But time was just what I might not be able to command. I had heard that the sole merit of the military tribunal was its promptitude; it never kept its victims long in suspense; they were either quickly released or as quickly despatched--the latter being the alternative most generally adopted. It was for this reason that, the moment I was arrested, I began to think how I could escape. As neither opening the door nor breaking the bars seemed immediately feasible, the idea of bribing the turnkey naturally occurred to me. Thanks to the precaution suggested by Mr. Van Voorst, I had several gold pieces in my belt. But though the fellow would no doubt accept my money, what security had I that he would keep his word? And how, even if he were to leave the door open, should I evade the vigilance of the sentries and the soldiers who were always loitering in the _patio_? On the whole, I thought the best thing I could do was to wait quietly until the morrow. The night is often fruitful in ideas. I might be acquitted, after all, and if I attempted to bribe the turnkey before my examination, and he should betray me to his superiors, my condemnation would be a foregone conclusion. The mere attempt would be regarded as an admission of guilt. A while later, the zambo turnkey (half Indian, half negro) brought me my evening meal--a loaf of bread and a small bottle of wine--and I studied his countenance closely. It was both treacherous and truculent, and I felt that if I trusted him he would be sure to play me false. As it was near sunset I asked for a light, and tried to engage him in conversation. But the attempt failed. He answered surlily, that a dark room was quite good enough for a damned rebel, and left me to myself. When it became too dark to walk about, I lay down in the hammock and was soon in the land of dreams; for I was young and sanguine, and though I could not help feeling somewhat anxious, it was not the sort of anxiety which kills sleep. Only once in my life have I tasted the agony of despair. That time was not yet. When I awoke the clock of a neighboring church was striking three, and the rays of a brilliant tropical moon were streaming through the barred window of my room, making it hardly less light than day. As the echo of the last stroke dies away, I fancy that I hear something strike against the grating. I rise up in my hammock, listening intently, and at the same instant a small shower of pebbles, flung by an unseen hand, falls into the room. A signal!