Now I had no cause, then or afterwards, to love the Spaniards; but I hold it fair to give even an enemy his due, and it is only just to say that this young officer, Captain Santiago Mariano, treated me royally. In a sense I owed my life to him, and I have never forgotten his kindness. As my strength returned he often sat with me, talking of the wreck, from which I was apparently the only one rescued. Three men, he said, had been washed ashore, but they were all dead. Two were ordinary sailors, and from his description I easily recognized the third as Montevo, the skipper. There was a rumour, the young officer continued, that a man had been picked up by some Indians further along the coast; but no one really knew anything about it, and for his part he looked on it as an idle tale. There was small comfort in tills; yet, against my better judgment, I began to hope that Jose had somehow escaped from the sea. He was a strong man and a stout swimmer, while for dogged courage I have rarely met his equal. One morning Santiago came into my room--or rather his--with a troubled expression on his face. I was able to walk by this time, and stood by the little window, watching the soldiers at exercise in the courtyard. "Crawford," said he abruptly, "have you any reason to be afraid of General Barejo?" Now, until that moment I had not given a thought to the fact that in escaping one danger I had tumbled headlong into another; but this question made me uneasy. As far as safety went, I might as well have stayed at my mother's side in Lima as have blundered into a far-off fortress garrisoned by Spanish soldiers. "I ought not to speak of this," continued Santiago, "but the warning may help you. Did you hear the guns last night?" "Yes," said I, wondering. "It was the salute to the general, who is inspecting the forts along the coast." "I have heard my father speak of General Barejo." "Well, after dinner last evening the commandant happened to speak of your shipwreck, and the general was greatly interested. 'A boy named Crawford?' said he thoughtfully; 'is he in the fort now?' and on hearing you were, told the commandant he would see you in the morning. This is he crossing the courtyard. He is coming here, I believe." I had only time to thank Santiago for his kindness when the general entered the room. He was a short, spare man, with closely-cropped gray hair and a grizzled beard. His face was tanned and wrinkled, but he held himself erect as a youth; and his profession was most pronounced. The young captain saluted, and, at a sign from the general, left the room. Barejo eyed me critically, and with a grim smile exclaimed, "By St. Philip, there's no need to ask. You're the son of the Englishman Crawford, right enough." "Who was murdered by Spanish soldiers," said I, for his cool and somewhat contemptuous tone roused me to anger.