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?”