“It would be hard to make this man shed tears,” he thought as he looked admiringly at the handsome man by his side. “No nonsense here. Six feet tall, if he’s an inch; straight as an arrow, darker than a copper cent, muscles firm as iron.” “They call me the Aztec,” the President laughed, when the conversation turned upon his personality. “I thank them for doing me justice, for I am of almost pure Indian blood. Study the people while you are here, Mr. Sumner, and you will find that no man need blush to be called an Aztec. You will hear of me that I have spent seven days in the saddle with no food but a handful of meal. It is true. Yes” (and his rich dark eyes flashed), “and I can do it again, if my country requires the service.” After a conversation of nearly an hour the President conducted Dick into several of the state apartments, to show him the portraits of famous Mexicans. “All this is Maximilian!” he exclaimed, waving his hand toward the handsome mirrors, the gilded chairs, the glistening chandeliers. “Poor Maximilian! He did much to ornament our capital.” That evening Dick received an unexpected call from the minister. “You are acquainted in the Calle Estampa de Jesus Maria?” the minister asked, smiling; “at numero cinco, number five? You have friends there?” “I have been there twice,” Dick answered--“once to see Lieutenant Comacho’s wife safely home, and once to make the call of courtesy, inquiring after her welfare.” “I see,” the minister said; “there is no harm done; but if I were you I should not call there again. There are wheels within wheels in this country. The Comachos are under the displeasure of the government, and it is not safe to have much to do with them. I can only give you a hint.” “Yet this is a republic!” Dick exclaimed. The minister smiled. “Your friend Comacho has been brought up from Vera Cruz,” he said, “and is now in the capital--in the Belen.” “The Belen?” Dick repeated inquiringly. “Yes; our famous prison. You remember the poem, ‘Storming the Belen Gate’? It is the same old Belen, still a prison. Comacho is there; and it is a very uncomfortable place, I assure you.” “And how long will they keep him there?” Dick asked. “Till the government sees fit to let him out,” the minister said. “The _habeas corpus_ is merely an ornament here. When a man once goes to prison--but I must remember that I am talking to a newspaper man. It does not do for a minister to express himself too freely.”