with rough walls and a cracked ceiling, sat three men in uniform. The one
who occupied the chief seat, and seemed to be the president, was old and
gray, with hard, suspicious eyes, and a long, typical Spanish face, in
every line of which I read cruelty and ruthless determination. His
colleagues, who called him "marquis," treated him with great deference,
and his breast was covered with orders.

It was evident that on this man would depend my fate. The others were
there merely to register his decrees.

After leading me to the table and saluting the tribunal, the officer of
police, whose sword was still drawn, placed himself in a convenient
position for running me through, in the event of my behaving
disrespectfully to the tribunal or attempting to escape.

The president, who had before him the letter to Señor Ulloa, my passport,
and a document that looked like a brief, demanded my name and quality.

I told him.

"What was your purpose in coming to Caracas?" he asked.

"Simply to see the country."

He laughed scornfully.

"To see the country! What nonsense is this? How can anybody see a country
which is ravaged by brigands and convulsed with civil war? And where is
your authority?"