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Title: Rainbow's End

Author: Rex Beach

Release Date: February, 2004 [EBook #5086]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on April 22, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW'S END ***




Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.




RAINBOW'S END

By REX BEACH


Author of "THE AUCTION BLOCK" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.


Illustrated




CONTENTS

     I. THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT

    II. SPANISH GOLD

   III. "THE O'REILLY"

    IV. RETRIBUTION

     V. A CRY FROM THE WILDERNESS

    VI. THE QUEST BEGINS

   VII. THE MAN WHO WOULD KNOW LIFE

  VIII. THE SPANISH DOUBLOON

    IX. MARAUDERS

     X. O'REILLY TALKS HOG LATIN

    XI. THE HAND OF THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL

   XII. WHEN THE WORLD RAN BACKWARD

  XIII. CAPITULATION

   XIV. A WOMAN WITH A MISSION

    XV. FILIBUSTERS

   XVI. THE CITY AMONG THE LEAVES

  XVII. THE CITY OF BEGGARS

 XVIII. SPEAKING OF FOOD

   XIX. THAT SICK MAN FROM SAN ANTONIO

    XX. EL DEMONIO'S CHILD

   XXI. TREASURE

  XXII. THE TROCHA

 XXIII. INTO THE CITY OF DEATH

  XXIV. ROSA

   XXV. THE HAUNTED GARDEN

  XXVI. HOW COBO STOOD ON HIS HEAD

 XXVII. MORIN, THE FISHERMAN

XXVIII. THREE TRAVELERS COME HOME

  XXIX. WHAT HAPPENED AT SUNDOWN

   XXX. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT




I

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT


In all probability your first view of the valley of the Yumuri
will be from the Hermitage of Montserrate, for it is there that
the cocheros drive you. Up the winding road they take you, with
the bay at your back and the gorge at your right, to the crest of
a narrow ridge where the chapel stands. Once there, you overlook
the fairest sight in all Christendom--"the loveliest valley in the
world," as Humboldt called it--for the Yumuri nestles right at
your feet, a vale of pure delight, a glimpse of Paradise that
bewilders the eye and fills the soul with ecstasy.

It is larger than it seems at first sight; through it meanders the
river, coiling and uncoiling, hidden here and there by jungle
growths, and seeking final outlet through a cleft in the wall not
unlike a crack in the side of a painted bowl. The place seems to
have been fashioned as a dwelling for dryads and hamadryads, for
nixies and pixies, and all the fabled spirits of forest and
stream. Fairy hands tinted its steep slopes and carpeted its level
floor with the richest of green brocades. Nowhere is there a clash
of color; nowhere does a naked hillside or monstrous jut of rock
obtrude to mar its placid beauty; nowhere can you see a crude,
disfiguring mark of man's handiwork--there are only fields, and
bowers, with an occasional thatched roof faded gray by the sun.

Royal palms, most perfect of trees, are scattered everywhere. They
stand alone or in stately groves, their lush fronds drooping like
gigantic ostrich plumes, their slim trunks as smooth and regular
and white as if turned in a giant lathe and then rubbed with pipe-
clay. In all Cuba, island of bewitching vistas, there is no other
Yumuri, and in all the wide world, perhaps, there is no valley of
moods and aspects so varying. You should see it at evening, all
warm and slumberous, all gold and green and purple; or at early
dawn, when the mists are fading like pale memories of dreams and
the tints are delicate; or again, during a tempest, when it is a
caldron of whirling vapors and when the palm-trees bend like
coryphees, tossing their arms to the galloping hurricane. But
whatever the time of day or the season of the year at which you
visit it, the Yumuri will render you wordless with delight, and
you will vow that it is the happiest valley men's eyes have ever
looked upon.

Standing there beside the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate, you
will see beyond the cleft through which the river emerges another
hill, La Cumbre, from which the view is almost as wonderful, and
your driver may tell you about the splendid homes that used to
grace its slopes in the golden days when Cuba had an aristocracy.
They were classic Roman villas, such as once lined the Via Appia--
little palaces, with mosaics and marbles and precious woods
imported from Europe, and furnished with the rarest treasures--for
in those days the Cuban planters were rich and spent their money
lavishly. Melancholy reminders of this splendor exist even now in
the shape of a crumbled ruin here and there, a lichened pillar, an
occasional porcelain urn in its place atop a vine-grown bit of
wall. Your cochero may point out a certain grove of orange-trees,
now little more than a rank tangle, and tell you about the quinta
of Don Esteban Varona, and its hidden treasure; about little
Esteban and Rosa, the twins; and about Sebastian, the giant slave,
who died in fury, taking with him the secret of the well.

The Spanish Main is rich in tales of treasure-trove, for when the
Antilles were most affluent they were least secure, and men were
put to strange shifts to protect their fortunes. Certain hoards,
like jewels of tragic history, in time assumed a sort of evil
personality, not infrequently exercising a dire influence over the
lives of those who chanced to fall under their spells. It was as
if the money were accursed, for certainly the seekers often came
to evil. Of such a character was the Varona treasure. Don Esteban
himself was neither better nor worse than other men of his time,
and although part of the money he hid was wrung from the toil of
slaves and the traffic in their bodies, much of it was clean
enough, and in time the earth purified it all. Since his acts made
so deep an impress, and since the treasure he left played so big a
part in the destinies of those who came after him, it is well that
some account of these matters should be given.

The story, please remember, is an old one; it has been often told,
and in the telling and retelling it is but natural that a certain
glamour, a certain tropical extravagance, should attach to it,
therefore you should make allowance for some exaggeration, some
accretions due to the lapse of time. In the main, however, it is
well authenticated and runs parallel to fact.

Dona Rosa Varona lived barely long enough to learn that she had
given birth to twins. Don Esteban, whom people knew as a grim man,
took the blow of his sudden bereavement as became one of his
strong fiber. Leaving the priest upon his knees and the doctor
busied with the babies, he strode through the house and out into
the sunset, followed by the wails of the slave women. From the
negro quarters came the sound of other and even louder
lamentations, for Dona Rosa had been well loved and the news of
her passing had spread quickly.

Don Esteban was at heart a selfish man, and now, therefore, he
felt a sullen, fierce resentment mingled with his grief. What
trick was this? he asked himself. What had he done to merit such
misfortune? Had he not made rich gifts to the Church? Had he not
gone on foot to the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate with a
splendid votive offering--a pair of eardrops, a necklace, and a
crucifix, all of diamonds that quivered in the sunlight like drops
of purest water? Had he not knelt and prayed for his wife's safe
delivery and then hung his gifts upon the sacred image, as Loyola
had hung up his weapons before that other counterpart of Our Lady?
Don Esteban scowled at the memory, for those gems were of the
finest, and certainly of a value sufficient to recompense the
Virgin for any ordinary miracle. They were worth five thousand
pesos at least, he told himself; they represented the price of
five slaves--five of his finest girls, schooled in housekeeping
and of an age suitable for breeding. An extravagance, truly! Don
Esteban knew the value of money as well as anybody, and he swore
now that he would give no more to the Church.

He looked up from his unhappy musings to find a gigantic,
barefooted negro standing before him. The slave was middle-aged;
his kinky hair was growing gray; but he was of superb proportions,
and the muscles which showed through the rents in his cotton
garments were as smooth and supple as those of a stripling. His
black face was puckered with grief, as he began:

"Master, is it true that Dona Rosa--" The fellow choked.

"Yes," Esteban nodded, wearily, "she is dead, Sebastian."

Tears came to Sebastian's eyes and overflowed his cheeks; he stood
motionless, striving to voice his sympathy. At length he said:

"She was too good for this world. God was jealous and took her to
Paradise."

The widowed man cried out, angrily:

"Paradise! What is this but paradise?" He stared with resentful
eyes at the beauty round about him. "See! The Yumuri!" Don Esteban
flung a long arm outward. "Do you think there is a sight like that
in heaven? And yonder--" He turned to the harbor far below, with
its fleet of sailing-ships resting like a flock of gulls upon a
sea of quicksilver. Beyond the bay, twenty miles distant, a range
of hazy mountains hid the horizon. Facing to the south, Esteban
looked up the full length of the valley of the San Juan, clear to
the majestic Pan de Matanzas, a wonderful sight indeed; then his
eyes returned, as they always did, to the Yumuri, Valley of
Delight. "Paradise indeed!" he muttered. "I gave her everything.
She gained nothing by dying."

With a grave thoughtfulness which proved him superior to the
ordinary slave, Sebastian replied:

"True! She had all that any woman's heart could desire, but in
return for your goodness she gave you children. You have lost her,
but you have gained an heir, and a beautiful girl baby who will
grow to be another Dona Rosa. I grieved as you grieve, once upon a
time, for my woman died in childbirth, too. You remember? But my
daughter lives, and she has brought sunshine into my old age. That
is the purpose of children." He paused and shifted his weight
uncertainly, digging his stiff black toes into the dirt. After a
time he said, slowly: "Excellency! Now, about the--well--?"

"Yes. What about it?" Esteban lifted smoldering eyes.

"Did the Dona Rosa confide her share of the secret to any one?
Those priests and those doctors, you know--?"

"She died without speaking."

"Then it rests between you and me?"

"It does, unless you have babbled."

"Master!" Sebastian drew himself up and there was real dignity in
his black face.

"Understand, my whole fortune is there--everything, even to the
deeds of patent for the plantations. If I thought there was danger
of your betraying me I would have your tongue pulled out and your
eyes torn from their sockets."

The black man spoke with a simplicity that carried conviction.
"You have seen me tested. You know I am faithful. But, master,
this secret is a great burden for my old shoulders, and I have
been thinking--Times are unsettled, Don Esteban, and death comes
without warning. You are known to be the richest man in this
province and these government officials are robbers. Suppose--I
should be left alone? What then?"

The planter considered for a moment. "They are my countrymen, but
a curse on them," he said, finally. "Well, when my children are
old enough to hold their tongues they will have to be told. If I'm
gone, you shall be the one to tell them. Now leave me; this is no
time to speak of such things."

Sebastian went as noiselessly as he had come. On his way back to
his quarters he took the path to the well--the place where most of
his time was ordinarily spent. Sebastian had dug this well, and
with his own hands he had beautified its surroundings until they
were the loveliest on the Varona grounds. The rock for the
building of the quinta had been quarried here, and in the center
of the resulting depression, grass-grown and flowering now, was
the well itself. Its waters seeped from subterranean caverns and
filtered, pure and cool, through the porous country rock.
Plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees bordered the hollow;
over the rocky walls ran a riot of vines and ferns and ornamental
plants. It was Sebastian's task to keep this place green, and
thither he took his way, from force of habit.

Through the twilight came Pancho Cueto, the manager, a youngish
man, with a narrow face and bold, close-set eyes. Spying
Sebastian, he began:

"So Don Esteban has an heir at last?"

The slave rubbed his eyes with the heel of his huge yellow palm
and answered, respectfully:

"Yes, Don Pancho. Two little angels, a boy and a girl." His gray
brows drew together in a painful frown. "Dona Rosa was a saint. No
doubt there is great rejoicing in heaven at her coming. Eh? What
do you think?"

"Um-m! Possibly. Don Esteban will miss her for a time and then, I
dare say, he will remarry." At the negro's exclamation Cueto
cried: "So! And why not? Everybody knows how rich he is. From
Oriente to Pinar del Rio the women have heard about his treasure."

"What treasure?" asked Sebastian, after an instant's pause.

Cueto's dark eyes gleamed resentfully at this show of ignorance,
but he laughed.

"Ho! There's a careful fellow for you! No wonder he trusts you.
But do you think I have neither eyes nor ears? My good Sebastian,
you know all about that treasure; in fact, you know far more about
many things than Don Esteban would care to have you tell. Come
now, don't you?"

Sebastian's face was like a mask carved from ebony. "Of what does
this treasure consist?" he inquired. "I have never heard about
it."

"Of gold, of jewels, of silver bars and precious ornaments."
Cueto's head was thrust forward, his nostrils were dilated, his
teeth gleamed. "Oh, it is somewhere about, as you very well know!
Bah! Don't deny it. I'm no fool. What becomes of the money from
the slave girls, eh? And the sugar crops, too? Does it go to buy
arms and ammunition for the rebels? No. Don Esteban hides it, and
you help him. Come," he cried, disregarding Sebastian's murmurs of
protest, "did you ever think how fabulous that fortune must be by
this time? Did you ever think that one little gem, one bag of
gold, would buy your freedom?"

"Don Esteban has promised to buy my freedom and the freedom of my
girl."

"So?" The manager was plainly surprised. "I didn't know that."
After a moment he began to laugh. "And yet you pretend to know
nothing about that treasure? Ha! You're a good boy, Sebastian, and
so I am. I admire you. We're both loyal to our master, eh? But now
about Evangelina." Cueto's face took on a craftier expression.
"She is a likely girl, and when she grows up she will be worth
more than you, her father. Don't forget that Don Esteban is before
all else a business man. Be careful that some one doesn't make him
so good an offer for your girl that he will forget his promise
and--sell her."

Sebastian uttered a hoarse, animal cry and the whites of his eyes
showed through the gloom. "He would never sell Evangelina!"

Cueto laughed aloud once more. "Of course! He would not dare, eh?
I am only teasing you. But see! You have given yourself away.
Everything you tell me proves that you know all about that
treasure."

"I know but one thing," the slave declared, stiffening himself
slowly, "and that is to be faithful to Don Esteban." He turned and
departed, leaving Pancho Cueto staring after him meditatively.

In the days following the birth of his children and the death of
his wife, Don Esteban Varona, as had been his custom, steered a
middle course in politics, in that way managing to avoid a clash
with the Spanish officials who ruled the island, or an open break
with his Cuban neighbors, who rebelled beneath their wrongs. This
was no easy thing to do, for the agents of the crown were
uniformly corrupt and quite ruthless, while most of the native-
born were either openly or secretly in sympathy with the
revolution in the Orient. But Esteban dealt diplomatically with
both factions and went on raising slaves and sugar to his own
great profit. Owing to the impossibility of importing negroes, the
market steadily improved, and Esteban reaped a handsome profit
from those he had on hand, especially when his crop of young girls
matured. His sugar-plantations prospered, too, and Pancho Cueto,
who managed them, continued to wonder where the money went.

The twins, Esteban and Rosa, developed into healthy children and
became the pride of Sebastian and his daughter, into whose care
they had been given. As for Evangelina, the young negress, she
grew tall and strong and handsome, until she was the finest slave
girl in the neighborhood. Whenever Sebastian looked at her he
thanked God for his happy circumstances.

Then, one day, Don Esteban Varona remarried, and the Dona Isabel,
who had been a famous Habana beauty, came to live at the quinta.
The daughter of impoverished parents, she had heard and thought
much about the mysterious treasure of La Cumbre.

There followed a period of feasting and entertainment, of music
and merrymaking. Spanish officials, prominent civilians of
Matanzas and the countryside, drove up the hill to welcome Don
Esteban's bride. But before the first fervor of his honeymoon
cooled the groom began to fear that he had made a serious mistake.
Dona Isabel, he discovered, was both vain and selfish. Not only
did she crave luxury and display, but with singular persistence
she demanded to know all about her husband's financial affairs.

Now Don Esteban was no longer young; age had soured him with
suspicion, and when once he saw himself as the victim of a
mercenary marriage he turned bitterly against his wife. Her
curiosity he sullenly resented, and he unblushingly denied his
possession of any considerable wealth. In fact, he tried with
malicious ingenuity to make her believe him a poor man. But Isabel
was not of the sort to be readily deceived. Finding her arts and
coquetries of no avail, she flew into a rage, and a furious
quarrel ensued--the first of many. For the lady could not rest
without knowing all there was to know about the treasure.
Avaricious to her finger-tips, she itched to weigh those bags of
precious metal and yearned to see those jewels burning upon her
bosom. Her mercenary mind magnified their value many times, and
her anger at Don Esteban's obstinacy deepened to a smoldering
hatred.

She searched the quinta, of course, whenever she had a chance, but
she discovered nothing--with the result that the mystery began to
engross her whole thought. She pried into the obscurest corners,
she questioned the slaves, she lay awake at night listening to
Esteban's breathing, in the hope of surprising his secret from his
dreams. Naturally such a life was trying to the husband, but as
his wife's obsession grew his determination to foil her only
strengthened. Outwardly, of course, the pair maintained a show of
harmony, for they were proud and they occupied a position of some
consequence in the community. But their private relations went
from bad to worse. At length a time came when they lived in frank
enmity; when Isabel never spoke to Esteban except in reproach or
anger, and when Esteban unlocked his lips only to taunt his wife
with the fact that she had been thwarted despite her cunning.

In most quarters, as time went on, the story of the Varona
treasure was forgotten, or at least put down as legendary. Only
Isabel, who, in spite of her husband's secretiveness, learned
much, and Pancho Cueto, who kept his own account of the annual
income from the business, held the matter in serious remembrance.
The overseer was a patient man; he watched with interest the
growing discord at the quinta and planned to profit by it, should
occasion offer.

It was only natural under such conditions that Dona Isabel should
learn to dislike her stepchildren--Esteban had told her frankly
that they would inherit whatever fortune he possessed. The thought
that, after all, she might never share in the treasure for which
she had sacrificed her youth and beauty was like to drive the
woman mad, and, as may be imagined, she found ways to vent her
spite upon the twins. She widened her hatred so as to include old
Sebastian and his daughter, and even went so far as to persecute
Evangelina's sweetheart, a slave named Asensio.

It had not taken Dona Isabel long to guess the reason of
Sebastian's many privileges, and one of her first efforts had been
to win the old man's confidence. It was in vain, however, that she
flattered and cajoled, or stormed and threatened; Sebastian
withstood her as a towering ceiba withstands the summer heat and
the winter hurricane.

His firmness made her vindictive, and so in time she laid a scheme
to estrange him from his master.

Dona Isabel was crafty. She began to complain about Evangelina,
but it was only after many months that she ventured to suggest to
her husband that he sell the girl. Esteban, of course, refused
point-blank; he was too fond of Sebastian's daughter, he declared,
to think of such a thing.

"So, that is it," sneered Dona Isabel. "Well, she is young and
shapely and handsome, as wenches go. I rather suspected you were
fond of her--"

With difficulty Esteban restrained an oath. "You mistake my
meaning," he said, stiffly. "Sebastian has served me faithfully,
and Evangelina plays with my children. She is good to them; she is
more of a mother to them than you have ever been."

"Is that why you dress her like a lady? Bah! A likely story!"
Isabel tossed her fine, dark head. "I'm not blind; I see what goes
on about me. This will make a pretty scandal among your friends--
she as black as the pit, and you--"

"WOMAN!" shouted the planter, "you have a sting like a scorpion."

"I won't have that wench in my house," Isabel flared out at him.

Goaded to fury by his wife's senseless accusation, Esteban cried:
"YOUR house? By what license do you call it yours?"

"Am I not married to you?"

"Damnation! Yes--as a leech is married to its victim. You suck my
blood."

"Your blood!" The woman laughed shrilly. "You have no blood; your
veins run vinegar. You are a miser."

"Miser! Miser! I grow sick of the word. It is all you find to
taunt me with. Confess that you married me for my money," he
roared.

"Of course I did! Do you think a woman of my beauty would marry
you for anything else? But a fine bargain I made!"

"Vampire!"

"Wife or vampire, I intend to rule this house, and I refuse to be
shamed by a thick-lipped African. Her airs tell her story. She is
insolent to me, but--I sha'n't endure it. She laughs at me. Well,
your friends shall laugh at you."

"Silence!" commanded Esteban.

"Sell her."

"No."

"Sell her, or--"

Without waiting to hear her threat Esteban tossed his arms above
his head and fled from the room. Flinging himself into the saddle,
he spurred down the hill and through the town to the Casino de
Espanol, where he spent the night at cards with the Spanish
officials. But he did not sell Evangelina.

In the days that followed many similar scenes occurred, and as
Esteban's home life grew more unhappy his dissipations increased.
He drank and gambled heavily; he brought his friends to the quinta
with him, and strove to forget domestic unpleasantness in
boisterous revelry.

His wife, however, found opportunities enough to weary and
exasperate him with reproaches regarding the slave girl.




II

SPANISH GOLD


The twins were seven years old when Dona Isabel's schemes bore
their first bitter fruit, and the occasion was a particularly
uproarious night when Don Esteban entertained a crowd of his
Castilian friends. Little Rosa was awakened at a late hour by the
laughter and shouts of her father's guests. She was afraid, for
there was something strange about the voices, some quality to them
which was foreign to the child's experience. Creeping into her
brother's room, she awoke him, and together they listened.

Don Mario de Castano was singing a song, the words of which were
lost, but which brought a yell of approval from his companions.
The twins distinguished the voice of Don Pablo Peza, too--Don
Pablo, whose magnificent black beard had so often excited their
admiration. Yes, and there was Col. Mendoza y Linares, doubtless
in his splendid uniform. These gentlemen were well and favorably
known to the boy and girl, yet Rosa began to whimper, and when
Esteban tried to reassure her his own voice was thin and reedy
from fright.

In the midst of their agitation they heard some one weeping; there
came a rush of feet down the hallway, and the next instant
Evangelina flung herself into the room. A summer moon flooded the
chamber with radiance and enabled her to see the two small white
figures sitting up in the middle of the bed.

Evangelina fell upon her knees before them. "Little master! Little
mistress!" she sobbed. "You will save me, won't you? We love each
other, eh? See then, what a crime this is! Say that you will save
me!" She was beside herself, and her voice was hoarse and cracked
from grief. She wrung her hands, she rocked herself from side to
side, she kissed the twins' nightgowns, tugging at them
convulsively.

The children were frightened, but they managed to quaver: "What
has happened? Who has harmed you?"

"Don Pablo Peza," wept the negress. "Your father has sold me to
him--lost me at cards. Oh, I shall die! Sebastian won't believe
it. He is praying. And Asensio--O God! But what can they do to
help me? You alone can save me. You won't let Don Pablo take me
away? It would kill me."

"Wait!" Esteban scrambled out of bed and stood beside his dusky
nurse and playmate. "Don't cry any more. I'll tell papa that you
don't like Don Pablo."

Rosa followed. "Yes, come along, brother," she cried, shrilly.
"We'll tell Don Pablo to go home and leave our Evangelina."

"My blessed doves! But will they listen to you?" moaned the slave.

"Papa does whatever we ask," they assured her, gravely. "If he
should growl we'll come back and hide you in the big wardrobe
where nobody will ever find you." Then hand in hand, with their
long nightgowns lifted to their knees, they pattered out into the
hall and down toward the living-room, whence came the shouting and
the laughter.

Don Mario de Castano, who was facing the door, stopped in the
midst of a ribald song to cry: "God be praised! What's this I
see?"

The others looked and then burst into merriment, for across the
litter of cards and dice and empty glasses they saw a dimpled girl
and boy, as like as two peas. They were just out of bed; they were
peering through the smoke, and blinking like two little owls.
Their evident embarrassment amused the guests hugely.

"So! You awaken the household with your songs," some one chided
Don Mario.

"Two cherubs from heaven," another exclaimed.

And a third cried, "A toast to Esteban's beautiful children."

But the father lurched forward, a frown upon his face. "What is
this, my dears?" he inquired, thickly. "Run back to your beds.
This is no place for you."

"We love Evangelina," piped the twins. "You must not let Don Pablo
have her--if you please."

"Evangelina?"

They nodded. "We love her. ... She plays with us every day. ... We
want her to stay here. ... She belongs to us."

Accustomed as they were to prompt compliance with their demands,
they spoke imperiously; but they had never seen a frown like this
upon their father's face, and at his refusal their voices grew
squeaky with excitement and uncertainty.

"Go to your rooms, my sweethearts," Don Esteban directed, finally.

"We want Evangelina. She belongs to us," they chorused,
stubbornly.

Don Pablo shook with laughter. "So! She belongs to you, eh? And
I'm to be robbed of my winnings. Very well, then, come and give me
a kiss, both of you, and I'll see what can be done."

But the children saw that Don Pablo's face was strangely flushed,
that his eyes were wild and his magnificent beard was wet with
wine; therefore they hung back.

"You won your bet fairly," Esteban growled at him. "Pay no heed to
these babies."

"Evangelina is ours," the little ones bravely repeated.

Then their father exploded: "The devil! Am I dreaming? Where have
you learned to oppose me? Back to your beds, both of you." Seeing
them hesitate, he shouted for his wife. "Ho, there! Isabel, my
love! Come put these imps to rest. Or must I teach them manners
with my palm? A fine thing, truly! Are they to be allowed to roam
the house at will and get a fever?"

Mere mention of their stepmother's name was enough for Rosa and
Esteban; they scuttled away as fast as they could go, and when
Dona Isabel came to their rooms, a few moments later, she found
them in their beds, with their eyes deceitfully squeezed shut.
Evangelina was cowering in a corner. Isabel had overheard the
wager, and her soul was evilly alight; she jerked the slave girl
to her feet and with a blow of her palm sent her to her quarters.
Then she turned her attention to the twins. When she left them
they were weeping silently, both for themselves and for
Evangelina, whom they dearly loved.

Meanwhile Don Mario had resumed his singing.

Day was breaking when Esteban Varona bade his guests good-by at
the door of his house. As he stood there Sebastian came to him out
of the mists of the dawn. The old man had been waiting for hours.
He was half crazed from apprehension, and now cast himself prone
before his master, begging for Evangelina.

Don Pablo, in whom the liquor was dying, cursed impatiently:
"Caramba! Have I won the treasure of your whole establishment?" he
inquired. "Perhaps you value this wench at more than a thousand
pesos; if so, you will say that I cheated you."

"No! She's only an ordinary girl. My wife doesn't like her, and so
I determined to get rid of her. She is yours, fairly enough,"
Varona told him.

"Then send her to my house. I'll breed her to Salvador, my
cochero. He's the strongest man I have."

Sebastian uttered a strangled cry and rose to his feet. "Master!
You must not--"

"Silence!" ordered Esteban. Wine never agreed with him, and this
morning its effects, combined with his losses at gambling, had put
him in a nasty temper. "Go about your business. What do you mean
by this, anyhow?" he shouted.

But Sebastian, dazed of mind and sick of soul, went on, unheeding.
"She is my girl. You promised me her freedom. I warn you--"

"Eh?" The planter swayed forward and with blazing eyes surveyed
his slave. Esteban knew that he had done a foul thing in risking
the girl upon the turn of a card, and an inner voice warned him
that he would repent his action when he became sober, but in his
present mood this very knowledge enraged him the more. "You warn
me? Of what?" he growled.

At this moment neither master nor man knew exactly what he said or
did. Sebastian raised his hand on high. In reality the gesture was
meant to call Heaven as a witness to his years of faithful
service, but, misconstruing his intent, Pablo Peza brought his
riding-whip down across the old man's back, crying:

"Ho! None of that."

A shudder ran through Sebastian's frame. Whirling, he seized Don
Pablo's wrist and tore the whip from his fingers. Although the
Spaniard was a strong man, he uttered a cry of pain.

At this indignity to a guest Esteban flew into a fury. "Pancho!"
he cried. "Ho! Pancho!" When the manager came running, Esteban
explained: "This fool is dangerous. He raised his hand to me and
to Don Pablo."

Sebastian's protests were drowned by the angry voices of the
others.

"Tie him to yonder grating," directed Esteban, who was still in
the grip of a senseless rage. "Flog him well and make haste about
it."

Sebastian, who had no time in which to recover himself, made but a
weak resistance when Pancho Cueto locked his wrists into a pair of
clumsy, old-fashioned manacles, first passing the chain around one
of the bars of the iron window-grating which Esteban had
indicated. Sebastian felt that his whole world was tumbling about
his ears. He thought he must be dreaming.

Cueto swung a heavy lash; the sound of his blows echoed through
the quinta, and they summoned, among others, Dona Isabel, who
watched the scene from behind her shutter with much satisfaction.
The guests looked on approvingly.

Sebastian made no outcry. The face he turned to his master,
however, was puckered with reproach and bewilderment. The whip bit
deep; it drew blood and raised welts the thickness of one's thumb;
nevertheless, for the first few moments the victim suffered less
in body than in spirit. His brain was so benumbed, so shocked with
other excitations, that he was well-nigh insensible to physical
pain. That Evangelina, flesh of his flesh, had been sold, that his
lifelong faithfulness had brought such reward as this, that
Esteban, light of his soul, had turned against him--all this was
simply astounding. More his simple mind could not compass for the
moment. Gradually, however, he began to resent the shrieking
injustice of it all, and unsuspected forces gathered inside of
him. They grew until his frame was shaken by primitive savage
impulses.

After a time Don Esteban cried: "That will do, Cueto! Leave him
now for the flies to punish. They will remind him of his
insolence."

Then the guests departed, and Esteban staggered into the house and
went to bed.

All that morning Sebastian stood with his hands chained high over
his head. The sun grew hotter and ever hotter upon his lacerated
back: the blood dried and clotted there; a cloud of flies
gathered, swarming over the raw gashes left by Cueto's whip.

Before leaving for Don Pablo's quinta Evangelina came to bid her
father an agonized farewell, and for a long time after she had
gone the old man stood motionless, senseless, scarcely breathing.
Nor did the other slaves venture to approach him to offer sympathy
or succor. They passed with heads averted and with fear in their
hearts.

Since Don Esteban's nerves, or perhaps it was his conscience, did
not permit him to sleep, he arose about noon-time and dressed
himself. He was still drunk, and the mad rage of the early morning
still possessed him; therefore, when he mounted his horse he
pretended not to see the figure chained to the window-grating.
Sebastian's affection for his master was doglike and he had taken
his punishment as a dog takes his, more in surprise than in anger,
but at this proof of callous indifference a fire kindled in the
old fellow's breast, hotter by far than the fever from his fly-
blown scores. He was thirsty, too, but that was the least of his
sufferings.

Sometime during the afternoon the negro heard himself addressed
through the window against the bars of which he leaned. The
speaker was Dona Isabel. She had waited patiently until she knew
he must be faint from exhaustion and then she had let herself into
the room behind the grating, whence she could talk to him without
fear of observation.

"Do you suffer, Sebastian?" she began in a tone of gentleness and
pity.

"Yes, mistress." The speaker's tongue was thick and swollen.

"La! La! What a crime! And you the most faithful slave in all
Cuba!"

"Yes, mistress."

"Can I help you?"

The negro raised his head; he shook his body to rid himself of the
insects which were devouring him.

"Give me a drink of water," he said, hoarsely.

"Surely, a great gourdful, all cool and dripping from the well.
But first I want you to tell me something. Come now, let us have
an understanding with each other."

"A drink, for the love of Christ," panted the old man, and Dona
Isabel saw how cracked and dry were his thick lips, how near the
torture had come to prostrating him.

"I'll do more," she promised, and her voice was like honey. "I'll
tell Pancho Cueto to unlock you, even if I risk Esteban's anger by
so doing. You have suffered too much, my good fellow. Indeed you
have. Well, I can help you now and in the future, or--I can make
your life just such a misery as it has been to-day. Will you be my
friend? Will you tell me something?" She was close to the window;
her black eyes were gleaming; her face was ablaze with greed.

"What can I tell you?"

"Oh, you know very well! I've asked it often enough, but you have
lied, just as my husband has lied to me. He is a miser; he has no
heart; he cares for nobody, as you can see. You must hate him now,
even as I hate him." There was a silence during which Dona Isabel
tried to read the expression on that tortured face in the
sunlight. "Do you?"

"Perhaps."

"Then tell me--is there really a treasure, or--?" The woman
gasped; she choked; she could scarcely force the question for fear
of disappointment. "Tell me there is, Sebastian." She clutched the
bars and shook them. "I've heard so many lies that I begin to
doubt."

The old man nodded. "Oh yes, there is a treasure," said he.

"God! You have seen it?" Isabel was trembling as if with an ague.
"What is it like? How much is there? Good Sebastian, I'll give you
water; I'll have you set free if you tell me."

"How much? I don't know. But there is much--pieces of Spanish
gold, silver coins in casks and in little boxes--the boxes are
bound with iron and have hasps and staples; bars of precious metal
and little paper packages of gems, all tied up and hidden in
leather bags." Sebastian could hear his listener panting; her
bloodless fingers were wrapped tightly around the bars above his
head.--

"Yes! Go on."

"There are ornaments, too. God knows they must have come from
heaven, they are so beautiful; and pearls from the Caribbean as
large as plums."

"Are you speaking the truth?"

"Every peso, every bar, every knickknack I have handled with my
own hands. Did I not make the hiding-place all alone? Senora,
everything is there just as I tell you--and more. The grants of
title from the crown for this quinta and the sugar-plantations,
they are there, too. Don Esteban used to fear the government
officials, so he hid his papers securely. Without them the lands
belong to no one. You understand?"

