One thing he noticed—San Juan was full of Spanish soldiers. He could see them prowling everywhere, and each crowd within the cafes and halls had its quota of these small sized swarthy faced, boyish looking exiles from sunny Spain.
"They evidently mean to give the Yankees a warm reception when the time comes," was what he concluded upon noting this important fact.
The point was well taken—it was one that would prove of considerable importance to General Miles, who had already landed on the southern coast with his army of Americans, and was beginning to advance upon Ponce and the neighboring towns.
After being compelled to retrace his steps several times, on account of getting off the track, confused by the narrow calles that seemed to have no beginning and ended nowhere, Roderic at length broke out upon an open place where the rain beat upon stone flagging, and trees moaned dolefully in the fierce gusts of wind.
Despite its funereal aspect now he recognized this as the Plaza Cristobal Colon, and was able to take his bearings afresh.
"Thank Heaven, I am near the end of my night's pilgrimage," he muttered in Spanish, for he had determined to even do his thinking in that language while within the enemy's lines, so that the danger of discovery might be reduced to a minimum, for if Jerome, Roblado et al. were in San Juan he was well aware of the fact that hundreds of keen eyes belonging to the Guardia Civil would be on the lookout for one Roderic Owen, and that discovery would be a serious matter for him.
It was really time his wanderings ceased for this night at least—he had covered miles of ground, he had faced a raging storm that at times almost brought him to his knees, he was soaked through and through, and beginning to feel weak in his limbs.
But relief was close at hand.
The hardest part of his mission he believed had already been passed over.