"This man is one of the insurgents," was the thought which came simultaneously to Jack and Ronie. Then the latter asked:
"You said we were near to San Carlos. Is this town held by Castro or by the followers of Matos?"
"You prove yourself a stranger, señor, by your words. San Carlos holds the blackest spot on fair Venezuela, the dungeon that keeps in captive chains the noble El Mocho."
"You mean General Hernandez, señor? I have heard of him. But I thought he was once friendly to Castro."
"So he was, señor, until the tyrant abused the common people, then El Mocho led his gallant followers against Castro, was betrayed by a cowardly dog, and now he lies at San Carlos a captive."
"Do you live near here?"
"Si, señor." Then he added, with a curve of his lips, which gave an ugly-looking smile: "When I am at home. I was going hither when I met with this little adventure, which would have ended the warfare of Manuel Marlin for the freedom of poor Venezuela. If you will come with me the hospitality of my humble home is at your disposal."
"I do not think we can do any better than to go with him," said Jack, aside to Ronie, "providing we keep our eyes and ears open."
Ronie was about to signify his assent, when an object nearly buried in the crumpled foliage and torn up earth where the jaguar had made its stand, caught his attention. It was about the size of an ordinary postal card, and at first glance looked like a piece of cardboard. But Ronie had discovered on the other side a portrait, which prompted him to pick up the photograph, as it proved to be.
It was crumpled and soiled, but hastily brushing as much of the dirt from it as he could, he gazed earnestly at the sweet, womanly face pictured before him. As he gazed the color left his countenance, his hand shook so it threatened to drop the card, while he exclaimed in a husky voice: