nel Burr plans to take your country from Spain, not for the benefit
of you and your friends, but for his own aggrandizement. He thinks
himself a second Napoleon."

"_Por Dios!_ I see it now. He plots to sell us to Spain, that Spain may
aid his plot to make himself king of your Western country,--king of all
that part which extends from the Alleghanies even here to New Orleans
and north and west to the Pacific. I know; for did he not enter into
negotiations with Marquis de Casa Yrujo?"

"With the Spanish Minister?" I exclaimed.

"With Casa Yrujo, after the death of Pitt deprived him of the hope of
British ships and money."

"So--he is but a crack-brained trickster," I muttered. "We have chased
his rainbows and landed in the mire. This is the end, senor. I go now.
Tomorrow's sun will see me on my way up-river to St. Louis. May you find
brave men enough in your own land to win freedom, without the costly aid
of tricksters!"

"There are others than tricksters that share my plans--true-hearted men
at New Orleans. The Mexican Association stands pledged,--three hundred
and more loyal workers in the cause of my country's freedom."

"Creoles," I said. "You could count upon a hundred of my backwoods
countrymen to do more, should it come to the setting of triggers."

"We shall see. But there are others than creoles in the association.
Already Senor Clark has made two voyages to Vera Cruz, to spy out the
defences. I go now to tell him more. You know something as to the power
of our religious orders. At New Orleans are two such. But what is all
this to you now?"

"Much, Don Pedro! My heart is with the success of your plans!"

"_Muchas gracias, amigo!_ Would that you might journey with me to my
people! But the gate at Vera Cruz is narrow for heretics. _Adios!_"

"_Adios_, Don Pedro. May we meet under brighter skies!"

"God grant it, Juan!" he cried, with unfeigned friendliness.

I clasped his hand, and hastened away. My heart was too full for words.

Early as I expected to start in the morning, I did not seek my bed. I
could not sleep. Having bargained for my upstream passage with a St.
Louis friend, in command of a keelboat, I wandered out and strolled
through the sloping streets of the town. But even the wild revelry of
the rivermen, for which Natchez is so evilly noted, failed to win from
me more than passing heed. My own thoughts were in wilder turmoil. In
beside the memory of the golden love-glory which had shone in