"Of course! Yes, yes! But the jewels--God! where are they hidden?"

"You would never guess!" Sebastian's voice gathered strength. "Ten
thousand men in ten thousand years would never find the place, and
nobody knows the secret but Don Esteban and me."

"I believe you. I knew all the time it was here. Well? Where is
it?"

Sebastian hesitated and said, piteously, "I am dying--"

Isabel could scarcely contain herself. "I'll give you water, but
first tell me where--where! God in heaven! Can't you see that I,
too, am perishing?"

"I must have a drink."

"Tell me first."

Sebastian lifted his head and, meeting the speaker's eyes, laughed
hoarsely.

At the sound of his unnatural merriment Isabel recoiled as if
stung. She stared at the slave's face in amazement and then in
fury. She stammered, incoherently, "You--you have been--lying!"

"Oh no! The treasure is there, the greatest treasure in all Cuba,
but you shall never know where it is. I'll see to that. It was you
who sold my girl; it was you who brought me to this; it was your
hand that whipped me. Well, I'll tell Don Esteban how you tried to
bribe his secret from me! What do you think he'll do then? Eh?
You'll feel the lash on your white back--"

"You FOOL!" Dona Isabel looked murder. "I'll punish you for this;
I'll make you speak if I have to rub your wounds with salt."

But Sebastian closed his eyes wearily. "You can't make me suffer
more than I have suffered," he said. "And now--I curse you. May
that treasure be the death of you. May you live in torture like
mine the rest of your days; may your beauty turn to ugliness such
that men will spit at you; may you never know peace again until
you die in poverty and want--"

But Dona Isabel, being superstitious, fled with her fingers in her
ears; nor did she undertake to make good her barbarous threat,
realizing opportunely that it would only serve to betray her
desperate intentions and put her husband further on his guard.
Instead she shut herself into her room, where she paced the floor,
racking her brain to guess where the hiding-place could be or to
devise some means of silencing Sebastian's tongue. To feel that
she had been overmatched, to know that there was indeed a
treasure, to think that the two who knew where it was had been
laughing at her all this time, filled the woman with an agony
approaching that which Sebastian suffered from his flies.

As the sun was sinking beyond the farther rim of the Yumuri and
the valley was beginning to fill with shadows. Esteban Varona rode
up the hill. His temper was more evil than ever, if that were
possible, for he had drunk again in an effort to drown the memory
of his earlier actions. With him rode half a dozen or more of his
friends, coming to dine and put in another night at his expense.
There were Pablo Peza, and Mario de Castano, once more; Col.
Mendoza y Linares, old Pedro Miron, the advocate, and others of
less consequence, whom Esteban had gathered from the Spanish Club.
The host dismounted and lurched across the courtyard to Sebastian.

"So, my fine fellow," he began. "Have you had enough of rebellion
by this time?"

"Why did you have him flogged?" the advocate inquired.

Esteban explained, briefly, "He dared to raise his hand in anger
against one of my guests."

Sebastian's face was working as he turned upon his master to say:
"I would be lying if I told you that I am sorry for what I did. It
is you have done wrong. Your soul is black with this crime. Where
is my girl?"

"The devil! To hear you talk one would think you were a free man."
The planter's eyes were bleared and he brandished his riding-whip
threateningly. "I do as I please with my slaves. I tolerate no
insolence. Your girl? Well, she's in the house of Salvador, Don
Pablo's cochero, where she belongs. I've warned him that he will
have to tame her unruly spirit, as I have tamed yours."

Sebastian had hung sick and limp against the grating, but at these
words he suddenly roused. It was as if a current of electricity
had galvanized him. He strained at his manacles and the bars
groaned under his weight. His eyes began to roll, his lips drew
back over his blue gums. Noting his expression of ferocity,
Esteban cut at his naked back with the riding-whip, crying:

"Ho! Not subdued yet, eh? You need another flogging."

"Curse you and all that is yours," roared the maddened slave. "May
you know the misery you have put upon me. May you rot for a
million years in hell." The whip was rising and falling now, for
Esteban had lost what little self-control the liquor had left to
him. "May your children's bodies grow filthy with disease; may
they starve; may they--"

Sebastian was yelling, though his voice was hoarse with pain. The
lash drew blood with every blow. Meanwhile, he wrenched and tugged
at his bonds with the fury of a maniac.

"Pablo! Your machete, quick!" panted the slave-owner. "God's
blood! I'll make an end of this black fiend, once for all."

Esteban Varona's guests had looked on at the scene with the same
mild interest they would display at the whipping of a balky horse:
and, now that the animal threatened to become dangerous, it was in
their view quite the proper thing to put it out of the way. Don
Pablo Peza stepped toward his mare to draw the machete from its
scabbard. But he did not hand it to his friend. He heard a shout,
and turned in time to see a wonderful and a terrible thing.

Sebastian had braced his naked feet against the wall; he had bowed
his back and bent his massive shoulders--a back and a pair of
shoulders that looked as bony and muscular as those of an ox--and
he was heaving with every ounce of strength in his enormous body.
As Pablo stared he saw the heavy grating come away from its
anchorage in the solid masonry, as a shrub is uprooted from soft
ground. The rods bent and twisted; there was a clank and rattle
and clash of metal upon the flags; and then--Sebastian turned upon
his tormentor, a free man, save only for the wide iron bracelets
and their connecting chain. He was quite insane. His face was
frightful to behold; it was apelike in its animal rage, and he
towered above his master like some fabled creature out of the
African jungle of his forefathers.

Sebastian's fists alone would have been formidable weapons, but
they were armored and weighted with the old-fashioned, hand-
wrought irons which Pancho Cueto had locked upon them. Wrapping
the chain in his fingers, the slave leaped at Esteban and struck,
once. The sound of the blow was sickening, for the whole bony
structure of Esteban Varona's head gave way.

There was a horrified cry from the other white men. Don Pablo Peza
ran forward, shouting. He swung his machete, but Sebastian met him
before the blow could descend, and they went down together upon
the hard stones. Again Sebastian smote, with his massive hands
wrapped in the chain and his wrists encased in steel, and this
time it was as if Don Pablo's head had been caught between a
hammer and an anvil. The negro's strength, exceptional at all
times, was multiplied tenfold; he had run amuck. When he arose the
machete was in his grasp and Don Pablo's brains were on his
knuckles.

It all happened in far less time than it takes to tell. The
onlookers had not yet recovered from their first consternation; in
fact they were still fumbling and tugging at whatever weapons they
carried when Sebastian came toward them, brandishing the blade on
high. Pedro Miron, the advocate, was the third to fall. He tried
to scramble out of the negro's path, but, being an old man, his
limbs were too stiff to serve him and he went down shrieking.

By now the horses had caught the scent of hot blood and were
plunging furiously, the clatter of their hoofs mingling with the
blasphemies of the riders, while Sebastian's bestial roaring made
the commotion even more hideous.

Esteban's guests fought as much for their lives as for vengeance
upon the slayer, for Sebastian was like a gorilla; he seemed
intent upon killing them all. He vented his fury upon whatever
came within his reach; he struck at men and animals alike, and the
shrieks of wounded horses added to the din.

It was a frightful combat. It seemed incredible that one man could
work such dreadful havoc in so short a time. Varona and two of his
friends were dead; two more were badly wounded, and a Peruvian
stallion lay kicking on the flagging when Col. Mendoza y Linares
finally managed to get a bullet home in the black man's brain.

Those who came running to learn the cause of the hubbub turned
away sick and pallid, for the paved yard was a shambles. Pancho
Cueto called upon the slaves to help him, but they slunk back to
their quarters, dumb with terror and dismay.

All that night people from the town below came and went and the
quinta resounded to sobs and lamentations, but of all the
relatives of the dead and wounded, Dona Isabel took her
bereavement hardest. Strange to say, she could not be comforted.
She wept, she screamed, she tore her hair, tasting the full
nauseousness of the cup her own avarice had prepared. Now, when it
was too late, she realized that she had overreached herself,
having caused the death of the only two who knew the secret of the
treasure. She remembered, also, Sebastian's statement that even
the deeds of patent for the land were hidden with the rest, where
ten thousand men in ten thousand years could never find them.

Impressed by her manifestations of grief, Esteban's friends
reasoned that the widow must have loved her husband dearly. They
told one another they had wronged her.




III

"THE O'REILLY"


Age and easy living had caused Don Mario de Castano, the sugar
merchant, to take on weight. He had, in truth, become so fat that
he waddled like a penguin when he walked; and when he rode, the
springs of his French victoria gave up in despair. They glued
themselves together, face to face, and Don Mario felt every rut
and every rock in the road. Nor was the merchant any less heavy in
mind than in body, for he was both very rich and very serious, and
nothing is more ponderous than a rich, fat man who takes his
riches and his fatness seriously. In disposition Don Mario was
practical and unromantic; he boasted that he had never had an
illusion, never an interest outside of his business. And yet, on
the day this story opens, this prosaic personage, in spite of his
bulging waistband and his taut neckband, in spite of his short
breath and his prickly heat, was in a very whirl of pleasurable
excitement. Don Mario, in fact, suffered the greatest of all
illusions: he was in love, and he believed himself beloved. The
object of his adoration was little Rosa Varona, the daughter of
his one-time friend Esteban. At thought of her the planter glowed
with ardor--at any rate he took it to be ardor, although it might
have been the fever from that summer rash which so afflicted him--
and his heart fluttered in a way dangerous to one of his
apoplectic tendencies. To be sure, he had met Rosa only twice
since her return from her Yankee school, but twice had been
enough; with prompt decision he had resolved to do her the honor
of making her his wife.

Now, with a person of Don Mario's importance, to decide for
himself is to decide for others, and inasmuch as he knew that Dona
Isabel, Rosa's stepmother, was notoriously mercenary and had not
done at all well since her husband's death, it did not occur to
him to doubt that his suit would prosper. It was, in fact, to make
terms with her that he rode forth in the heat of this particular
afternoon.

Notwithstanding the rivulets of perspiration that were coursing
down every fold of his flesh, and regardless of the fact that the
body of his victoria was tipped at a drunken angle, as if
struggling to escape the burdens of his great weight, Don Mario
felt a jauntiness of body and of spirit almost like that of youth.
He saw himself as a splendid prince riding toward the humble home
of some obscure maiden whom he had graciously chosen to be his
mate.

His arrival threw Dona Isabel into a flutter; the woman could
scarcely contain her curiosity when she came to meet him, for he
was not the sort of man to inconvenience himself by mere social
visits. Their first formal greetings over, Don Mario surveyed the
bare living-room and remarked, lugubriously:

"I see many changes here."

"No doubt," the widow agreed. "Times have been hard since poor
Esteban's death."

"What a terrible calamity that was! I shudder when I think of it,"
said he. "I was his guest on the night previous, you remember? In
fact, I witnessed his wager of the negro girl, Evangelina--the
root of the whole tragedy. Well, well! Who would have believed
that old slave, her father, would have run mad at losing her? A
shocking affair, truly! and one I shall never get out of my mind."

"Shocking, yes. But what do you think of a rich man, like Esteban,
who would leave his family destitute? Who would die without
revealing the place where he had stored his treasure?"

Dona Isabel, it was plain, felt her wrongs keenly; she spoke with
as much spirit as if her husband had permitted himself to be
killed purely out of spite toward her.

De Castano shook his round bullet head, saying with some
impatience: "You still believe in that treasure, eh? My dear
senora, the only treasure Varona left was his adorable children--
and your admirable self." Immediately the speaker regretted his
words, for he remembered, too late, that Dona Isabel was reputed
to be a trifle unbalanced on this subject of the Varona treasure.

"I do not believe; I KNOW!" the widow answered, with more than
necessary vehemence. "What became of all Esteban's money if he did
not bury it? He never gave any to me, for he was a miser. You
know, as well as I, that he carried on a stupendous business in
slaves and sugar, and it was common knowledge that he hid every
peso for fear of his enemies. But where? WHERE? That is the
question."

"You, if any one, should know, after all the years you have spent
in hunting for it," the merchant observed. "Dios mio! Almost
before Esteban was buried you began the search. People said you
were going to tear this house down."

"Well, I never found a trace. I had holes dug in the gardens,
too."

"You see? No, senora, it is possible to hide anything except
money. No man can conceal that where another will not find it."

Isabel's face had grown hard and avaricious, even during this
brief talk; her eyes were glowing; plainly she was as far as ever
from giving up her long-cherished conviction.

"I don't ask anybody to believe the story," she said, resentfully.
"All the same, it is true. There are pieces of Spanish gold and
silver coins, in boxes bound with iron and fitted with hasps and
staples; packages of gems; pearls from the Caribbean as large as
plums. Oh? Sebastian told me all about it."

"Of course, of course! I shall not argue the matter."' Don Mario
dismissed the subject with a wave of his plump hand. "Now, Dona
Isabel--"

"As if it were not enough to lose that treasure," the widow
continued, stormily, "the Government must free all our slaves.
Tse! Tse! And now that there is no longer a profit in sugar, my
plantations--"

"No profit in sugar? What are you saying?" queried the caller.

"Oh, you have a way of prospering! What touches your fingers turns
to gold. But you are not at the mercy of an administrador."

"Precisely! I am my own manager. If your crops do not pay, then
Pancho Cueto is cheating you. He is capable of it. Get rid of him.
But I didn't come here to talk about Esteban's hidden treasure,
nor his plantations, nor Pancho Cueto. I came here to talk about
your step-daughter, Rosa."

"So?" Dona Isabel looked up quickly.

"She interests me. She is more beautiful than the stars." Don
Mario rolled his eyes toward the high ceiling, which, like the
sky, was tinted a vivid cerulean blue. "She personifies every
virtue; she is--delectable." He pursed his wet lips, daintily
picked a kiss from between them with his thumb and finger, and
snapped it into the air.

Inasmuch as Isabel had always hated the girl venomously, she did
not trust herself to comment upon her caller's enthusiasm.

"She is now eighteen," the fat suitor went on, ecstatically, "and
so altogether charming--But why waste time in pretty speeches? I
have decided to marry her."

De Castano plucked a heavily scented silk handkerchief from his
pocket and wiped a beading of moisture from his brow and upper
lip. He had a habit of perspiring when roused from his usual
lethargy.

"Rosa has a will of her own," guardedly ventured the stepmother.

Don Mario broke out, testily: "Naturally; so have we all. Now let
us speak plainly. You know me. I am a person of importance. I am
rich enough to afford what I want, and I pay well. You understand?
Well, then, you are Rosa's guardian and you can bend her to your
desires."

"If that were only so!" exclaimed the woman. "She and Esteban--
what children! What tempers!--Just like their father's! They have
never liked me; they disobey me at every opportunity; they
exercise the most diabolical ingenuity in making my life
miserable. They were to be their father's heirs, you know, and
they blame me for his death, for our poverty, and for all the
other misfortunes that have overtaken us. We live like cats and
dogs."

Don Mario had been drumming his fat fingers impatiently upon the
arm of his chair. Now he exclaimed:

"Your pardon, senora, but I am just now very little interested in
your domestic relations; they do not thrill me--as my own
prospective happiness does. What you say about Rosa only makes me
more eager, for I loathe a sleepy woman. Now tell me, is she--Has
she any-affairs of the heart?"

"N-no, unless perhaps a flirtation with that young American, Juan
O'Reilly." Dona Isabel gave the name its Spanish pronunciation of
"O'Rail-ye."

"Juan O'Reilly? O'Reilly? Oh yes! But what has he to offer a
woman? He is little more than a clerk."

"That is what I tell her. Oh, it hasn't gone far as yet."

"Good!" Don Mario rose to leave, for the exertion of his ride had
made him thirsty. "You may name your own reward for helping me and
I will pay it the day Rosa marries me. Now kindly advise her of my
intentions and tell her I shall come to see her soon."

It was quite true that Johnnie O'Reilly--or "The O'Reilly," as his
friends called him--had little in the way of worldly advantage to
offer any girl, and it was precisely because of this fact that he
had accepted a position here in Cuba, where, from the very nature
of things, promotion was likely to be more rapid than in the New
York office of his firm. He had come to this out-of-the-way place
prepared to live the lonely life of an exile, if an O'Reilly could
be lonely anywhere, and for a brief time he had been glum enough.

