At about ten or half-past we came to that wayside inn where Gerald and I had had those omelettes last night. It was most appallingly hot, and, though there was no food there, I determined to halt for an hour to rest the mules and men. The prisoners lay down at the sides of the roads, under the shade, the little _machetos_ curled up under the trees, and went to sleep in a twinkling, the officers went into the inn, and Navarro’s stretcher was laid down outside it, in the shade of the projecting roof. I could hardly keep my eyes open, and dare not even sit down for fear of falling asleep, because I wasn’t going to trust those officers again. They didn’t look in the least pleased (of course by this time they knew that I wasn’t Gerald), and a good many of their men had a sullen look on their faces, which I didn’t like a little bit. Still, so long as I kept my eye on them I wasn’t afraid of them playing the fool, and I spent that hour walking up and down the line of guns and wagons with their dejected mule teams, passing a word or two occasionally with Navarro, who was much brighter now, sitting up on his litter smoking a cigarette. I thanked him for the letter which he had written to me from Santa Cruz, warning me about that ex-police agent. ’Very bad man—he will never cease from revenge—next time you see him kill him,’ he said; and I rather wish that I hadn’t mentioned it, because I hated thinking of the little brute. Of course he was as anxious to get to San Fernando as I was; he wanted to see a doctor as soon as possible, and have his broken leg looked after. At the end of the hour I tried to push on again, but I’m hanged if I could. I walked up to the inn and sang out, ’San Fernando!’ to the officers sitting inside it, with half-empty bottles of wine in front of them, but they shook their heads and didn’t even stand up. This, I knew well enough, was meant to be rude. Only the chap who had killed the native as he was going for me, the one whom I had prevented drinking that champagne, stood up and came out, shaking his head, and jabbering Spanish. ’_Mucho caliente! Mucho caliente!_’ ’He say no go San Fernando till night,’ Navarro explained. ’Too hot.’ Well, as I’ve told you before, I’ve got a beastly bad temper: I wasn’t going to stand any nonsense, and I was inside that place in a twinkling. ’San Fernando!’ I shouted, pointed to the blazing white road, where the mules were lying panting in the glare. They only smiled. I pulled my revolver out and roared again, but they only pulled theirs out and shook their heads. I knew that I was up against something ’tough,’ and I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t heard my name called. Navarro was beckoning to me, and I went out, the officers laughing, and only that one following me. ’Prisoners obey me—give them rifles—I want El Medico—San Fernando—quick,’ and he pointed to where the regulars were all lying asleep.