, and the young doctor had become
communicative and loquacious.

When at last they had descended to the lowest tier of cells, Vicenti
paused and pointed toward an iron-barred double door.

"In there," he whispered to Peter, "is our most distinguished
political prisoner, General Rojas. There is no one Alvarez would so
willingly see dead. And, if he keeps him here a month longer, Alvarez
will have his wish."

"But they say the man is a traitor," protested Roddy.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

"In my country," he answered, "every man who is not for the government
is a traitor."

He directed the turnkey who accompanied them to unlock the gate of the
cell, and with a gesture invited the Americans to enter. As they did
so, each dropped his right hand into his outside coat pocket. When it
came forth again, concealed under each little finger was a tiny roll
of rice-paper torn from a book of cigarette-wrappers. On each, in
pencil, was written, "54-4" and the word "Hope." The night previous
Peter and Roddy had prepared the papers, on the chance that while one
of them occupied the attention of the guide, the other could slip his
message to Rojas. Roddy had insisted upon the use of rice-paper,
because it could be swallowed without indigestion, and instead of the
word "Hope," had preferred a freehand drawing of an anchor, arguing
that the anchor was the emblem of hope, and was more picturesque than
the written word. To this Peter had objected that while they knew an
anchor signified hope, Rojas might not, and as they were risking their
lives to get a message to him, it was important he should understand
it. They compromised on the numerals, which would show Rojas his own
cipher messages had been received and understood, and the word "Hope"
was added to put heart into him and strengthen his desire to cling to
life.

But on entering the cell they saw at once that there would be no
chance to deliver their message. General Rojas was seated at a table
some ten feet from them, and the turnkey, who had submitted with ill
grace to the Americans entering any of the cells, and who seemed
especially to resent their presence in this one, at once placed
himself aggressively on guard.

As he did so he commanded sharply: "The visitors will not speak to the
prisoner."

"That is understood," Vicenti answered.

The Americans saw a room some forty by twenty feet in size, with
walls, arched ceiling and floor entirely of stone. There