But the O'Reillys, from time immemorial, had been born and bred to
exile; it was their breath, their meat and drink, and this
particular member of the clan thrived upon it quite as well as had
the other Johnnies and Michaels and Andys who had journeyed to far
shores. The O'Reillys were audacious men, a bit too heedless of
their own good, perhaps; a bit too light-hearted readily to
impress a grave world with their varied abilities, but sterling
men, for all that, ambitious men, men with lime in their bones and
possessed of a high and ready chivalry that made friends for them
wherever their wandering feet strayed. Spain, France, and the two
Americas had welcomed O'Reillys of one sort or another; even Cuba
had the family name written large upon her scroll. So Johnnie, of
New York and Matanzas, although at first he felt himself a
stranger in a strange land, was not so considered by the Cubans.

A dancing eye speaks every language; a singing heart gathers its
own audience. Before the young Irish-American had more than a
bowing acquaintance with the commonest Spanish verbs he had a
calling acquaintance with some of the most exclusive people of
Matanzas. He puzzled them, to be sure, for they could not fathom
the reason for his ever-bubbling gladness, but they strove to
catch its secret, and, striving, they made friends with him.
O'Reilly did not puzzle their daughters nearly so much: more than
one aristocratic senorita felt sure that she quite understood the
tall, blond stranger with the laughing eyes, or could understand
him if he gave her half a chance, and so, as had been the case
with other O'Reillys in other lands, Johnnie's exile became no
exile at all. He had adjusted himself serenely to his surroundings
when Rosa Varona returned from school, but with her coming, away
went all his complacency. His contentment vanished; he experienced
a total change in his opinions, his hopes, and his ambitions.

He discovered, for example, that Matanzas was by no means the out-
of-the-way place he had considered it; on the contrary, after
meeting Rosa once by accident, twice by design, and three times by
mutual arrangement, it had dawned upon him that this was the chief
city of Cuba, if not, perhaps, the hub around which the whole
world revolved; certainly it was the most agreeable of all cities,
since it contained everything that was necessary for man's
happiness. Yet, despite the thrill of his awakening, O'Reilly was
not at all pleased with himself, for, as it happened, there was
another girl back home, and during his first year of loneliness he
had written to her more freely and more frequently than any man on
such a salary as his had a right to do.

O'Reilly laid no claims to literary gifts; nevertheless, it seemed
to him, as he looked back upon it, that his pen must have been
dipped in magic and in moonlight, for the girl had expressed an
eager willingness to share his interesting economic problems, and
in fact was waiting for him to give her the legal right. Inasmuch
as her father was O'Reilly's "Company" it may be seen that Rosa
Varona's home-coming seriously complicated matters, not only from
a sentimental, but from a business standpoint.

It was in a thoughtful mood that he rode up La Cumbre, toward the
Quinta de Esteban, late on the afternoon of Don Mario's visit.
Instead of going directly to the house as the merchant had done,
O'Reilly turned off from the road and, after tethering his horse
in a cluster of guava bushes, proceeded on foot. He did not like
Dona Isabel, nor did Dona Isabel like him. Moreover, he had a
particular reason for avoiding her to-day.

Just inside the Varona premises he paused an instant to admire the
outlook. The quinta commanded an excellent view of the Yumuri, on
the one hand, and of the town and harbor on the other; no one ever
climbed the hill from the city to gaze over into that hidden
valley without feeling a pleasurable surprise at finding it still
there. We are accustomed to think of perfect beauty as
unsubstantial, evanescent; but the Yumuri never changed, and in
that lay its supremest wonder.

Through what had once been well-tended grounds, O'Reilly made his
way to a sort of sunken garden which, in spite of neglect, still
remained the most charming nook upon the place; and there he sat
down to wait for Rosa. The hollow was effectually screened from
view by a growth of plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees;
over the rocky walls ran a profusion of flowering plants and
vines; in the center of the open space was an old well, its
masonry curb all but crumbled away.

When Rosa at last appeared, O'Reilly felt called upon to tell her,
somewhat dizzily, that she was beyond doubt the sweetest flower on
all the Quinta de Esteban, and since this somewhat hackneyed
remark was the boldest speech he had ever made to her, she blushed
prettily, flashing him a dimpled smile of mingled pleasure and
surprise.

"Oh, but I assure you I'm in no sweet temper," said she. "Just now
I'm tremendously angry."

"Why?"

"It's that stepmother--Isabel."

"So! You've been quarreling again, eh? Well, she's the easiest
woman in all Matanzas to quarrel with--perhaps the only one who
doesn't see something good in me. I'm afraid to talk to her for
fear she'd convince me I'm wholly abominable."

Rosa laughed, showing her fine, regular teeth--O'Reilly thought he
had never seen teeth so even and white. "Yes, she is a difficult
person. If she dreamed that I see you as often as I do--Well--"
Rosa lifted her eloquent hands and eyes heavenward. "I suppose
that's why I enjoy doing it--I so dearly love to spite her."

"I see!" O'Reilly puckered his brows and nodded. "But why, in that
case, haven't you seen me oftener? We might just as well have made
the good lady's life totally unbearable."

"Silly! She knows nothing about it." With a flirtatious sigh Rosa
added: "That's what robs the affair of its chief pleasure. Since
it does not bother her in the least, I think I will not allow you
to come any more."

After judicious consideration, O'Reilly pretended to agree.

"There's no fun in wreaking a horrible revenge, when your enemy
isn't wise to it," he acknowledged. "Since it's your idea to
irritate your stepmother, perhaps it would annoy her more if I
made love directly to her."

Rosa tittered, and then inquired, naively, "Can you make love,
senor?"

"Can I? It's the one ability an O'Reilly inherits. Listen to this
now." Reaching forth, he took Rosa's fingers in his. "Wait!" he
cried as she resisted. "Pretend that you're Mrs. Varona, your own
stepmother, and that this is her dimpled hand I'm holding."

"Oh-h!" The girl allowed his grasp to remain. "But Isabel's hand
isn't dimpled: it's thin and bony. I've felt it on my ears often
enough."

"Don't interrupt," he told her. "Isabel, my little darling--"

"'Little'! La! La! She's as tall and ugly as a chimney."

"Hush! I've held my tongue as long as I can, but now it's running
away of its own accord, and I must tell you how mad I am about
you. The first time I saw you--it was at the ball in the Spanish
Club--" Again Rosa drew away sharply, at which O'Reilly laid his
other hand over the one in his palm, saying, quickly: "You and
your stepdaughter, Rosa. Do you remember that first waltz of ours?
Sure, I thought I was in heaven, with you in my arms and your eyes
shining into mine, and I told you so."

"So you make the same pretty speeches to all women, eh?" the girl
reproached him.

"Isabel, sweetheart, I lose my breath when I think of you; my lips
pucker up for kisses--"

"'ISABEL'!" exclaimed a voice, and the lovers started guiltily
apart. They turned to find Esteban, Rosa's twin brother, staring
at them oddly. "Isabel?" he repeated. "What's this?"

"You interrupted our theatricals. I was rehearsing an impassioned
proposal to your beloved stepmother," O'Reilly explained, with a
pretense of annoyance.

"Yes, Senor O'Reilly believes he can infuriate Isabel by laying
siege to her. He's a--foolish person--" Rosa's cheeks were faintly
flushed and her color deepened at the amusement in Esteban's eyes.
"He makes love wretchedly."

"What little I overheard wasn't bad," Esteban declared; then he
took O'Reilly's hand.

Esteban was a handsome boy, straight, slim, and manly, and his
resemblance to Rosa was startling. With a look engaging in its
frank directness, he said: "Rosa told me about your meetings here
and I came to apologize for our stepmother's discourtesy. I'm
sorry we can't invite you into our house, but--you understand?
Rosa and I are not like her; we are quite liberal in our views; we
are almost Americans, as you see. I dare say that's what makes
Isabel hate Americans so bitterly."

"Wouldn't it please her to know that I'm becoming Cubanized as
fast as ever I can?" ventured the caller.

"Oh, she hates Cubans, too!" laughed the brother. "She's Spanish,
you know. Well, it's fortunate you didn't see her to-day. Br-r!
What a temper! We had our theatricals, too. I asked her for money,
as usual, and, as usual, she refused. It was like a scene from a
play. She'll walk in her sleep to-night, if ever."

Rosa nodded soberly, and O'Reilly, suppressing some light reply
that had sprung to his lips, inquired, curiously, "What do you
mean by that?"

Brother and sister joined in explaining that Dona Isabel was given
to peculiar actions, especially after periods of excitement or
anger, and that one of her eccentricities had taken the form of
somnambulistic wanderings. "Oh, she's crazy enough," Esteban
concluded. "I believe it's her evil conscience."

Rosa explained further: "She used to steal about at night, hoping
to surprise papa or Sebastian going or coming from the treasure.
They were both killed, as you know, and the secret of the hiding-
place was lost. Now Isabel declares that they come to her in her
sleep and that she has to help them hunt for it, whether she
wishes or not. It is retribution." The speaker drew up her
shoulders and shivered, but Esteban smiled.

"Bah!" he exclaimed. "I'll believe in ghosts when I see one."
Then, with a shake of his head: "Isabel has never given up the
hope of finding that treasure. She would like to see Rosa married,
and me fighting with the Insurrectos, so that she might have a
free hand in her search."

O'Reilly scanned the speaker silently for a moment; then he said,
with a gravity unusual in him, "I wonder if you know that you're
suspected of--working for the Insurrecto cause."

"Indeed? I didn't know."

"Well, it's a fact." O'Reilly heard Rosa gasp faintly. "Is it
true?" he asked.

"I am a Cuban." Esteban's smile was a trifle grim.

"Cuban? Your people were Spanish."

"True. But no Spaniard ever raised a Spanish child in Cuba. We are
Cubans, Rosa and I."

At this statement the sister cried: "Hush! It is dangerous to
speak in that way, with this new war growing every day."

"But O'Reilly is our good friend," Esteban protested.

"Of course I am," the American agreed, "and for that reason I
spoke. I hope you're not too deeply involved with the rebels."

"There, Esteban! Do you hear?" Turning to O'Reilly, Rosa said,
imploringly: "Please reason with him. He's young and headstrong
and he won't listen to me."

Esteban frowned. "Young, eh? Well, sometimes the young are called
upon to do work that older men wouldn't care to undertake."

"What work?" O'Reilly's eyes were still upon him. "You can tell
ME."

"I think I can," the other agreed. "Well, then, I know everybody
in Matanzas; I go everywhere, and the Spanish officers talk
plainly before me. Somebody must be the eyes and the ears for
Colonel Lopez."

"Colonel Lopez!" exclaimed O'Reilly.

Esteban nodded.

Rosa's face, as she looked. at the two men, was white and worried.
For a time the three of them sat silent; then the American said,
slowly, "You'll be shot if you're caught."

Rosa whispered: "Yes! Think of it!"

"Some one must run chances," Esteban averred. "We're fighting
tyranny; all Cuba is ablaze. I must do my part."

"But sooner or later you'll be discovered--then what?" persisted
O'Reilly.

Esteban shrugged. "Who knows? There'll be time enough when--"

"What of Rosa?"

At this question the brother stirred uneasily and dropped his
eyes. O'Reilly laid a hand upon his arm. "You have no right to
jeopardize her safety. Without you, to whom could she turn?" The
girl flashed her admirer a grateful glance.

"Senor, you for one would see that she--"

"But--I'm going away." O'Reilly felt rather than saw Rosa start,
for his face was averted. Purposely he kept his gaze upon Esteban,
for he didn't wish to see the slow pallor that rose in the girl's
cheeks, the look of pain that crept into her eyes. "I came here to
tell you both good-by. I may be gone for some time. I--I don't
know when I can get back."

"I'm sorry," Esteban told him, with genuine regret. "We have grown
very fond of you. You will leave many friends here in Matanzas,
I'm sure. But you will come back before long, eh?"

"Yes, as soon as I can. That is, if--" He did not finish the
sentence.

"Good. You're one of us. In the mean time I'll remember what you
say, and at least I'll be careful." By no means wanting in tact,
Esteban rose briskly and, after shaking hands with O'Reilly, left
the two lovers to say farewell as best suited them.

But for once O'Reilly's ready tongue was silent. The laughter was
gone from his blue eyes when he turned to the girl at his side.

"You say you are going away?" Rosa inquired, breathlessly. "But
why?"

"I'm going partly because of this war, and partly because of--
something else. I tried to tell you yesterday, but I couldn't.
When the revolution started everybody thought it was merely a
local uprising, and I wrote my company to that effect; but, bless
you, it has spread like fire, and now the whole eastern end of the
island is ablaze."

"Esteban says it will be more terrible than the Ten Years' War."

"God forbid! And yet all the old fighters are back again. Nobody
believed that Maximo Gomez had returned, but it's true. And the
Maceos are here, too, from Costa Rica. Antonio has already gained
control of most of Santiago Province, and he's sweeping westward.
Of course the Spaniards minimize the reports of his success, and
we, here, don't understand what's really going on. Anyhow,
business has stopped, and my employers have ordered me home to
find out what's happened to their profits. They seem to hold me
personally responsible for this insurrection."

"I see. And when you have told them the truth you will come back.
Is that it?"

"I--Perhaps."

"You said there was something else--"

O'Reilly's hesitation became an embarrassed silence. He tried to
laugh it off.

"There is, otherwise I'd stay right here and tell my penurious
friends to whistle for their profits. It seems I'm cursed with a
fatal beauty. You may have noticed it? No? Well, perhaps it's a
magnificent business ability that I have. Anyhow, the president of
my company has a notion that I'd make him a good son-in-law."

"I--Oh!" cried Rosa.

And at her tone O'Reilly hurried on:

"These rich men have the most absurd ideas. I suppose I'll have
to--"

"Then you are in love, senor?"

The young man nodded vigorously. "Indeed I am--with the sweetest
girl in Cuba. That's the whole trouble. That's why I'm hurrying
home to resign before I'm fired." Not daring to look too long or
too deeply into Rosa Varona's eyes until she had taken in the
whole truth, he waited, staring at his feet. "I'm sort of glad it
has come to a show-down and I can speak out. I'm hoping she'll
miss me." After a moment he ventured, "Will she--er--will you,
Rosa?"

"I? Miss you?" Rosa lifted her brows in pretended amazement. Then
she tipped her head daintily to one side, as if weighing his
question earnestly. "You are amusing, of course, but--I won't have
much time to think about you, for I am so soon to be married."

"Married? WHAT?" O'Reilly started violently, and the girl
exclaimed, with well-feigned concern:

"Oh, senor! You have wounded yourself again on that thorn-bush.
This place is growing up to brambles."

"It wasn't my finger! Something pierced me through the heart.
MARRIED? Nonsense!"

"Indeed! Do you think I'm so ugly nobody would have me?"

"Good Lord! You--" O'Reilly swallowed hard. "I won't tell you the
truth when you know it so well."

"The richest man in Matanzas asked for my hand this very
afternoon."

"Who? Mario de Castano?"

"Yes."

O'Reilly laughed with relief, and though Rosa tried to look
offended, she was forced to smile. "He's fat, I know," she
admitted, "and he makes funny noises when he breathes; but he is
richer than Croesus, and I adore rich men."

"I hate 'em!" announced O'Reilly. Then for a second time he took
Rosa's dimpled hand, saying, earnestly: "I'm sure you know now why
I make love so badly, dear. It's my Irish conscience. And you'll
wait until I come back, won't you?"

"Will you be gone--very long?" she asked.

O'Reilly looked deeply now into the dark eyes turned to his, and
found that at last there was no coquetry in them anywhere--nothing
but a lonesome, hungry yearning--and with a glad, incoherent
exclamation he held out his arms. Rosa Varona crept into them;
then with a sigh she upturned her lips to his.

"I'll wait forever," she said.




IV

RETRIBUTION


Although for a long time Dona Isabel had been sure in her own mind
that Pancho Cueto, her administrador, was robbing her, she had
never mustered courage to call him to a reckoning. And there was a
reason for her cowardice. Nevertheless, De Castano's blunt
accusation, coupled with her own urgent needs, served to fix her
resolution, and on the day after the merchant's visit she sent for
the overseer, who at the time was living on one of the
plantations.

Once the message was on its way, Isabel fell into a condition
bordering upon panic, and was half minded to countermand her
order. She spent an evening of suspense, and a miserable night.
This last, however, was nothing unusual with her; she was
accustomed to unpleasant dreams, and she was not surprised when
old familiar shapes came to harass her. Nor, in view of her
somnambulistic vagaries, was she greatly concerned to find, when
she woke in the morning, that her slippers were stained and that
her skirt was bedraggled with dew and filled with burs.

