the impossible--and Providence watched over him.

It was perhaps nine o'clock in the morning when he reached the
summit--breathless, exhausted, unhelmed, weaponless, coatless, in rags;
torn, bruised, bleeding, but unharmed--and looked down on the white city
of Caracas set in its verdant environment like a handful of pearls in a
goblet of emerald. He had wondered if he would be in time to intercept
the Viceroy, and his strained heart leaped in his tired breast when he
saw, a few miles beyond the town on the road winding toward the Orinoco
country, a body of men. The sunlight blazing from polished helms or
pointed lance tips proclaimed that they were soldiers. He would be in
time, thank God!

With renewed vigor, he scrambled down the side of the mountain--and this
descent fortunately happened to be gentle and easy--and running with
headlong speed, he soon drew near the gate of the palace. He dashed into
it with reckless haste, indifferent to the protests of the guard, who
did not at first recognize in the tattered, bloody, wounded, soiled
specimen of humanity his gay and gallant commander. He made himself
known at once, and was confirmed in his surmise that the Viceroy had
set forth with his troops early in the morning and was still in reaching
distance on the road.

[Illustration: ... he reached the summit--breathless, exhausted,
unhelmed, weaponless, coatless, in rags; torn, bruised, bleeding, but
unharmed.]

Directing the best horse in the stables to be brought to him, after
snatching a hasty meal while it was being saddled, and not even taking
time to re-clothe himself, he mounted and galloped after. An hour later
he burst through the ranks of the little army and reined in his horse
before the astonished Viceroy, who did not recognize in this sorry
cavalier his favorite officer, and stern words of reproof for the
unceremonious interruption of the horseman broke from his lips until
they were checked by the first word from the young captain.

"The buccaneers have taken La Guayra and sacked it!" gasped Alvarado
hoarsely.

"Alvarado!" cried the Viceroy, recognizing him as he spoke. "Are you
mad?"

"Would God I were, my lord."

"The buccaneers?"

"Morgan--all Spain hates him with reason--led them!"

"Morgan! That accursed scourge again in arms? Impossible! I don't
understand!"

"The very same! 'Tis true! 'tis true! Oh, your Excellency----"

"And my daughter----"

"A prisoner! For God's love turn back the