My captors conducted me to a dilapidated building near the Plaza Major,
which did duty as a temporary jail, the principal prison of Caracas having
been destroyed by the earthquake and left as it fell. Nevertheless, the
room to which I was taken seemed quite strong enough to hold anybody
unsupplied with housebreaking implements or less ingenious than Jack
Sheppard. The door was thick and well bolted, the window or grating (for
it was, of course, destitute of glass) high and heavily barred, yet not
too high to be reached with a little contrivance. Mounting the single
chair (beside a hammock the only furniture the room contained), I gripped
the bars with my hands, raised myself up, and looked out. Below me was a
narrow, and, as it might appear, a little-frequented street, at the end of
which a sentry was doing his monotonous spell of duty.

The place was evidently well guarded, and from the number of soldiers whom
I had seen about the gateway and in the _patio_, I concluded that, besides
serving as a jail, it was used also as a military post. Even though I
might get out, I should not find it very easy to get away. And what were
my chances of getting out? As yet they seemed exceedingly remote. The only
possible exits were the door and the window. The door was both locked and
bolted, and either to open or make an opening in it I should want a brace
and bit and a saw, and several hours freedom from intrusion. It would be
easier to cut the bars--if I possessed a file or a suitable saw. I had my
knife, and with time and patience I might possibly fashion a tool that
would answer the purpose.

But time was just what I might not be able to command. I had heard that
the sole merit of the military tribunal was its promptitude; it never kept
its victims long in suspense; they were either quickly released or as