He was of middle height and athletic build, yet wiry withal, in splendid condition, and as hard as nails.

Though darker than the average Spaniard, his short, wavy hair and powerful, clear-cut features showed that his blood was free from negro or Indian taint.

His face bespoke a strange mixture of gentleness and resolution, melancholy and ferocity, as if an originally fine nature had been annealed by fiery trials, and perhaps perverted by some terrible wrong.
"Yes, senor, we carry our lives in our hands in this most unhappy country," he continued, after a short pause.

"Three years ago I was one of a family of eight, and no happier family could be found in the whole _capitanio-general_ of Caracas....

Of those eight, seven are gone; I am the only one left.