But to communicate these tidings to the parties concerned was by no means easy.  The post was obviously quite out of the question, and no Spanish creole could land at any port held by the Royalists without the almost certainty of being promptly strangled or shot.  “An Englishman, however—­especially an Englishman who had fought under Wellington in Spain—­might undertake the mission with comparative impunity,” said Senor Morena.

“I understand perfectly,” I answered.  “I have to go in the character of an ordinary travelling Englishman, and act as an emissary of the insurgent junta.  But if my true character is detected, what then?”

“That is not at all likely, Mr. Fortescue.”

“Yet the unlikely happens sometimes—­happens generally, in fact.  Suppose it does in the present instance?”

“In that case I am very much afraid that you would be shot.”

“I have not a doubt of it.  Nevertheless, your proposal pleases me, and I shall do my best to carry out your wishes.”

Whereupon Senor Morena expressed his thanks in sonorous Castilian, protested that my courage and devotion would earn me the eternal gratitude of every patriot, and promised to have everything ready for me in the course of the week, a promise which he faithfully kept.

Three days later Morena brought me a packet of letters and a memorandum containing minute instructions for my guidance.  Nothing could be more harmless looking than the letters.  They contained merely a few items of general news and the recommendation of the bearer to the good offices of the recipient.  But this was only a blind; the real letters were written in cipher, with sympathetic ink.  They were, moreover, addressed to secret friends of the revolutionary cause, who, as Senor Morena believed and hoped, were, as yet, unsuspected by the Spanish authorities, and at large.

“To give you letters to known patriots would be simply to insure your destruction,” said the senor, “even if you were to find them alive and at liberty.”

I had also Don Alberto’s letter, and as the old gentleman had once been president of the Audiencia Real (Royal Council), Morena thought it would be of great use to me, and serve to ward off suspicion, even though some of the friends to whom he had himself written should have meanwhile got into trouble.

But as if he had not complete confidence in the efficacy of these elaborate precautions, Senor Morena strongly advised me to stay no longer in Caracas than I could possibly help.

“Spies more vigilant than those of the Inquisition are continually on the lookout for victims,” he said.  “An inadvertent word, a look even, might betray you; the only law is the will of the military and police, and they make very short work of those whom they suspect.  Yes, leave Caracas the moment you have delivered your letters; our friends will smuggle you through the Spanish line and lead you to one of the patriot camps.”