Scarcely a month passed that she did not walk in her sleep.

Cueto was plainly curious to learn why he had been sent for, but
since he asked no questions, his employer was forced to open the
subject herself. Several times he led up to it unsuccessfully;
then she took the plunge. Through dry, white lips she began:

"My dear Pancho, times are hard. The plantations are failing, and
so--" Pancho Cueto's eyes were set close to his nose, his face was
long and thin and harsh; he regarded the speaker with such a
sinister, unblinking stare that she could scarcely finish: "--and
so I--can no longer afford to retain you as administrador."

"Times will improve," he said.

"Impossible! This war threatens to bring utter ruin; and now that
Esteban and Rosa are home they spend money like water. I groan
with poverty."

"Yes, they are extravagant. It is the more reason for me to remain
in your service."

"No, no! I tell you I'm bankrupt."

"So? Then the remedy is simple--sell a part of your land."

Although this suggestion came naturally enough, Dona Isabel turned
cold, and felt her smile stiffen into a grimace. She wondered if
Cueto could be feeling her out deliberately. "Sell the Varona
lands?" she queried, after a momentary struggle with herself.
"Esteban would rise from his grave. No. It was his wish that the
plantations go to his children intact."

"And his wish is sacred to you, eh?" Cueto nodded his approval,
although his smile was disconcerting. "An admirable sentiment! It
does you honor! But speaking on this subject, I am reminded of
that dispute with Jose Oroz over the boundary to La Joya. He is a
rascal, that Oroz; he would steal the sap out of your standing
cane if he could. I have promised to show him the original deed to
La Joya and to furnish him with the proofs about the boundary
line. That would be better than a lawsuit, wouldn't it?"

"Decidedly! But--I will settle with him myself."

Cueto lifted an admonitory hand, his face alight with the faintest
glimmer of ironic mirth. "I couldn't trust you to the mercies of
that rascal," he said, piously. "No, I shall go on as I am, even
at a sacrifice to myself. I love Don Esteban's children as my very
own; and you, senora--"

Isabel knew that she must win a complete victory at once or accept
irretrievable defeat,

"Never!" she interrupted, with a tone of finality. "I can't accept
your sacrifice. I am not worthy. Kindly arrange to turn over your
books of account at once. I shall make you as handsome a present
as my circumstances will permit in recognition of your long and
faithful service."

Then Pancho Cueto did an unexpected thing: he laughed shortly and
shook his head.

Dona Isabel was ready to faint and her voice quavered as she went
on: "Understand me, we part the best of friends despite all I have
heard against you. I do not believe these stories people tell, for
you probably have enemies. Even if all they say were true I should
force myself to be lenient because of your affection for my
husband."

The man rose, still smiling. "It is I who have been lenient," said
he.

"Eh? Speak plainly."

"Gladly. I have long suspected that Don Esteban hid the deeds of
his property with the rest of his valuables, and now that you
admit--"

Dona Isabel recoiled sharply. "Admit! Are you mad? Deeds! What are
you talking about?" Her eyes met his bravely enough, but she could
feel her lips trembling loosely.

Casting aside all pretense, the overseer exclaimed: "Por el amor
de Dios! An end to this! I know why you sent for me. You think I
have been robbing you. Well, to be honest, so I have. Why should I
toil as I do while you and those twins live here in luxury and
idleness, squandering money to which you have no right?"

"Have I lost my reason?" gasped the widow. "No right?"

"At least no better right than I. Don't you understand? You have
no title to those plantations! They are mine, for I have paid the
taxes out of my own pockets now these many years."

"Taxes! What do you mean?"

"I paid them. The receipts are in my name."

"God! Such perfidy! And you who knew him!"

"The deeds have been lost for so long that the property would have
reverted to the crown had it not been for me. You doubt that, eh?
Well, appeal to the court and you will find that it is true. For
that matter, the officials make new laws to fit each case, and
should they learn that Esteban Varona died intestate they would
arrange somehow to seize all his property and leave you without a
roof over your head. Fortunately I can prevent that, for I have a
title that will stand, in want of a better one."

There was a momentary silence while the unhappy woman struggled
with herself. Then:

"You took advantage of my ignorance of business to rob me," she
declared. "Well, I know something about the Government officials:
if they would make a law to fit my case they will make one to fit
yours. When I tell them what you have done perhaps you will not
fare so well with them as you expect." She was fighting now with
the desperation of one cornered.

"Perhaps." Cueto shrugged. "That is what I want to talk to you
about, if only you will be sensible. Now then, let us be frank.
Inasmuch as we're both in much the same fix, hadn't we better
continue our present arrangements?" He stared unblinkingly at his
listener. "Oh, I mean it! Is it not better for you to be content
with what my generosity prompts me to give, rather than to risk
ruin for both of us by grasping for too much?"

"Merciful God! The outrage! I warrant you have grown rich through
your stealing." Isabel's voice had gone flat with consternation.

"Rich? Well, not exactly, but comfortably well off." Cueto
actually smiled again. "No doubt my frankness is a shock to you.
You are angry at my proposition, eh? Never mind. You will think
better of it in time, if you are a sensible woman."

"What a fiend! Have you no sentiment?"

"Oh, senora! I am all sentiment. Don Esteban was my benefactor. I
revere his memory, and I feel it my duty to see that his family
does not want. That is why I have provided for you, and will
continue to provide--in proper measure. But now, since at last we
enjoy such confidential relations, let us have no more of these
miserable suspicions of each other. Let us entirely forget this
unpleasant misunderstanding and be the same good friends as
before."

Having said this, Pancho Cueto stood silent a moment in polite
expectancy; then receiving no intelligible reply, he bowed low and
left the room.

To the avaricious Dona Isabel Cueto's frank acknowledgment of
theft was maddening, and the realization that she was helpless,
nay, dependent upon his charity for her living, fairly crucified
her proud spirit.

All day she brooded, and by the time evening came she had worked
herself into such a state of nerves that she could eat no dinner.
Locking herself into her room, she paced the floor, now wringing
her hands, now twisting in agony upon her bed, now biting her
wrists in an endeavor to clear her head and to devise some means
of outwitting this treacherous overseer. But mere thought of the
law frightened her; the longer she pondered her situation the more
she realized her own impotence. There was no doubt that the courts
were corrupt: they were notoriously venal at best, and this war
had made them worse. Graft was rampant everywhere. To confess
publicly that Esteban Varona had left no deeds, no title to his
property, would indeed be the sheerest folly. No, Cueto had her at
his mercy.

Sometime during the course of the evening a wild idea came to
Isabel. Knowing that the manager would spend the night beneath her
roof, she planned to kill him. At first it seemed a simple thing
to do--merely a matter of a dagger or a pistol, while he slept--
but further thought revealed appalling risks and difficulties, and
she decided to wait. Poison was far safer.

That night she lay awake a long time putting her scheme into final
shape, and then for an interval that seemed longer she hung poised
in those penumbral regions midway between wakefulness and slumber.
Through her mind meanwhile there passed a whirling phantasmagoria,
an interminable procession of figures, of memories, real yet
unreal, convincing yet unconvincing. When she did at last lose all
awareness of reality the effect was merely to enhance the
vividness of those phantoms, to lend substance to her vaporous
visions. Constant brooding over the treasure had long since
affected Dona Isabel's brain, and as a consequence she often
dreamed about it. She dreamed about it again to-night, and,
strangely enough, her dreams were pleasant. Sebastian appeared,
but for once he neither cursed nor threatened her; and Esteban,
when he came, was again the lover who had courted her in Habana.
It was all very wonderful, very exciting, very real. Dona Isabel
found herself robed for him in her wedding-gown of white, and
realized that she was beautiful. It seemed also as if her powers
of attraction were magically enhanced, for she exercised a potent
influence over him. Her senses were quickened a thousandfold, too.
For instance, she could see great distances--a novel and agreeable
sensation; she enjoyed strange, unsuspected perfumes; she heard
the music of distant waterfalls and understood the whispered
language of the breeze. It was amazing, delightful. Esteban and
she were walking through the grounds of the quinta and he was
telling her about his casks of Spanish sovereigns, about those
boxes bound with iron, about the gold and silver ornaments of
heavenly, beauty and the pearls as large as plums. As he talked,
Isabel felt herself grow hot and cold with anticipation; she
experienced spasms of delight. She felt that she must dance, must
run, must cast her arms aloft in ecstasy. Never had she
experienced so keen an intoxication of joy as now, while Esteban
was leading her toward the treasure and wooing her with youthful
ardor.

Then of a sudden Isabel's whole dream-world dissolved. She awoke,
or thought she did, at hearing her name shouted. But although she
underwent the mental and the physical shock of being startled from
slumber, although she felt the first swift fright of a person
aroused to strange surroundings, she knew on the instant that she
must still be asleep; for everything about her was dim and dark,
the air was cold and damp, wet grass rose to her knees. It flashed
through her mind that she had simply been whirled from a pleasant
dream into one of terror. As she fought with herself to throw off
the illusion of this nightmare its reality became overwhelming.
Warring, incongruous sensations, far too swift for her mind to
compass, were crowded into the minutest fraction of time. Before
she could half realize her own condition she felt herself plunged
into space. Now the sensation of falling was not strange to
Isabel--it is common to all sufferers from nightmare--
nevertheless, she experienced the dawn of a horror such as she had
never guessed. She heard herself scream hoarsely, fearfully, and
knew, too late, that she was indeed awake. Then--whirling chaos--A
sudden, blinding crash of lights and sounds--Nothing more!

Esteban Varona sat until a late hour that night over a letter
which required the utmost care in its composition. It was written
upon the thinnest of paper, and when it was finished the writer
inclosed it in an envelope of the same material. Esteban put the
letter in his pocket without addressing it. Then he extinguished
his light, tip-toed to the door connecting his and Rosa's rooms,
and listened. No sound whatever came to his ears, for his sister
slept like a kitten. Reassured, he stole out into the hall. Here
he paused a moment with his ear first to Pancho Cueto's door, and
then to the door of his step-mother's room. He could hear the
overseer's heavy breathing and Isabel's senseless babbling--the
latter was moaning and muttering ceaselessly, but, being
accustomed to her restlessness, Esteban paid no heed.

Letting himself out into the night, he took the path that led to
the old sunken garden. Nocturnal birds were chirruping; his way
was barred with spider-webs, heavy with dew and gleaming in the
moonlight like tiny ropes of jewels; the odor of gardenias was
overpowering. He passed close by the well, and its gaping black
mouth, only half protected by the broken coping, reminded him that
he had promised Rosa to cover it with planks. In its present
condition it was a menace to animals, if not to human beings who
were unaware of its presence. He told himself he would attend to
it on the morrow.

Seating himself on one of the old stone benches, the young man lit
a cigarette and composed himself to wait. He sat there for a long
time, grumbling inwardly, for the night was damp and he was
sleepy; but at last a figure stole out of the gloom and joined
him. The new-comer was a ragged negro, dressed in the fashion of
the poorer country people.

"Well, Asensio, I thought you'd never come. I'll get a fever from
this!" Esteban said, irritably.

"It is a long way, Don Esteban, and Evangelina made me wait until
dark. I tell you we have to be careful these days."

"What is the news? What did you hear?"

Asensio sighed gratefully as he seated himself. "One hears a great
deal, but one never knows what to believe, There is fighting in
Santa Clara, and Maceo sweeps westward."

Taking the unaddressed letter from his pocket, Esteban said, "I
have another message for Colonel Lopez."

"That Lopez! He's here to-day and there to-morrow; one can never
find him."

"Well, you must find him, and immediately, Asensio. This letter
contains important news--so important, in fact"--Esteban laughed
lightly--"that if you find yourself in danger from the Spaniards
I'd advise you to chew it up and swallow it as quickly as you
can."

"I'll remember that," said the negro, "for there's danger enough.
Still, I fear these Spaniards less than the guerrilleros: they are
everywhere. They call themselves patriots, but they are nothing
more than robbers. They--"

Asensio paused abruptly. He seized his companion by the arm and,
leaning forward, stared across the level garden into the shadows
opposite. Something was moving there, under the trees; the men
could see that it was white and formless, and that it pursued an
erratic course.

"What's that?" gasped the negro. He began to tremble violently and
his breath became audible. Esteban was compelled to hold him down
by main force. "Jesus Cristo! It's old Don Esteban, your father.
They say he walks at midnight, carrying his head in his two
hands."

Young Varona managed to whisper, with some show of courage: "Hush!
Wait! I don't believe in ghosts." Nevertheless, he was on the
point of setting Asensio an example of undignified flight when the
mysterious object emerged from the shadows into the open
moonlight; then he sighed with relief: "Ah-h! Now I see! It is my
stepmother. She is asleep."

"Asleep?" Asensio was incredulous. He was still so unnerved by his
first fright that Esteban dared not release him.

"Yes; her eyes are open, but she sees nothing."

"I don't like such things," the negro confessed in a shaky voice.
"How can she walk if she is asleep? If her eyes are open, how can
she help seeing us? You know she hates Evangelina and me."

"I tell you she sees nothing, knows nothing--" For a moment or two
they watched the progress of the white-robed figure; then Esteban
stirred and rose from his seat. "She's too close to that well.
There is--" He started forward a pace or two. "They say people who
walk at night go mad if they're awakened too suddenly, and yet--"

Dona Isabel was talking in a low, throaty, unnatural tone. Her
words were meaningless, but the effect, at that hour and in those
surroundings, was bizarre and fearsome. Esteban felt his scalp
prickling uncomfortably. This was very creepy.

When the somnambulist's deliberate progress toward the mouth of
the well continued he called her name softly. "Dona Isabel!" Then
he repeated it louder. "Dona Isabel! Wake up."

The woman seemed to hear and yet not to hear. She turned her head
to listen, but continued to walk.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, reassuringly. "It is only Esteban--
DONA ISABEL! STOP!" Esteban sprang forward, shouting at the top of
his voice, for at the sound of his name Isabel had abruptly
swerved to her right, a movement which brought her dangerously
close to the lip of the well.

"STOP! GO BACK!" screamed the young man.

Above his warning there came a shriek, shrill and agonized--a wail
of such abysmal terror as to shock the night birds and the insects
into stillness. Dona Isabel slipped, or stumbled, to her knees,
she balanced briefly, clutching at random while the earth and
crumbling cement gave way beneath her; then she slid forward and
disappeared, almost out from between Esteban's hands. There was a
noisy rattle of rock and pebble and a great splash far below; a
chuckle of little stones striking the water, then a faint
bubbling. Nothing more. The stepson stood in his tracks, sick,
blind with horror; he was swaying over the opening when Asensio
dragged him back.

Pancho Cueto, being a heavy sleeper, was the last to be roused by
Esteban's outcries. When he had hurriedly slipped into his clothes
in response to the pounding on his door, the few servants that the
establishment supported had been thoroughly awakened. Esteban was
shouting at them, explaining that Dona Isabel had met with an
accident. He was calling for a lantern, too, and a stout rope.
Cueto thought they must all be out of their minds until he learned
what had befallen the mistress of the house. Then, being a man of
action, he, too, issued swift orders, with the result that by the
time he and Esteban had run to the well both rope and lantern were
ready for their use. Before Esteban could form and fit a loop for
his shoulders there was sufficient help on hand to lower him into
the treacherous abyss.

It was a commentary upon Dona Isabel's character that during the
long, slow moments of uncertainty while Esteban was being lowered
the negroes exhibited more curiosity than concern over her fate.
In half-pleased excitement they whispered and giggled and muttered
together, while Pancho lay prone at the edge of the orifice,
directing them how to manipulate the rope.

That was a gruesome task which fell to Esteban, for the well had
been long unused, its sides were oozing slime, its waters were
stale and black. He was on the point of fainting when he finally
climbed out, leaving the negroes to hoist the dripping, inert
weight which he had found at the bottom.

Old Sebastian's curse had come true; Dona Isabel had met the fate
he had called down upon her that day when he hung exhausted in his
chains and when the flies tormented him. The treasure for which
the woman had intrigued so tirelessly had been her death. Like an
ignis fatuus, it had lured her to destruction. Furthermore, as if
in orirnmest irony, she had been permitted at the very last to
find it. Living, she had searched to no purpose whatsoever; dying,
she had almost grasped it in her arms.

Once the first excitement had abated and a messenger had been sent
to town, Cueto drew Esteban aside and questioned him.

