tomb. Its front was broken by wind and
waves, its surface, blotched and mildewed, white with crusted salt,
hideous with an eruption of dead barnacles. As each wave lifted and
retreated, leaving the porous wall dripping like a sponge, it
disturbed countless crabs, rock scorpions and creeping, leech-like
things that ran blindly into the holes in the limestone; and, at the
water-line, the sea-weed, licking hungrily at the wall, rose and fell,
the great arms twisting and coiling like the tentacles of many
devilfish.

Distaste at what he saw, or the fever that at sunset drives wise
Venezuelans behind closed shutters, caused Peter to shiver slightly.

For some moments, with grave faces and in silence, the two young men
sat motionless, the mind of each trying to conceive what life must be
behind those rusted bars and moss-grown walls.

"Somewhere, buried in there," said Roddy, "is General Rojas, the Lion
of Valencia, a man," he added sententiously, "beloved by the people.
He has held all the cabinet positions, and been ambassador in Europe,
and Alvarez is more afraid of him than of any other man in Venezuela.
And why? For the simple reason that he is good. When the people found
out what a blackguard Alvarez is they begged Rojas to run for
President against him, and Rojas promised that if, at the next
election, the people still desired it, he would do as they wished.
That night Alvarez hauled him out of bed and put him in there. He has
been there two years. There _are_ healthy prisons, but Alvarez put
Rojas in this one, hoping it would kill him. He is afraid to murder
him openly, because the people love him. When I first came here I went
through the fortress with Vicenti, the prison doctor, on a sort of
Seeing-Porto-Cabello trip. He pointed out Rojas to me through the
bars, same as you would point out a monument to a dead man. Rojas was
sitting at a table, writing, wrapped in a shawl. The cell was lit by a
candle, and I give you my word, although it was blazing hot outside,
the place was as damp as a refrigerator. When we raised our lanterns
he stood up, and I got a good look at him. He is a thin, frail little
man with white hair and big, sad eyes, with a terribly lonely look in
them. At least I thought so; and I felt so ashamed at staring at him
that I bowed and salaamed to him through the bars, and he gave me the
most splendid bow, just as though he were still an ambassador and I a
visiting prince. The doctor had studied