The aide-de-camp smiled.

“Soldiering to-day, my dear Senor,” he said, “is an exact science.  On this equation will depend our entire food supply for the next week.”

“When will he get it done?” I asked anxiously.

“Simultaneously,” said the aide-de-camp.

The General looked up at this moment and saw us.

“Well?” he asked.

“Your Excellency,” said the aide-de-camp, “there is a stranger here on a visit of investigation to Mexico.”

“Shoot him!” said the General, and turned quickly to his work.

The aide-de-camp saluted.

“When?” he asked.

“As soon as he likes,” said the General.

“You are fortunate, indeed,” said the aide-de-camp, in a tone of animation, as he led me away, still accompanied by Raymon.  “You might have been kept waiting round for days.  Let us get ready at once.  You would like to be shot, would you not, smoking a cigarette, and standing beside your grave?  Luckily, we have one ready.  Now, if you will wait a moment, I will bring the photographer and his machine.  There is still light enough, I think.  What would you like it called? The Fate of a Spy? That’s good, isn’t it?  Our syndicate can always work up that into a two-reel film.  All the rest of it—­the camp, the mountains, the general, the funeral and so on—­we can do to-morrow without you.”

He was all eagerness as he spoke.

“One moment,” I interrupted.  “I am sure there is some mistake.  I only wished to present certain papers and get a safe conduct from the General to go and see Villa.”

The aide-de-camp stopped abruptly.

“Ah!” he said.  “You are not here for a picture.  A thousand pardons.  Give me your papers.  One moment—­I will return to the General and explain.”

He vanished, and Raymon and I waited in the growing dusk.

“No doubt the General supposed,” explained Raymon, as he lighted a cigarette, “that you were here for las machinas, the moving pictures.”

In a few minutes the aide-de-camp returned.

“Come,” he said, “the General will see you now.”

We returned to where we had left Carranza.

The General rose to meet me with outstretched hand and with a gesture of simple cordiality.

“You must pardon my error,” he said.

“Not at all,” I said.

“It appears you do not desire to be shot.”

“Not at present.”

“Later, perhaps,” said the General.  “On your return, no doubt, provided,” he added with grave courtesy that sat well on him, “that you do return.  My aide-de-camp shall make a note of it.  But at present you wish to be guided to Francesco Villa?”

“If it is possible.”