"A shocking tragedy and most peculiar," said the overseer.
"Nothing could amaze me more."

"Exactly! And all because of her sleep-walking. I'm all in a
tremble."

"She was asleep? You are sure?"

"Have I not told you so?" Esteban was impatient.

"But it is said that people given to that peculiarity never come
to grief. They say some sixth sense guides them--gives them
warning of pitfalls and dangers. I--I can't understand--"

"That well was a menace to a waking person. I didn't realize how
near to it she was; and when I cried out to her it seemed only to
hasten her steps." The young man shuddered, for the horror of the
thing was still in his mind.

"Tell me, how did you come to be there at such an hour, eh?"

Esteban saw the malevolent curiosity in Cueto's face and started.
"I--That is my affair. Surely you don't think--"

"Come, come! You can trust me." The overseer winked and smiled.

"I had business that took me there," stiffly declared the younger
man.

"Exactly! And a profitable business it proved!" Cueto laughed
openly now. "Well, I don't mind telling you, Dona Isabel's death
is no disappointment to any one. Anybody could see--"

"Stop!" Esteban was turning alternately red and white. "You seem
to imply something outrageous."

"Now let us be sensible. I understand you perfectly, my boy. But
an officer of the Guardia Civil may arrive at any moment and he
will want to know how you came to be with your stepmother when she
plunged into that trap. So prepare yourself. If only you had not
given the alarm. If only you had waited until morning. But--in the
dead of night! Alone! He will think it queer. Suppose, too, he
learns that you and Dona Isabel quarreled the other day over money
matters?"

Young Varona recovered himself quickly. He was watching his
inquisitor now with a faintly speculative frown. When Cueto had
finished, Esteban said:

"Dona Isabel and I frequently quarreled over money matters, so
there is nothing strange in that. You would like me to confess to
some black iniquity that would make us better friends, eh? Well,
it so happens that I was not alone to-night, but that another
person saw the poor woman's death and can bear me out in
everything I say. No, Pancho, you overreach yourself. Now then"--
Esteban was quick-tempered, and for years he had struggled against
an instinctive distrust and dislike of the plantation manager--
"remember that I have become the head of this house, and your
employer. You will do better to think of your own affairs than of
mine. Do you understand me? I have long suspected that certain
matters of yours need attention, and at the first opportunity I
intend to have a careful reckoning with you. I think you know I
have a good head for figures." Turning his back upon the elder
man, he walked away.

Now it did not occur to Cueto really to doubt the boy's innocence,
though the circumstances of Dona Isabel's death were suspicious
enough to raise a question in any mind; but in view of Esteban's
threat he thought it wise to protect himself by setting a back-
fire. It was with some such vague idea in his head that he turned
to the sunken garden as the first gray light of dawn appeared. He
hoped to gain some inspiration by examining the place again, and,
as it proved, he succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations.

As he sat on an old stone bench, moodily repicturing the
catastrophe as Esteban had described it, his attention fell upon
an envelope at his feet. It was sealed; it was unaddressed. Cueto
idly broke it open and began to read. Before he had gone far he
started; then he cast a furtive glance about. But the place was
secluded; he was unobserved. When he finished reading he rose,
smiling. He no longer feared Esteban. On the contrary, he rather
pitied the young fool; for here between his fingers was that which
not only promised to remove the boy from his path forever, but to
place in his hands the entire Varona estates. Fate was kind. After
years of patient scheming Cueto had obtained his reward.

One afternoon, perhaps a week later, Don Mario de Castano came
puffing and blowing up to the quinta, demanding to see Rosa
without a moment's delay. The girl appeared before her caller had
managed to dry up the streams of perspiration resulting from his
exertions. With a directness unusual even in him Don Mario began:

"Rosa, my dear, you and Esteban have been discovered! I was at
lunch with the comandante when I learned the truth. Through
friendship I prevailed upon him to give you an hour's grace."

"What do you mean, Don Mario?" inquired the girl.

"Come, come!" the planter cried, impatiently. "Don't you see you
can trust me? God! The recklessness, the folly of young people!
Could you not leave this insurrection to your elders? Or perhaps
you thought it a matter of no great importance, an amusing thing--
"

"Don Mario!" Rosa interrupted. "I don't know what you are talking
about."

"You don't, eh?" The caller's wet cheeks grew redder; he blew like
a porpoise. "Then call Esteban quickly! There is not a moment to
lose." When the brother appeared De Castano blurted out at him
accusingly: "Well, sir! A fine fix you've put yourself in. I came
here to warn you, but Rosa pretends ignorance. Perhaps you will be
interested to learn that Colonel Fernandez has issued orders to
arrest you and your sister as agents of the Insurrectos."

"What?" Esteban drew back. Rosa turned white as a lily and laid a
fluttering hand upon her throat.

"You two will sleep to-night in San Severino," grimly announced
the rotund visitor. "You know what that means. Cubans who enter
the Castillo seldom come out. Have you noticed the big sharks that
swim about under the walls of it? Do you know what bait keeps them
there? Well, I'll tell you! It's the bodies of rebel sympathizers-
-foolish people like you who call themselves patriots."

Rosa uttered a smothered cry.

"Colonel Fernandez," Don Mario proceeded, impressively, "did me
this favor, knowing me to be a suitor for Rosa's hand. In spite of
his duty and the evidence he--"

"Evidence? What evidence?" Esteban asked, sharply.

"For one thing, your own letter to Lopez, the rebel, warning him
to beware of the trap prepared for him in Santa Clara, and
advising him of the Government force at Sabanilla. Oh, don't try
to deny it! I read it with my own eyes, and it means--death."

In the ensuing silence the fat man's asthmatic breathing sounded
loudly; it was like the respirations of an excited eavesdropper.

At last Rosa said, faintly: "Esteban! I warned you."

Esteban was taken aback, but it was plain that he was not in the
least frightened. "They haven't caught me yet," he laughed.

"You say they intend to arrest me also?" Rosa eyed the caller
anxiously.

"Exactly!"

"But why?"

"Yes! Who accuses her, and of what?" Esteban indignantly demanded.

"That also I have discovered through the courtesy of Colonel
Fernandez. Your accuser is none other than Pancho Cueto."

"Cueto!"

"Yes, he has denounced both of you as rebels, and the letter is
only part of his proof, I believe. I don't know what other
evidence he has, but, take my word for it, the Government does not
require much proof these days. Suspicion is enough. Now, then, you
can guess why I am here. I am not without influence; I can save
Rosa, but for you, Esteban, I fear I can do nothing. You must look
out for yourself. Well? What do you say? We're wasting precious
time standing here with our mouths open."

When Esteban saw how pale his sister had grown, he took her in his
arms, saying, gently: "I'm sorry, dear. It's all my fault." Then
to the merchant, "It was very good of you to warn us."

"Ha!" Don Mario fanned himself. "I'm glad you appreciate my
efforts. It's a good thing to have the right kind of a friend.
I'll marry Rosa within an hour, and I fancy my name will be a
sufficient shield--"

Rosa turned to her elderly suitor and made a deep courtesy. "I am
unworthy of the honor," said she. "You see, I--I do not love you,
Don Mario."

"Love!" exploded the visitor. "God bless you! What has love to do
with the matter? Esteban will have to ride for his life in ten
minutes and your property will be seized. So you had better make
yourself ready to go with me." But Rosa shook her head.

"Eh? What ails you? What do you expect to do?"

"I shall go with Esteban," said the girl.

This calm announcement seemed to stupefy De Castano. He sat down
heavily in the nearest chair, and with his wet handkerchief poised
in one pudgy hand he stared fixedly at the speaker. His eyes were
round and bulging, the sweat streamed unheeded from his temples.
He resembled some queer bloated marine monster just emerged from
the sea and momentarily dazzled by the light.

"You--You're mad," he finally gasped. "Esteban, tell her what it
means."

But this Esteban could not do, for he himself had not the faintest
notion of what was in store for him. War seemed to him a glorious
thing; he had been told that the hills were peopled with patriots.
He was very young, his heart was ablaze with hatred for the
Spaniards and for Pancho Cueto. He longed to risk his life for a
free Cuba. Therefore he said: "Rosa shall do as she pleases. If we
must be exiles we shall share each other's hardships. It will not
be for long."

"Idiot!" stormed the fat man. "Better that you gave her to the
sharks below San Severino. There is no law, no safety for women
outside of the cities. The island is in anarchy. These patriots
you talk about are the blacks, the mulattoes, the--lowest, laziest
savages in Cuba."

"Please! Don Mario!" the girl pleaded. "I cannot marry you, for--I
love another."

"Eh?"

"I love another. I'm betrothed to O'Reilly, the American--and he's
coming back to marry me."

De Castano twisted himself laboriously out of his chair and
waddled toward the door. He was purple with rage and
mortification. On the threshold he paused to wheeze: "Very well,
then. Go! I'm done with both of you. I would have lent you a hand
with this rascal Cueto, but now he will fall heir to your entire
property. Well, it is a time for bandits! I--I--" Unable to think
of a parting speech sufficiently bitter to match his
disappointment, Don Mario plunged out into the sunlight, muttering
and stammering to himself.

Within an hour the twins were on their way up the Yumuri, toward
the home of Asensio and Evangelina; for it was thither that they
naturally turned. It was well that they had made haste, for as
they rode down into the valley, up the other side of the hill from
Matanzas came a squad of the Guardia Civil, and at its head rode
Pancho Cueto.




V

A CRY FROM THE WILDERNESS


New York seemed almost like a foreign city to Johnnie O'Reilly
when he stepped out into it on the morning after his arrival. For
one thing it was bleak and cold: the north wind, hailing direct
from Baffin's Bay, had teeth, and it bit so cruelly that he was
glad when he found shelter in the building which housed the
offices of the Carter Importing Company. The tropics had thinned
O'Reilly's blood, for the Cuban winds bear a kiss instead of a
sting; therefore he paused in the lower hallway, jostled by the
morning crowds, and tried to warm himself. The truth is O'Reilly
was not only cold, but frightened.

He was far from weak-hearted. In fact, few O'Reillys were that,
and Johnnie had an ingrained self-assurance which might have been
mistaken for impudence, but for the winning smile that went with
it. Yet all the way from Havana he had seen in his mind's eye old
Sam Carter intrenched behind his flat-topped desk, and that
picture had more than once caused him to forget the carefully
rehearsed speech in which he intended to resign his position as an
employee and his prospects as a son-in-law.

That desk of Mr. Carter's was always bare and orderly, cleared for
action, like the deck of a battle-ship, and over it many
engagements had been fought, for the man behind it never shirked a
conflict. His was a vigorous and irascible temperament, compounded
of old-fashioned, slow-burning black powder and nitroglycerine--a
combination of incalculable destructive power. It was a perilously
unstable mixture, tool, at times nothing less than a flame served
to ignite it; on other occasions the office force pussy-footed
past Carter's door on felt soles, and even then the slightest jar
often caused the untoward thing to let go. In either event there
was a deafening roar, much smoke, and a deal of damage. O'Reilly
felt sure that whatever the condition of Mr. Carter's digestion or
the serenity of his mind at the beginning of their interview, the
news he had to impart would serve as an effective detonator, after
which it would be every man for himself. It was not the effect of
his report concerning the firm's unprofitable Cuban connections
which O'Reilly feared would cause the decks to heave and the ship
to rock--Samuel Carter could take calmly the most disturbing
financial reverse--it was the blow to his pride at learning that
anybody could prefer another girl to his daughter. Johnnie shook
his shoulders and stamped his feet, but the chill in his bones
refused to go.

He did gain courage, however, by thinking of Rosa Varona as he had
last seen her, with arms outstretched, with eyes tear-filled, with
yearning lips aquiver at his going. The picture warmed him
magically, and it was with a restored determination to make a
clean breast of the matter and face the worst that he took the
elevator.

The office force of the Carter Importing Company looked up when
the firm's Cuban representative entered the door, but its
personnel having changed as the result of one of those periodical
disruptions that occurred in the inner office, he was not
recognized until he presented himself to Mr. Slack, Samuel
Carter's private and intimidated secretary.

Mr. Slack smiled wanly, and extended a clammy, nerveless hand as
cold and limber as a dead fish.

"You're expected," said he. "Mr. Carter is waiting to see you
before leaving for California."

"Seeing me won't make his trip any pleasanter," O'Reilly said,
somberly.

"We were afraid you wouldn't get out of Cuba; thought we might
have to get the American consul at work."

"Really? I didn't know I was so important."

"Oh, you're the office pet, and well you know it." Mr. Slack's
pleasantry was tinged with envy, for he had never been able to
appreciate O'Reilly. "Conditions are bad, eh?"

"Yes. Anybody can leave," the other told him. "It's getting back
that's difficult. The Spaniards don't like us, and I dare say they
have good reason, with all this talk of intervention and the
secret help we're lending the Insurrectos. They held me up in
Havana; tried to prove I was a spy. They were positively peeved
when they failed. Snippy people, those Spaniards."

"Well, I'll tell Mr. Carter you're here." The secretary glided
unobtrusively toward the private office, disappeared, glided
softly into view again, and waggled a boneless forefinger
invitingly. O'Reilly went to meet his employer as a man marches to
execution.

His heart sank further at the welcome he received, for the
importer gave him a veritable embrace; he patted him on the back
and inquired three times as to his health. O'Reilly was anything
but cold now; he was perspiring profusely, and he felt his collar
growing limp. To shatter this old man's eager hopes would be like
kicking a child in the face. Carter had never been so
enthusiastic, so demonstrative; there was something almost
theatrical in his greeting. It dismayed O'Reilly immensely to
realize what a hold he must have upon his employer's affections.
Although the latter had a reputation for self-control, he appeared
to be in a perfect flutter now. He assumed a boisterousness which
seemed strained and wholly out of keeping with the circumstances.
His actions vaguely reminded the younger man of an ambling draft-
horse trying to gallop; and when, for the fourth time, Mr. Carter
inquired solicitously concerning his visitor's well-being,
Johnnie's dismay turned to amazement. With a heavy playfulness Mr.
Carter at length remarked:

"Well, my boy, you made a fizzle of it, didn't you?" The tone was
almost complimentary.

"Yes, sir, I'm a bright and shining failure," O'Reilly
acknowledged, hopefully.

"Now, don't 'yes, sir' me. We're friends, aren't we? Good!
Understand, I don't blame you in the least--it's that idiotic
revolution that spoiled our business. I can't understand those
people. Lord! You did splendidly, under the circumstances."

"They have reason enough to revolt--oppression, tyranny,
corruption." O'Reilly mumbled the familiar words in a numb
paralysis at Mr. Carter's jovial familiarity.

"All Latin countries are corrupt," announced the importer--"always
have been and always will be. They thrive under oppression.
Politics is purely a business proposition with those people.
However, I dare say this uprising won't last long."

O'Reilly welcomed this trend of the conversation; anything was
better than fulsome praise, and the discussion would delay the
coming crash. It seemed strange, however, that Samuel Carter
should take time to discourse about generalities. Johnnie wondered
why the old man didn't get down to cases.

"It's more than an uprising, sir," he said. "The rebels have
overrun the eastern end of the island, and when I left Maceo and
Gomez were sweeping west."

"Bah! It takes money to run a war."

"They have money," desperately argued O'Reilly. "Marti raised more
than a million dollars, and every Cuban cigar-maker in the United
States gives a part of his wages every week to the cause. The best
blood of Cuba is in the fight. The rebels are poorly armed, but if
our Government recognizes their belligerency they'll soon fix
that. Spain is about busted; she can't stand the strain."

"I predict they'll quit fighting as soon as they get hungry. The
Government is starving them out. However, they've wound up our
affairs for the time being, and--" Mr. Carter carefully shifted
the position of an ink-well, a calendar, and a paper-knife--"that
brings us to a consideration of your and my affairs, doesn't it?
Ahem! You remember our bargain? I was to give you a chance and you
were to make good before you--er--planned any--er--matrimonial
foolishness with my daughter."

"Yes, sir." O'Reilly felt that the moment had come for his
carefully rehearsed speech, but, unhappily, he could not remember
how the swan-song started. He racked his brain for the opening
words.

Mr. Carter, too, was unaccountably silent. He opened his lips,
then closed them. Both men, after an awkward pause, cleared their
throats in unison and eyed each other expectantly. Another moment
dragged past, then they chorused:

"I have an unpleasant--"

Each broke off at the echo of his own words.

"What's that?" inquired the importer.

