He was quite sure that he had not lain there more than a quarter of an
hour. Nothing had happened while he was unconscious. It was a dark
little alley in the rear of the prison, and the buildings on the other
side that abutted upon it were windowless. He walked cautiously to the
mouth of the alley, and looked up and down the street. He saw no one,
and, pulling his cap down over his eyes, he started instinctively toward
the north, because it was to the far north that he wished to go. He was
fully aware that he faced great dangers, almost impossibilities.
Practically nothing was in his favor, save that he spoke excellent
Spanish and also Mexican versions of it.

He went for several hundred yards along the rough and narrow street, and
he began to shiver again. Now it was from cold, which often grows
intense at night in the great valley of Mexico. Nor was his wasted frame
fitted to withstand it. He was assailed also by a fierce hunger. He had
carried self-denial to the utmost limit, and nature was crying out
against him in a voice that must be heard.

He resolved to risk all and obtain food. Another hundred yards and he
saw crouched in an angle of the street an old woman who offered
tortillas and frijoles for sale. He went a little nearer, but
apprehension almost overcame him. It might be difficult for him to pass
for a Mexican and she would give the alarm. But he went yet nearer and
stood where he could see her face. It was broad, fat and dark, more
Aztec than Spaniard, and then he approached boldly, his speed increased
by the appetizing aroma arising from some flat cakes that lay over
burning charcoal.

"I will take these, my mother," he said in Mexican, and leaning over he