find him. The house is empty and deserted. What do you mean by sending me on such a fool’s errand?”

“I beg your pardon, senor. You asked me to direct you to Senor Ulloa’s house, and I did so. What could I do more?” And the fellow cringed and smirked, as if it were all a capital joke, till I could hardly refrain from pulling his long nose first and kicking him afterwards, but I listened to the voice of prudence and resisted the impulse.

“You know quite well that I sought Senor Ulloa. Did I not tell you that I had a letter for him? If you were a caballero instead of a wretched posadero, I would chastise your trickery as it deserves. What has become of Senor Ulloa, and how comes it that his house is deserted?”

“Senor Ulloa is dead. He was garroted.”

“Garroted! What for?”

“Treason. There was discovered a compromising correspondence between him and Bolivar. But why ask me? As a friend of Senor Ulloa, you surely know all this?”

“I never was a friend of his never even saw him! I had merely a letter to him from a common friend. But how happened it that Senor Ulloa, who, I believe, was a correjidor, entered into a correspondence with the arch-traitor?”

“That made it all the worse. He richly deserved his fate. His eldest son, who was privy to the affair, was strangled at the same time as his father; his other children fled, and Senora Ulloa died of grief.”

“Poor woman! No wonder the house is deserted. What a frightful state of things!”

And then, feeling that I had said enough, and fearing that I might say more, I turned on my heel, lighted a cigar, and, while I paced to and fro in the patio, seriously considered my position, which, as I clearly perceived, was beginning to be rather precarious.

As likely as not the innkeeper would denounce me, and then it would, of course, be very absurd, for I was utterly ignorant, and Zamorra, a Royalist to the bone, must have been equally ignorant that his friend Ulloa had any hand in the rebellion. The mere fact of carrying a harmless letter of introduction from a well-known loyalist to a friend whom he believed to be still a loyalist, could surely not be construed as an offense. At any rate it ought not to be. But when I recalled all I had heard from Morena, and the stories told me but an hour before by Carera, I thought it extremely probable that it would be, and bitterly regretted that I had not mentioned to the latter Ulloa’s name. He would have put me on my guard, and I should not have so fatally committed myself with the posadero.

But regrets are useless and worse. They waste time and weaken resolve. The question of the moment was, What should I do? How avoid the danger which I felt sure was impending? There seemed only one way immediate flight. I would go to Carera, tell him all that had happened, and ask him to arrange for my departure from Caracas that very night. I could steal away unseen when all was quiet.

“At once,” I said to myself “at once. If I exaggerate, if the danger be not so pressing as I fear, he is just the man to tell me; but, first of all, I will go into my room and destroy this confounded letter. The posadero did not see it. All that he can say is ”

“In the king’s name!” exclaimed a rough voice behind me; and a heavy hand was laid on my arm.

Turning sharply round, I found myself confronted by an officer of police and four alguazils, all armed to the teeth.

“I arrest you in the king’s name,” repeated the officer.

“On what charge?” I asked.

“Treason. Giving aid and comfort to the king’s enemies, and acting as a medium of communication between rebels against his authority.”

“Very well; I am ready to accompany you,” I said, seeing that, for the moment at least, resistance and escape were equally out of the question; “but the charge is false.”

“That I have nothing to do with. The case is one for the military tribunal. Before we go I must search your room.”

He did so, and, except my passport, found nothing whatever of a documentary, much less of a compromising character. He then searched me, and took possession of Zamorra’s unlucky letter to Ulloa and my memorandum-book, in which, however, there were merely a few commonplace notes and scientific jottings.

This done he placed two of his alguazils on either side of me, telling them to run me through with their bayonets if I attempted to escape, and then, drawing his sword and bringing up the rear, gave the order to march.

As we passed through the gateway I caught sight of the posadero, laughing consumedly, and pointing at me the finger of scorn and triumph. How sorry I felt that I had not kicked him when I was in the humor and had the opportunity!