“I understand perfectly,” I answered. “I have to go in the character of an ordinary travelling Englishman, and act as an emissary of the insurgent junta. But if my true character is detected, what then?”
“That is not at all likely, Mr. Fortescue.”
“Yet the unlikely happens sometimes—happens generally, in fact. Suppose it does in the present instance?”
“In that case I am very much afraid that you would be shot.”
“I have not a doubt of it. Nevertheless, your proposal pleases me, and I shall do my best to carry out your wishes.”
Whereupon Señor Moreña expressed his thanks in sonorous Castilian, protested that my courage and devotion would earn me the eternal gratitude of every patriot, and promised to have everything ready for me in the course of the week, a promise which he faithfully kept.
Three days later Moreña brought me a packet of letters and a memorandum containing minute instructions for my guidance. Nothing could be more harmless looking than the letters. They contained merely a few items of general news and the recommendation of the bearer to the good offices of the recipient. But this was only a blind; the real letters were written in cipher, with sympathetic ink. They were, moreover, addressed to secret friends of the revolutionary cause, who, as Señor Moreña believed and hoped, were, as yet, unsuspected by the Spanish authorities, and at large.
“To give you letters to known patriots would be simply to insure your destruction,” said the señor, “even if you were to find them alive and at liberty.”
I had also Don Alberto’s letter, and as the old gentleman had once been president of the Audiencia Real (Royal Council), Moreña thought it would be of great use to me, and serve to ward off suspicion, even though some of the friends to whom he had himself written should have meanwhile got into trouble.
But as if he had not complete confidence in the efficacy of these elaborate precautions, Señor Moreña strongly advised me to stay no longer in Caracas than I could possibly help.