nt, one of Stuart's troopers dashed by it at a
gallop, with a lighted lantern swinging at his side. He raised it as
he passed each street crossing, and held it high above his head so that
its light fell upon the walls of the houses at the four corners. The
clatter of his horse's hoofs had not ceased before another trooper
galloped toward them riding more slowly, and throwing the light of his
lantern over the trunks of the trees that lined the pavements. As the
carriage passed him, he brought his horse to its side with a jerk of
the bridle, and swung his lantern in the faces of its occupants.

"Who lives?" he challenged.

"Olancho," Clay replied.

"Who answers?"

"Free men," Clay answered again, and pointed at the star on his coat.

The soldier muttered an apology, and striking his heels into his
horse's side, dashed noisily away, his lantern tossing from side to
side, high in the air, as he drew rein to scan each tree and passed
from one lamp-post to the next.

"What does that mean?" said Mr. Langham; "did he take us for
highwaymen?"

"It is the custom," said Clay. "We are out rather late, you see."

"If I remember rightly, Clay," said King, "they gave a ball at Brussels
on the eve of Waterloo."

"I believe they did," said Clay, smiling. He spoke to the driver to
stop the carriage, and stepped down into the street.

"I have to leave you here," he said; "drive on quickly, please; I can
explain better in the morning."

The Plaza Bolivar stood in what had once been the centre of the
fashionable life of Olancho, but the town had moved farther up the
hill, and it was now far in the suburbs, its walks neglected and its
turf overrun with weeds. The houses about it had fallen into disuse,
and the few that were still occupied at the time Clay entered it showed
no sign of life. Clay picked his way over the grass-grown paths to the
statue of Bolivar, the hero of the sister republic of Venezuela, which
still stood on its pedestal in a tangle of underbrush and hanging
vines. The iron railing that had once surrounded it was broken down,
and the branches of the trees near were black with sleeping buzzards.
Two great palms reared themselves in the moonlight at either side, and
beat their leaves together in the night wind, whispering and murmuring
together like two living conspirators.

"This ought to be safe enough," Clay murmured to himself. "It's just
the place for plotting. I hope there are no snakes." He se