In the two years that followed the relations between Crespo and myself became as cordial as they were confidential. Though of humble origin, and fully half Indian, there must have been blue blood somewhere among his ancestors, for he was a polished gentleman in his manners and extremely magnetic. He was tremendously powerful and while he weighed all of two hundred and fifty pounds he was so well built and so tall that he did not look heavy. He put me in mind of a square-rigged ship of graceful lines, with all of her canvas set. He could hardly read and write but he had an insatiable thirst for information, and his close friends used to read to him at night until he fell asleep. He never drank to excess; was a good husband and an indulgent father, and the most continent Venezuelano I ever knew. He thought he was honest and he certainly was loyal to his friends and stubborn in his opinions. He was so strong in his friendship, in fact, that he was sometimes imposed on, for with a man whom he liked and trusted he was as credulous as a child. The advice and warnings of Donna Crespo and myself caused him to turn a deaf ear to many of his evil-minded followers but we could not silence all of them, and their influence prevented him from being a really great President. In the face of a danger that could be seen, no matter how great, he was entirely without fear, but he was in constant dread of assassination. He was skilful in the use of revolver and rifle and was passionately fond of firearms, perhaps because of his besetting fear. When the first shipment of Maxim guns was received he had me set one of them up in the yard back of Santa Inez Palace. He examined it carefully, with all the pleasure of a child with a new toy, tested its flexibility and radius of action, and then cut “J. Crespo” with a stream of bullets in a brick wall sixty feet away, and gleefully surveyed his handiwork.