But this was only a blind; the real letters were written in cipher, with sympathetic ink.

They were, moreover, addressed to secret friends of the revolutionary cause, who, as Senor Morena believed and hoped, were, as yet, unsuspected by the Spanish authorities, and at large.
"To give you letters to known patriots would be simply to insure your destruction," said the senor, "even if you were to find them alive and at liberty." I had also Don Alberto's letter, and as the old gentleman had once been president of the _Audiencia Real_ (Royal Council), Morena thought it would be of great use to me, and serve to ward off suspicion, even though some of the friends to whom he had himself written should have meanwhile got into trouble.
But as if he had not complete confidence in the efficacy of these elaborate precautions, Senor Morena strongly advised me to stay no longer in Caracas than I could possibly help.
"Spies more vigilant than those of the Inquisition are continually on the lookout for victims," he said.

"An inadvertent word, a look even, might betray you; the only law is the will of the military and police, and they make very short work of those whom they suspect.

Yes, leave Caracas the moment you have delivered your letters; our friends will smuggle you through the Spanish line and lead you to one of the patriot camps." This was not very encouraging; but I was at an adventurous age and in an enterprising mood, and the creole's warnings had rather the effect of increasing my desire to go forward with the undertaking in which I had engaged than causing me to falter in my resolve.

Like Napoleon, I believed in my star, and I had faced death too often on the field of battle to fear the rather remote dangers Morena had foreshadowed, and in whose existence I only half believed.
The die being cast, the next question was how I should reach my destination.