“That’s all right,” I said.  “I have a written safe conduct that protects me.”

“From whom?”

“Here,” I said, “look at them—­I have two.”

Raymon took the documents I gave him and read aloud: 

“’The bearer is on an important mission connected with American rights in Mexico.  If anyone shoots him he will be held to a strict accountability.  W. W.’  Ah!  Excellent!  He will be compelled to send in an itemised account.  Excellent!  And this other, let me see.  ’If anybody interferes with the bearer, I will knock his face in.  T. R.’  Admirable.  This is, if anything, better than the other for use in our country.  It appeals to our quick Mexican natures.  It is, as we say, simpatico.  It touches us.”

“It is meant to,” I said.

“And may I ask,” said Raymon, “the nature of your business with Villa?”

“We are old friends,” I answered.  “I used to know him years ago when he kept a Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.  It occurred to me that I might be able to help the cause of peaceful intervention.  I have already had a certain experience in Turkey.  I am commissioned to make General Villa an offer.”

“I see,” said Raymon.  “In that case, if we are to find Villa let us make all haste forward.  And first we must direct ourselves yonder”—­he pointed in a vague way towards the mountains—­“where we must presently leave our car and go on foot, to the camp of General Carranza.”

“Carranza!” I exclaimed.  “But he is fighting Villa!”

“Exactly.  It is possible—­not certain—­but possible, that he knows where Villa is.  In our Mexico when two of our generalistas are fighting in the mountains, they keep coming across one another.  It is hard to avoid it.”

“Good,” I said.  “Let us go forward.”

It was two days later that we reached Carranza’s camp in the mountains.

We found him just at dusk seated at a little table beneath a tree.

His followers were all about, picketing their horses and lighting fires.

The General, buried in a book before him, noticed neither the movements of his own men nor our approach.

I must say that I was surprised beyond measure at his appearance.

The popular idea of General Carranza as a rude bandit chief is entirely erroneous.

I saw before me a quiet, scholarly-looking man, bearing every mark of culture and refinement.  His head was bowed over the book in front of him, which I noticed with astonishment and admiration was Todhunter’s Algebra.  Close at his hand I observed a work on Decimal Fractions, while, from time to time, I saw the General lift his eyes and glance keenly at a multiplication table that hung on a bough beside him.

“You must wait a few moments,” said an aide-de-camp, who stood beside us.  “The General is at work on a simultaneous equation!”

“Is it possible?” I said in astonishment.