SALVADOR.

Now that I knew beyond a doubt what would be my fate unless I could escape before morning, I became decidedly anxious as to the outcome of my approaching interview with the ghostly comforter for whom I had asked.  It was my last chance.  If it failed me, or the man turned out to be a priest and nothing more, my hours were numbered.  The time was too short to arrange any other plan.  Would he bring with him a file and a cord?  Even if he did, we could hardly hope to cut through the bars before daylight.  And, most important consideration of all, how would Carera contrive to send me the right man?

The mystery was solved more quickly than I expected.

After leaving the tribunal, my escort took me back by the way we had come, the police captain, who was showing himself much more friendly (probably because he looked on me as a good “Christian” and a dying man), walking beside instead of behind me; and when we were within a hundred yards or so of the carcel I observed a Franciscan friar pacing slowly toward us.

I felt intuitively that this was my man; and when he drew nearer a slight movement of his eyebrows and a quick look of intelligence told me that I was right.

“I have no acquaintance among the clergy of Caracas,” I said to my conductor.  “This friar will serve my purpose as well as a regular priest.”

“As you like, senor.  Shall I ask him to see you?”

“Gracias senor capitan, if you please.”

Whereupon the officer respectfully accosted the friar, and after telling him that I had been condemned to die at sunrise on the morrow, asked if he would receive my confession and give me such religious consolation as my case required.

“Con mucho gusto, capitan,” answered the friar.  “When would the senor like me to visit him?”

“At once, father.  My hours are numbered, and I would fain spend the night in meditation and prayer.”

“Come with us, father,” said the captain.  “The senor has the permission of the tribunal to see a priest in his own room.”

So we entered the prison together, and the captain, having given the necessary instructions to the turnkey, we were conducted to my room.

“When you have done,” he said, “knock at the door, and I will come and let you out.”

“Good!  But you need not wait.  I shall not be ready for half an hour or more.”

As the key turned in the lock, the soi-disant friar threw back his cowl.  “Now, Senor Fortescue,” he said, with a laugh, “I am ready to hear your confession.”

“I confess that I feel as if I were in purgatory already, and I shall be uncommonly glad if you can get me out of it.”

“Well, purgatory is not the pleasantest of places by all accounts, and I am quite willing to do whatever I can for you.  By way of beginning, take this ointment and smear your face and hands therewith.”