"I think I could make you say, though, if it were worth the trouble. As it happens, I know already. He has about two thousand infantry and one thousand cavalry. What has he come here for? Does the fool actually suppose that with a force like that he can capture San Felipe? Such presumption deserves punishment, and I shall give him a lesson he will not easily forget--if he lives to remember it. Your name and quality, señor" (to Carmen). "Salvador Carmen, _teniente_ in the patriot army." "I suppose you have heard how I treat patriots?" "Yes, general, and I should like to treat you in the same way." "You mean you would like to hang me. In that case you cannot complain if I hang you. However I won't hang you--to-day. I will either send you to the next world in the company of your general, or let you go with--" "Señor Fortescue?" "Thank you--with Señor Fortescue. That is all, I think. Take him to the guard-house, sergeant--Stay! If you will give me your parole not to leave the town without my permission, or make any attempt to escape, you may remain at large, Señor Fortescue." "For how long?" "Two days." As the escape in the circumstances seemed quite out of the question, I gave my parole without hesitation, and asked the same favor for my companion. "No" (sternly). "I could not believe a rebel Creole on his oath. Take him away, sergeant, and see that he is well guarded. If you let him escape I will hang you in his stead." Despite our bonds Carmen and I contrived to shake hands, or rather, touch fingers, for it was little more. "We shall meet again." I whispered. "If I had known that he would not take your parole I would not have given mine. Let courage be our watchword. _Hasta mañana!_" "Pray take a seat, Señor Fortescue, and we will have a talk about old times in Spain. Allow me to offer you a cigar--I beg your pardon, I was forgetting that my fellows had tied you up. Captain Guzman (to one of the loungers), will you kindly loose Mr. Fortescue? _Gracias!_ Now you can take a cigar, and here is a chair for you." I was by no means sure that this sudden display of urbanity boded me good, but being a prisoner, and at Griscelli's mercy, I thought it as well to humor him, so accepted the cigar and seated myself by his side. After a talk about the late war in Spain, in the course of which Griscelli told some wonderful stories of the feats he had performed there (for the man was egregiously vain) he led the conversation to the present war in South America, and tried to worm out of me where I had been and what I had done since my arrival in the country. I answered him courteously and diplomatically, taking good care to tell him nothing that I did not want to be known. "I see," he said, "it was a love of adventure that brought you here--you English are always running after adventures. A caballero like you can have no sympathy with these rascally rebels."