test his disclosures, so lying would be useless. He believes either
a British or American fleet will soon occupy California. The signs
of the times have been unmistakable since the last return of the
foreigners. Will he live to see the day? "Quien sabe?"

Maxime sees a stern man of fifty seated in his official presence
room. Commandante Miguel Peralta is clad in his undress cavalry
uniform. The sergeant captor is in attendance, while at the door
an armed sentinel hovers. This is the wolf's den. Maxime is wary
and serious.

"You are a Yankee, young man," begins the soldier. Maxime Valois'
Creole blood stirs in his veins.

"I am an American, Senor Commandante, "from New Orleans. No Yankee!"
he hotly answers, forgetting prudence. Peralta opens his eyes in
vague wonder. No Yankee? He questions the rash prisoner. Valois
tells the facts of Fremont's situation, but he firmly says he
knows nothing of his future plans.

"Why so?" demands Peralta. "Are you a common soldier?" Maxime
explains his position as a volunteer.

A pressing inquest follows. Maxime's frankness touches the Commandante
favorably. "I will see you in a day or so. I shall hold you as a
prisoner till I know if your chief means war. I may want you as
an interpreter if I take the field."

"Sergeant," he commands.