“No, he doesn’t!” Aiken snapped back, quite as irritably. “And he’s dead right, too. You take it from me, that the fewer people in this country you trust, the better for you. Why, the rottenness of this country is a proverb. ‘It’s a place where the birds have no song, where the flowers have no odor, where the women are without virtue, and the men without honor.’ That’s what a gringo said of Honduras many years ago, and he knew the country and the people in it.” It was not a comforting picture, but in my discouragement I remembered Laguerre. “General Laguerre does not belong to this country,” I said, hopefully. “No,” Aiken answered, with a laugh. “He’s an Irish-Frenchman and belongs to a dozen countries. He’s fought for every flag that floats, and he’s no better off to-day than when he began.” He turned toward me and stared with an amused and tolerant grin. “He’s a bit like you,” he said. I saw he did not consider what he said as a compliment, but I was vain enough to want to know what he did think of me, so I asked: “And in what way am I like General Laguerre?” The idea of our similarity seemed to amuse Aiken, for he continued to grin. “Oh, you’ll see when we meet him,” he said. “I can’t explain it. You two are just different from other people--that’s all. He’s old-fashioned like you, if you know what I mean, and young--” “Why, he’s an old man,” I corrected. “He’s old enough to be your grandfather,” Aiken laughed, “but I say he’s young--like you, the way you are.” Aiken knew that it annoyed me when he pretended I was so much younger than himself, and I had started on some angry reply, when I was abruptly interrupted. A tall, ragged man rose suddenly from behind a rock, and presented a rifle. He was so close to Aiken that the rifle almost struck him in the face. Aiken threw up his hands, and fell back with such a jerk that he lost his balance, and would have fallen had he not pitched forward and clasped the mule around the neck. I pulled my mule to a halt, and held my hands as high as I could raise them. The man moved his rifle from side to side so as to cover each of us in turn, and cried in English, “Halt! Who goes there?” Aiken had not told me the answer to that challenge, so I kept silent. I could hear Jose behind me interrupting his prayers with little sobs of fright. Aiken scrambled back into an upright position, held up his hands, and cried: “Confound you, we are travellers, going to the capital on business. Who the devil are you?” “Qui vive?” the man demanded over the barrel of his gun. “What does that mean?” Aiken cried, petulantly. “Talk English, can’t you, and put down that gun.” The man ceased moving the rifle between us, and settled it on Aiken. “Cry ‘Long live the government,’” he commanded, sharply.