third has made himself a suit which Robinson Crusoe might have envied.  Helmet, jerkin, breeches, sandals, all have been cut from the same raw bull’s hide!  His neighbor, a new recruit, still wears the national dress of his order, which has not yet been tattered and torn from him by long service; and he is the envy of the motley troop.  But the lack of uniformity in no wise detracts from valor, nor does it diminish the gayety of these terrible lancers as they lie idly grouped about the flickering fires.  Half-a-dozen circles are absorbed in as many games at cards; others are swallowing greedily some improvised fantastic tale; and some are singing, in wild, irregular cadence, the favorite songs of the Plains.  Their example soon becomes contagious, and group after group chimes in with the uproarious chant.  Listen!  From the farthest extremity of the encampment comes a querying solo:—­

“De todos los Generales cual es el valiente?”

and from five hundred throats the response is thundered:—­

“Mi General Paez con toda su gente!”

Again the solo demands:—­

“De todos los Generales cual es el major?”

and the tumultuous answer is vociferated:—­

“Es mi General Jose con su guardia de honor!”

And who may be the valiant General, the General with his guard of honor, excelling all the rest?  This, we learn, is the guard of honor; the General is Jose Antonio Paez, little Jose Antonio who killed the highwayman and betook himself to cattle farming on the Plains!  Now, however, he is the famous Llanero chieftain, favorite champion of Venezuela, brother-in-arms of Bolivar, who allows him, alone of all the military leaders, the privilege of an especial body-guard.  Since 1810,—­for five years,—­he has been fighting constantly in his country’s service, and has won himself fame while our eyes have been turned in other directions.  Look! he is standing there, at the entrance to his hut, while the chorus yet echoes among the palm-branches.  Scarcely of middle stature, certainly not more than five feet four in height,—­but broad-shouldered, muscular, with a constitution of iron, equal to perpetual exertion, capable of every fatigue.  His countenance is open and prepossessing, his features rounded, forehead square, eyes piercing and intelligent.  Like his men, he wears a motley garb,—­part Spanish uniform, part costume of the Llanos; and he leans upon a lance, decorated with a black bannerol, which has carried death already to innumerable Loyalist hearts.  Thus Jose Antonio Paez stands before us, on the banks of the Apure, in the twenty-fifth year of his age.