ormidable Hapsburgs, had reached the lowest depths of ignominy
and decay. Alone, almost, under her flag Venezuela was well
governed--from the Spanish standpoint, that is; from the native
American point of view the rule of even the gentlest of Spaniards had
made a hell on earth of the fairest countries of the new continent. Of
all the cities and garrisons which were under the sway of the Viceroy de
Lara, La Guayra was the best appointed and cared for. But it did not
require a great deal of the time or attention from so skilled a
commander as Alvarado to keep things in proper shape. Time, therefore,
hung heavily on his hands. There were few women of rank in the town,
which was simply the port of entry for St. Jago de Leon across the
mountains which rose in tree-clad slopes diversified by bold precipices
for ten thousand feet back of the palace, and from the commoner sort of
women the young captain held himself proudly aloof, while his love
safeguarded him from the allurement of the evil and the shameless who
flaunted their iniquity in every seaport on the Caribbean.

On the other side of the mountain range after a descent of several
thousand feet to a beautiful verdant valley whose altitude tempered the
tropic heat of the low latitude into a salubrious and delightful
climate, lay the palace of the Viceroy and the city which surrounded it,
St. Jago, or Santiago de Leon, commonly called the City of Caracas.

Many a day had Alvarado turned backward from the white-walled,
red-roofed town spread out at his feet, baking under the palms,
seething in the fierce heat, as if striving to pierce with his gaze the
great cordilleras, on the farther side of which in the cool white palace
beneath the gigantic ceibas the queen of his heart made her home. He
pictured her at all hours of the day; he dwelt upon her image, going
over again in his mind each detail of her face and figure. The perfume
of her hand was still fragrant upon his lips; the sound of her voice,
the soft musical voice of Andalusia, still vibrated in his ear; her
burning glance pierced him even in his dreams like a sword.

He was mad, mad with love for her, crazed with hopeless passion. There
seemed to be no way out of his misery but for him to pass his own sword
through his heart, or to throw himself from the precipice, or to plunge
into the hot, cruel blue of the enveloping Caribbean--the color of the
sea changed in his eye with his temper, like a woman's mood. Yet he