"N-nothing. You were saying--"

"I was thinking how lucky it is that you and Elsa waited. Hm-m!
Very fortunate." Again Mr. Carter rearranged his desk fittings.
"She has deep feelings--got a conscience, too. Conscience is a
fine thing in a woman--so few of 'em have it. We sometimes differ,
Elsa and I, but when she sets her heart on a thing I see that she
gets it, even if I think she oughtn't to have it. What's the use
of having children if you can't spoil 'em, eh?" He looked up with
a sort of resentful challenge, and when his listener appeared to
agree with him he sighed with satisfaction. "Early marriages are
silly--but she seems to think otherwise. Maybe she's right.
Anyhow, she's licked me. I'm done. She wants to be married right
away, before we go West. That's why I waited to see you at once.
You're a sensible fellow, Johnnie--no foolishness about you. You
won't object, will you? We men have to take our medicine."

"It's quite out of the question," stammered the unhappy O'Reilly.

"Come, come! It's tough on you, I know, but--" The fuse had begun
to sputter. Johnnie had a horrified vision of himself being
dragged unwillingly to the altar. "Elsa is going to have what she
wants, if I have to break something. If you'll be sensible I'll
stand behind you like a father and teach you the business. I'm
getting old, and Ethelbert could never learn it. Otherwise--" The
old man's jaw set; his eyes began to gleam angrily.

"Who is--Ethelbert?" faintly inquired O'Reilly.

"Why, dammit! He's the fellow I've been telling you about. He's
not so bad as he sounds; he's really a nice boy--"

"Elsa is in love with another man? Is that what you mean?"

"Good Lord, yes! Don't you understand English? I didn't think
you'd take it so hard--I was going to make a place for you here in
the office, but of course if--Say! What the deuce ails you?"

Samuel Carter stared with amazement, for the injured victim of his
daughter's fickleness had leaped to his feet and was shaking his
hand vigorously, meanwhile uttering unintelligible sounds that
seemed to signify relief, pleasure, delight--anything except what
the old man expected.

"Are you crazy, or am I?" he queried.

"Yes, sir; delirious. It's this way, sir; I've changed my mind,
too."

"Oh--! You have?"

"I've met the dearest, sweetest"--O'Reilly choked, then began
again--"the dearest, loveliest--"

"Never mind the bird-calls--don't coo! I get enough of that at
home. Don't tell me she's dearer and sweeter than Elsa. Another
girl! Well, I'll be damned! Young man, you're a fool."

"Yes, sir."

Slightly mollified by this ready acknowledgment, Mr. Carter
grunted with relief. "Humph! It turned out better than I thought.
Why, I--I was positively terrified when you walked in. And to
think you didn't need any sympathy!"

"I do need that job, though. It will enable me to get married."

"Nonsense! Better wait. I don't believe in early engagements."

"Oh yes, you do."

"Well, that depends. But, say--you're a pretty nervy youth to turn
down my daughter and then hold me up for a job, all in the same
breath. Here! Don't dance on my rug. I ought to be offended, and I
am, but--Get out while I telephone Elsa, so she can dance, too."

O'Reilly spent that evening in writing a long letter to Rosa
Varona. During the next few days his high spirits proved a trial
and an affront to Mr. Slack, who, now that his employer had
departed for the West, had assumed a subdued and gloomy dignity to
match the somber responsibilities of his position.

Other letters went forward by succeeding posts, and there was no
doubt now, that O'Reilly's pen was tipped with magic! He tingled
when he reread what he had written. He bade Rosa prepare for his
return and their immediate marriage. The fun and the excitement of
planning their future caused him to fill page after page with
thrilling details of the flat-hunting, home-fitting excursions
they would take upon their return to New York. He wrote her
ecstatic descriptions of a suite of Grand Rapids furniture he had
priced; he wasted a thousand emotional words over a set of china
he had picked out, and the results of a preliminary trip into the
apartment-house district required a convulsive three-part letter
to relate. It is remarkable with what poetic fervor, what strength
of feeling, a lover can describe a five-room flat; with what
glories he can furnish it out of a modest salary and still leave
enough for a life of luxury.

But O'Reilly's letters did not always touch upon practical things;
there was a wide streak of romance in him, and much of what he
wrote was the sort of thing which romantic lovers always write--
tender, foolish, worshipful thoughts which half abashed him when
he read them over. But that Rosa would thrill to them he had no
doubt, nor had he any fear that she would hesitate to leave her
native land for him. O'Reilly's love was unlimited; his trust in
the girl was absolute. He knew, moreover, that she loved and
trusted him. This, to be sure, was a miracle--a unique phenomenon
which never ceased to amaze him. He did not dream that every man
had felt the same vague wonder.

And so the time passed rapidly. But, strange to say, there came no
answer to those letters. O'Reilly chafed: he cursed the revolution
which had made communication so uncertain; at length he cabled,
but still the days dragged on with no result. Gradually his
impatience gave way to apprehension. Unreasonable conjectures
besieged his mind and destroyed his peace.

Great was his relief, therefore, when one day a worn, stained
envelope addressed in Rosa's hand was laid upon his desk. The
American stamp, the Key West postmark, looked strange, but--Her
first letter! O'Reilly wondered if his first letter to her could
possibly have moved her as this moved him. He kissed the envelope
where her lips had caressed it in the sealing. Then with eager
fingers he broke it open.

It was a generous epistle, long and closely written, but as he
read his keen delight turned to dismay, and when he had turned the
last thin page his brain was in wildest turmoil. He thought he
must be dreaming. He turned sick, aching eyes upon his
surroundings to prove this thing a nightmare, but the prosaic
clink of a typewriter and the drone of a voice dictating
quotations on Brazilian coffee were conclusive evidence to the
contrary. Those pages between his thumb and finger were real. Yes,
and that was Rosa's writing. Could it be that he had misunderstood
anything? He turned to the beginning and attempted to read, but
his hands shook so that he was obliged to lay the letter flat upon
his desk.

Rosa's Spanish training had been severely tried. The stiff, quaint
formality of her opening paragraphs only served to emphasize her
final frightened cry for help.

MY DEARLY BELOVED,--It is with diffidence and hesitation that I
take my pen in hand, for I fear you may consider me unduly forward
in writing to you without solicitation. Believe me, I appreciate
the reserve which a young lady of refinement should practise even
in her correspondence with the gentleman who has honored her with
his promise of marriage, but my circumstances are such as to
banish consideration of the social niceties.

Alas! What events have followed your departure from Matanzas! What
misfortunes have overtaken Esteban and me. That happiness could be
so swiftly succeeded by misery, that want could follow plenty,
that peril could tread so closely upon the heels of safety! Where
to begin, how to tell you, I scarcely know; my hand shakes, my
eyes are blinded--nor dare I trust myself to believe that this
letter will ever reach you, for we are refugees, Esteban and I--
fugitives, outcasts, living in the manigua with Asensio and
Evangelina, former slaves of our father. Such poverty, such
indescribable circumstances! But they were our only friends and
they took us in when we were homeless, so we love them.

I see you stare at these words. I hear you say, "That Rosa has
gone mad, like her wicked stepmother!" Indeed, sometimes I think I
have. But, no. I write facts. It is a relief to put them down,
even though you never read them. Good Asensio will take this
letter on his horse to the Insurrecto camp, many miles away, and
there give it to Colonel Lopez, our only friend, who promises that
in some mysterious way it will escape the eyes of our enemies and
reach your country. Yes, we have enemies! We, who have harmed no
one. Wait until I tell you.

But if this letter reaches you--and I send it with a prayer--what
then? I dare not think too long of that, for the hearts of men are
not like the hearts of women. What will you say when you learn
that the Rosa Varona whom you favored with your admiration is not
the Rosa of to-day? I hear you murmur, "The girl forgets herself!"
But, oh, the standards of yesterday are gone and my reserve is
gone, too! I am a hunted creature.

O'Reilly felt a great pain in his breast at the thought that Rosa
had for an instant doubted him. But she did not really doubt;
those misgivings were but momentary; the abandon of her appeal
showed that in her heart of hearts she knew his love to be
unshakable.

She had compelled herself to start with the death of Dona Isabel
and to give him a succinct account of all that had followed.
O'Reilly read the story, fascinated. Here, amid these
surroundings, with the rattle of typewriters and the tinkle of
telephone-bells in his ears, it all seemed wholly improbable,
fancifully unreal--like the workings of some turgid melodrama.

That is how we came to live with Asensio and his wife [the letter
went on]. Imagine it! A bohio, hidden away far up the Yumuri, and
so insignificant as to escape attention. We are no longer people
of consequence or authority; our safety depends upon our
inconspicuousness. We hide as do the timid animals, though nature
has not given us their skill in avoiding danger. I do not like the
wilderness; it frightens me. At night I hear things rustling
through the thatch above my head; in the morning my feet touch a
bare earthen floor. We live on fruits and vegetables from
Evangelina's garden, with now and then a fowl or a bite of meat
when Asensio is fortunate. Esteban does not seem to mind, but I
cannot accommodate myself to these barbarous surroundings.
Sometimes I bite my tongue to keep from complaining, for that, I
know, would grieve him.

The whole country is in chaos. There is no work--nothing but
suspicion, hatred, and violence. Oh, what desolation this war has
wrought! Esteban has already become a guerrillero. He has stolen a
cow, and so we have milk for our coffee; but there is only a
handful of coffee left, and little hope of more. Marauding bands
of Spaniards are everywhere, and the country people tell atrocious
tales about them. How will it end? How long before they will
discover us and the worst will happen?

Soon after our arrival Esteban went to the camp of Colonel Lopez
to arrange for us to join his army, but returned heart-broken. It
was impossible, it seems, on my account. Conditions with the
patriots are worse than with us here, and the colonel acknowledged
frankly that he could not be burdened with a woman in his command.
So Esteban has given up for the present his dream of fighting, and
devotes himself to protecting me. You see there is no sanctuary,
no help but his right arm. The towns are in Spanish hands, the
manigua is infested with lawless men, and there is no place in
which to hide me. So I feel myself a burden. Esteban has plans to
arm a band of his own. I am numb with dread of what it may lead
to, for his hatred is centered upon Cueto, that false servant
whose wickedness reduced us to this extremity. Esteban is so young
and reckless. If only you were here to counsel him.

If only you were here--Oh, my dearest Juan! If only you were here-
-to take me in your arms and banish this ever constant terror at
my heart. If only you were here to tell me that you love me still
in spite of my misfortune. See! The tears are falling as I write.
My eyes are dim, my fingers trace uncertain letters on the sheet,
and I can only steady them when I remember that you promised to
return. You WILL return, will you not? I could not write like this
if I were sure that you would read these lines. My nightly prayer-
-But I will not tell you of my prayers, for fate may guide this
letter to you, after all, and the hearts of men do change. In
those dark hours when my doubts arise I try to tell myself that
you will surely come and search me out.

Sometimes I play a game with Evangelina--our only game. We gather
wild flowers. We assort the few belongings that I managed to bring
with me and I array myself for you. And then I smile and laugh for
a little while, and she tells me I am beautiful enough to please
you. But the flowers fade, and I know that beauty, too, will fade
in such surroundings. What then? I ask myself.

When you return to Cuba--see, my faith is strong again--avoid
Matanzas, for your own sake and mine. Don Mario wanted to marry me
to save me this exile. But I refused; I told him I was pledged to
you, and he was furious. He is powerful; he would balk you, and
there is always room for one more in San Severino. Pancho Cueto,
too, living in luxury upon the fruits of his crime, would
certainly consider you a menace to his security. You see how
cunning my love for you has made me?

If I could come to you, I would, but I am marked. So if you still
desire me you must search me out. You will? I pin my faith to that
as to the Cross. To doubt would be to perish. If we should have to
find another hiding-place, and that is always likely, you can
learn of our whereabouts from Colonel Lopez.

Alas! If you had asked me to go with you that day! I would have
followed you, for my heart beat then as it beats to-day, for you
alone.

The candle is burning low and it will soon be daylight, and then
this letter must begin its long, uncertain journey. I must creep
into my bed now, to pray and then to dream. It is cold, before the
dawn, and the thatch above me rustles. I am very poor and sad and
lonely, O'Reilly, but my cheeks are full and red; my lips could
learn to smile again, and you would not be ashamed of me.

Asensio is rising. He goes to find his horse and I must close. God
grant this reaches you, some time, somehow. I trust the many blots
upon the paper will not give you a wrong impression of my writing,
for I am neat, and I write nicely; only now the ink is poor and
there is very little of it. There is little of anything, here at
Asensio's house, except tears. Of those I fear there are too many
to please you, my Juan, for men do not like tears. Therefore I try
to smile as I sign myself,

Your loving and your faithful

ROSA.

O God! Come quickly, if you love me.




VI

THE QUEST BEGINS


When O'Reilly had finished his second reading of the letter there
were fresh blots upon the pitifully untidy pages. "I write nicely,
only the ink is poor--" "There is little of anything here at
Asensio's house--" "It is cold before the dawn--" ... Poor little
Rosa! He had always thought of her as so proud, so high-spirited,
so playful, but another Rosa had written this letter. Her appeal
stirred every chord of tenderness, every impulse of chivalry in
his impressionable Irish nature. She doubted him; she feared he
would not come' to her. Well, he would set her doubts at rest. "O
God! Come quickly, if you love me." He leaped to his feet; he
dashed the tears from his eyes.

Mr. Slack looked up astonished at the apparition which burst in
upon him. He was accustomed to O'Reilly's high head of steam and
disapproved of it, but he had never seen the fellow so surcharged
as now. He was positively jumpy; his voice was sharp; his hands
were unsteady; his eyes were bright and blue and hard.

"I want my salary, quick," Johnnie began.

Mr. Slack resented emotion, he abominated haste; he had cultivated
what he considered to be a thorough commercial deliberation.

"My dear man," he said, "I'd advise you--"

"I don't want advice; I want money," snapped the other. "I've
quit, resigned, skipped, fled."

"Indeed? When does your resignation take effect?"

"Immediately, and if you don't move like lightning it will take
effect upon your person."

"Mr. Carter would never--"

"Bother Mr. Carter! Now stiffen your spine long enough to write my
check. If you don't--" O'Reilly compressed his lips and breathed
ominously through his nostrils. He laid a heavy and persuasive
hand upon the secretary's shoulder. "Hump yourself, old
jellyfish!"

There was a queer, wild light in O'Reilly's eye and for once Mr.
Slack took orders from an underling. He humped himself.

Johnnie's other preparations were conducted with equal vigor and
promptitude; within two hours his belongings were packed. But for
all his haste his mind was working clearly. Rosa's warning not to
come to Matanzas was no doubt warranted, and his own unpleasant
experiences with the customs men at Havana were still fresh enough
to be vivid. The Spaniards were intensely suspicious of all
Americans, especially incoming ones, as he had reason to know, and
since he was nearly as well acquainted in the one place as in the
other it seemed to be the part of wisdom to slip into the country
through a side door. The seat of war was in the east. The rebels
held that part of the island. Once there and in touch with them it
would surely be no difficult task to evade the local authorities
and join Colonel Lopez.

O'Reilly pondered these thoughts briefly, then seized his hat and
hastened down-town to the office of the Cuban Junta.

At this time the newspapers of the United States were devoting
much space to the insular uprising; the first stories of Spanish
atrocities later, alas! destined to become all too familiar, were
gaining public attention, and there were few readers who did not
know something about the activities of that body of patriots who
made their headquarters at 56 New Street. It was from this place
that the revolution was largely financed, so the papers said. It
was there that the filibustering expeditions supplying arms and
ammunition originated. To 56 New Street O'Reilly went.

There was nothing martial about the atmosphere of the Junta's
offices; there were no war maps on the walls, no stands of arms
nor recruiting officers in evidence--not even a hint of intrigue
or conspiracy. The place was rather meanly furnished, and it was
disappointingly commonplace. A business-like young man inquired
O'Reilly's errand.

Johnnie made known a part of it, and then asked to see some one in
authority. In consequence, perhaps, of his Irish smile or of that
persuasiveness which he could render almost irresistible when he
willed, it was not long before he gained admittance to the
presence of Mr. Enriquez, a distinguished, scholarly Cuban of
middle age.

"You say you have important business with me?" the latter
inquired, speaking with an accent of refinement.

O'Reilly plunged boldly into the heart of the matter which had
brought him thither. When he had finished his tale Mr. Enriquez
inquired:

"But how do you expect me to help you?"

