After a few moments’ wait, an older officer appeared; he was dressed simply in fatigue uniform, but wore a large gold star over his left breast. He shook hands cordially with the visitors. There had been no introduction, but Phil knew at a glance that this short, thin, wizened Spaniard, was the great General Ruiz, probably the next dictator of Verazala. “Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in his native language. “We are very fond of the English; they are always welcome, but your brothers, the Americans, are different. They do not like me, so I do not like them.” As he spoke his face showed the vindictiveness of his race. Phil felt he ought to say something, but it was hard to collect his thoughts. The rôle of impostor was a new one. “I thank you for myself and friends,” he managed finally to say. “We desire a pass through your lines. We are writers, and wish to send home an account of your coming battle.” “Can I be sure you will not give your information to our enemy?” the general answered in a hard voice. “A spy is a danger we must always look for in war. We shoot them like that;” he snapped his fingers and showed his even white teeth in a cruel smile. Phil did not dare look at his two friends, reduced to enforced silence. The disguised American officers were bountifully supplied with food and pressed to stay over night under the general’s roof, but Phil felt it safer to be away from under the piercing black eye of this fiery little Spaniard. “How did you feel, O’Neil, when the general spoke about spies?” asked Phil soberly, after they had left the house behind and were on the road again. “I felt as if I were standing with my back against a wall, with a file of them dago soldiers shooting at me, sir,” answered the boatswain’s mate with a grin. “I didn’t feel any too happy, either,” acknowledged Phil, “but I hope we can soon find out what we need to know and get back to the city before they suspect our mission.” That night they slept in a little pueblo inside the insurgent lines and were on the road early the next morning. During the forenoon they passed regiment after regiment of ragged soldiers. The lads inspected them carefully; their rifles were new and of a late pattern, and they seemed plentifully supplied with ammunition. “I have counted no less than twenty pieces of artillery,” Sydney cried; and then pointing to a grove of cocoanut trees ahead of them, “and there is a whole battery of some kind of ordnance.” “Syd,” Phil answered, “I believe we have seen enough already, though we can’t have seen the beginning, to report to our captain that this revolution is of a serious character and is probably going to win.” “I feel sorry for the minister,” Sydney said gravely; “he seemed such a kind old gentleman; but I suppose he shouldn’t have been so credulous.”