"I want your advice more than your help, although you might tell
me where I can find Colonel Lopez."

Enriquez eyed his caller keenly. "That information would be very
well worth having," said he. "But, you understand, we know little
about what is going on in Cuba--far less than the Spaniards
themselves. I'm afraid I can't help you."

"You don't take me for a spy, do you?" Johnnie asked, with his
friendly grin.

"Ah! You don't look like one, but we never know whom to trust.
This young lady in whom you are interested, who is she?"

"Her name is Varona; Miss Rosa Varona."

"So?" Enriquez raised his brows. "Not by any chance the heiress to
that famous Varona treasure?"

"Exactly!--if there is such a thing." There ensued a pause while
the Cuban drummed softly upon his desk with his finger-tips. "Her
brother Esteban told me that he was working for your cause. I
warned him to be careful, but--" O'Reilly's voice grew suddenly
husky. "Here! Read this. I want you to believe me." Reverently he
laid Rosa's letter before her countryman. "I'm not in the habit of
showing my letters to strangers, but--I guess that'll convince you
I'm not a spy."

He sat silently while the letter was being read; nor was he
disappointed in the result. Mr. Enriquez raised dark,
compassionate eyes to his, saying:

"This is a touching letter, sir. I thank you for allowing me to
see it. No, I don't doubt you now. Poor Cuba! Her sons must be
brave, her daughters patient."

"Well! You understand why I must go quickly, and why I can't
chance delay by going either to Matanzas or to Havana. I want to
land somewhere farther east, and I want you to help me to find
Colonel Lopez."

Mr. Enriquez frowned thoughtfully. "What I just told you is
literally true," he said at last. "We work in the dark up here,
and we don't know the whereabouts of our troops. We are suspicious
of strangers, too, as we have reason to be. But--I have a
thought." He excused himself and left the room. When he returned
he explained: "I don't have to tell you that we are watched all
the time, and that for us to assist you openly would be liable to
defeat your purpose. But I have just telephoned to a man I can
trust, and I have told him your story. He has relatives in Cuba
and he agrees to help you if he can. His name is Alvarado."
Writing an address upon a card, he handed it to O'Reilly. "Go to
him, tell him what you have told me, and do as he directs. Another
thing, don't return here unless it is necessary; otherwise when
you land in Cuba you may have cause to regret it." Mr. Enriquez
extended his hand, and when O'Reilly tried to thank him he shook
his head. "It is nothing. I wish you success, but--I fear you have
tackled a big proposition."

Dr. Alvarado, a high type of the Cuban professional man, was
expecting O'Reilly. He listened patiently to his caller's somewhat
breathless recital.

"You do well to avoid the cities where you are known," he agreed.
"It would be madness, under the circumstances, even to be seen in
Matanzas: those enemies of--your friends--would have you deported.
But just how to reach the Insurrectos--"

"If you'd merely give me a letter saying I'm a friend--"

The doctor promptly negatived this suggestion. "Surely you don't
think it can be done as easily as that?" he inquired. "In the
first place, wherever you land, you will be watched and probably
searched. Such a letter, if discovered, would not only end your
chances, but it would bring certain disaster upon those to whom it
was written. I have no right to jeopardize the lives of those I
hold dear. These are perilous times for all good Cubans, Mr.
O'Reilly. Enriquez told me about that poor girl. She bears a
famous name and--I want to help her." He removed his glasses and
wiped them, absent-mindedly. "There are three Alvarados living,"
he resumed. "My two brothers, Tomas and Ignacio, reside in Cuba,
and we all work for the cause of independence in our own ways. I
am fortunately situated, but they are surrounded by dangers, and I
must ask you to be extremely careful in communicating with them,
for I am placing their lives in your hands and--I love them
dearly."

"I shall do exactly as you say."

"Very well, then! Go to Neuvitas, where Tomas lives--there is a
steamer leaving in three of four days, and you can arrange passage
on her. He is a dentist. Meet him, somehow, and make yourself
known by repeating this sentence: 'I come from Felipe. He told me
how you whipped him to keep him from going to the Ten Years' War!'
That will be enough; he will ask you who you are and what you
want."

"I see. It's a sort of password."

"No. I've never had reason to communicate with him in this way."
Noting the bewilderment in O'Reilly's face, Alvarado smiled. "You
won't need to say anything more. No living soul, except Tomas and
I, knows that he thrashed me, but it is true. I was young, I
wanted to go to the war, but he took it out of me with a bamboo.
Later we bound ourselves never to mention it. He will understand
from the message that I trust you, and he will help you to reach
the rebels, if such a thing is possible. But tell me, when you
have found Miss Varona, what then?"

"Why, I'll bring her out."

"How? Do you think you can walk into any seaport and take ship?
You will be tagged and numbered by the authorities. Once you
disappear into the manigua, you will be a marked man."

"Well, then, I'll marry her right there. I'm an American citizen--
"

"Don't build too much on that fact, either," the doctor warned.
"Spanish jails are strong, and your country has never compelled
that respect for its nationals which other countries insist upon."

"Perhaps! But the first thing is to find Miss Varona and learn
that she's safe. I don't much care what happens after that."

Alvarado nodded and smiled. "Good! What would this world be
without sentiment? It loves a lover. I like your spirit and I hope
soon to have the pleasure of again seeing you and meeting your--
wife."

O'Reilly flushed and stammered, whereupon the good Cuban patted
him on the shoulder. "Come and see me when you get back, and bring
me news of Tomas. Now, adios, compadre."

"Adios, senor! I am deeply grateful!"

O'Reilly had no difficulty in securing passage direct to Neuvitas
on the English steamer Dunham Castle, and a few days later he saw
the Atlantic Highlands dissolve into the mists of a winter
afternoon as the ship headed outward into a nasty running sea.

It proved to be a wretched trip. Off Hatteras the Dunham Castle
labored heavily for twelve hours, and bad weather followed her
clear into the old Bahama Channel. Not until she had thrust her
nose into the narrow entrance of Neuvitas harbor did she wholly
cease her seasick plunging, but then the weather changed with
bewildering suddenness.

Cuba, when it came fairly into sight, lay bathed in golden
sunshine, all warmth and welcome, like a bride upon an azure
couch. The moist breath from her fragrant shores swept over the
steamer's decks and Johnnie O'Reilly sniffed it joyfully.

He had brought little luggage with him, only an extra suit of
khaki, a few toilet articles, and a Colt's revolver, the companion
of his earlier Cuban days. He was holding the weapon in his hand,
debating how and where to conceal it, when the first officer
paused in the state-room door and, spying it, exclaimed:

"Hello! Smuggling arms to the Insurrectos, eh?"

O'Reilly laughed. "It's an old friend. I don't know just what to
do with it."

"I'll tell you," the mate volunteered. "Lead your old friend out
here to the rail, shake hands with him, and drop him overboard
before he gets you into trouble."

"Really?"

"I mean it. They won't let you land with that hardware. Take my
tip."

But Johnnie hesitated. Though his intentions were far from
warlike, he could not bring himself, in view of his secret plans,
to part with his only weapon. He examined his extra pair of khaki
trousers, and discovering a considerable surplus of cloth at each
inside seam, he took needle and thread and managed to sew the gun
in so that it hung close against the inside of his right leg when
he donned the garment. It felt queer and uncomfortable, but it did
not appear to be noticeable so long as he stood upright. With some
pride in his stratagem, he laid off his winter suit and changed
into lighter clothing.

Neuvitas was scorching under a midday sun when he came on deck.
Its low, square houses were glaring white; here and there a
splotch of vivid Cuban blue stood out; the rickety, worm-eaten
piling of its water-front resembled rows of rotten, snaggly teeth
smiling out of a chalky face mottled with unhealthy, artificial
spots of color. Gusts of wind from the shore brought feverish
odors, as if the city were sick and exhaled a tainted breath. But
beyond, the hills were clean and green, the fields were rich and
ripe. That was the Cuba which O'Reilly knew.

A Spanish transport, close by, was languidly discharging uniformed
troops; lighters of military supplies were being unloaded; the
sound of a bugle floated from the shore. Moored to the docks or
anchored in the harbor were several shallow-draught "tin-clad"
coast-patrol craft from the staffs of which streamed the red and
yellow bars of Spain.

Although there were but a few passengers on the Dunham Castle,
they were subjected to a long delay during which suspicious
customs men searched their baggage and questioned them. Finally,
however, O'Reilly found himself free to go ashore. He had passed
the ordeal handily, and now he was eager to reach some lodging-
place where he could remove that revolver which knocked against
his leg so awkwardly at every step. Once on the dock, he gave his
bag to a negro and led the way toward the street. At the last
moment, however, just as he was about to plant his feet upon solid
earth, he was halted by two men who rose from a bench where they
had been idling. They carried the tasseled canes of the Secret
Service, and O'Reilly felt his heart jump.

With a murmured apology one of them relieved the negro of the
valise while the other began to search O'Reilly's person for
concealed weapons. He began at Johnnie's shoulders and patted one
pocket after another, "fanning" him in the fashion approved of
policemen. Now, too late, the American regretted his refusal to
heed the mate's warning. It seemed certain that he was in for
trouble, but he drew his heels together and stood with the
revolver pressed between his legs, praying that those exploratory
palms would not encounter it. When the officer had slapped every
pocket, ending at the hips, he nodded; his companion snapped shut
the valise, and handed it back to the porter.

O'Reilly paused a moment or two later to wipe the abundant
perspiration from his face; even yet his pulse was pounding
erratically. He hoped the future held no more surprises of this
sort, for he feared that his nerve might fail him.

El Gran Hotel Europea, Neuvitas's leading hostelry, belied its
name. It was far from large, and certainly it was anything but
European, except, perhaps, in its proprietor's extravagant and un-
American desire to please, at any cost. The building was old and
dirty, the open cafe, fronting upon the sidewalk of the main
street, was full of flies, and dust from the unclean roadway lay
thick upon its stone-topped tables; moreover, a recognizable odor
of decay issued from the patio--or perhaps from the kitchen behind
it. After O'Reilly's first meal he was sure it came from the
latter place; even suspected that the odor flattered actual
conditions. But it was the best hotel the place afforded, and
Senor Carbajal was the most attentive of hosts.

He was a globular, unctuous little man, this Carbajal; he reminded
O'Reilly of a drop of oil. He evinced an unusual interest in the
affairs of his American guest, and soon developed a habit of
popping into the latter's room at unexpected moments, ostensibly
to see that all was as it should be. Now there was very little in
the room to need attention--only a bed with a cheese-cloth
mosquito-net, a wash-stand, and a towering, smelly clothes-press
of Spanish architecture, which looked as if it might have a dark
and sinister history. When, for the third time, he appeared
without knocking, O'Reilly suspected something.

"You have everything, eh?" Mr. Carbajal teetered upon the balls of
his feet while his small black eyes roved inquisitively.

"Everything in abundance."

"There is water, eh?" The proprietor peered dutifully into the
pitcher, incidentally taking stock of O'Reilly's toilet articles.

"A veritable ocean of it."

"One never knows. These servants are so lazy. But--your other
baggage, your trunk?"

"I have no trunk."

"So? I took you to be a great traveler."

"I am."

"Selling goods, eh?"

"No."

"Indeed? Then you are a pleasure traveler? You see the sights, is
that it? Well, Cuba is beautiful."

"Most beautiful, judging from what I have seen."

Mr. Carbajal wagged a pudgy forefinger at his guest. "Tut! Tut!
You know Cuba. You speak the language better than a native. You
can't fool me, sly one!" He wrinkled his face and winked both
eyes. It was an invitation to further confidence, and he was
disappointed when it passed unnoticed. "Well, you Americans are a
brave people," he continued, with an obvious effort to keep the
conversation going. "You like to be where the fighting is."

"Not I. I'm a timid man."

"Ho! Ha! Ha!" the proprietor cackled. Then he became pensive.
"There is nothing here at Neuvitas to interest a tourist--except
the war."

"I'm not a tourist."

"Indeed? Now that is interesting." Mr. Carbajal seated himself on
the edge of the bed, where he could look into O'Reilly's
traveling-bag. "Not a tourist, not a traveling-man. Now what could
possibly bring you to Cuba?"

O'Reilly eyed his inquisitor gravely; a subtle melancholy darkened
his agreeable countenance. "I travel for my health," said he.

"You--Health--!" Carbajal's frame began to heave; his bulging
abdomen oscillated as if shaken by some hidden hand. "Good! Ha!
There's another joke for you."

"I'm a sick man," O'Reilly insisted, hollowly.

"From what malady do you suffer?" inquired the hotel-keeper.

"Rheumatism."

"Rheumatism? That is no more than a pain in the joints, a
stiffness--"

"There! I knew it!" O'Reilly exclaimed in triumph. Rising, he
seized his host's moist hands and shook them violently. "You give
me courage! You make a new man of me. These doctors enjoy a
fellow's agony; they'd like to bury him. They'd never recommend
this climate. No! 'Pain in the joints,' you say, 'stiffness.' That
proves the abominable affliction is practically unknown here. I
thank you, sir."

"You don't look sick," mumbled Carbajal. "Not like the other
American."

"What other American?"

"A peculiar fellow. He went on to Puerto Principe. What a cough!
And he was as thin as a wire. He bled at the mouth, too, all the
time, when he was not reviling my hotel. You'll see him if you go
there, provided he hasn't come apart with his coughing. I believe
he writes for newspapers. Well, it is my pleasure to serve you.
Command me at any hour." Mr. Carbajal rose reluctantly and went
wheezing down-stairs to his grimy tables and the flies.

O'Reilly was not in the least deceived; it was plain to him that
the hotel man was in close touch with the Spanish authorities, and
he began to feel the need of some better excuse, some valid
business reason, for being here, such as would allay suspicion
once for all. But he could think of nothing better than his
rheumatism, and to that he determined to cling.




VII

THE MAN WHO WOULD KNOW LIFE


Later that day O'Reilly set out to reconnoiter the city of
Neuvitas. He was followed, of course--he had expected as much, and
the circumstances amused rather than alarmed him. But when he
returned to his hotel and found that his room had been visited
during his absence he felt a hint of uneasiness. Evidently, as
Doctor Alvarado had forecast, the authorities were interested in
him; and he had further evidence of the fact when he learned that
the room next him was occupied by the very man who had shadowed
him on the street. Inasmuch as the intervening wall was no more
than a thin partition, through which his very breathing could be
heard, while his every movement could doubtless be spied upon,
O'Reilly saw the need of caution, and he began to cast about for a
place to hide that Colt's revolver, the presence of which was
assuming the proportions of a menace. Now that his belongings had
been examined three times that day, the next step would probably
be another search of his person. Unless in the mean time he could
definitely establish his innocence of purpose, which was unlikely,
it behooved him to rid himself of the weapon without delay. This,
however, was a problem. He could not bring himself to throw the
thing away, and his bare bedroom offered no place of concealment.
Late that evening he called Mr. Carbajal and asked him if it were
possible to take a bath.

Mr. Carbajal assured him that it was. El Gran Hotel Europea was
first class in every respect; no expense had been spared in its
equipment. Senor O'Rail-ye had indeed done well in patronizing it,
for it boasted the best cuarto de bano in the whole city--a room,
moreover, which was devoted exclusively to the purposes of
bathing. And it was a large room--large enough to accommodate a
dozen guests at once. To be sure, it would require, say, half an
hour to make it ready, for it was stored with hay for the horses
which drew the 'bus to and from the depot, but if the senor would
have patience it could soon be restored to its original purpose.
Mr. Carbajal himself would see that there was a river of hot
water.

O'Reilly thanked him. An hour later he paraded, bare-foot, down
the hall, wrapped in a blanket. He had purposely left his clothes
behind him, and the door of his room unlocked, but under his naked
left arm he carried the revolver.

He was a long time in his bath. When he returned to his chamber he
found his garments very nearly as he had left them. He smiled as
he crept into bed and tucked the netting under his thin mattress.
They could search him now, whenever they pleased, for the revolver
and its box of precious cartridges reposed on a duty beam over the
bathroom, where no one would ever think of looking.

During breakfast, and afterward throughout an aimless morning
stroll, O'Reilly felt watchful eyes upon him. When he returned to
his hotel he found Mr. Carbajal in the cafe concocting refrescos
for some military officers, who scanned the American with bold,
hostile glances. O'Reilly complained to the proprietor of a
toothache.

At once Mr. Carbajal was sympathetic; he was also admonitory,
blaming the affliction upon that bath of the previous evening.
Excessive bathing, he declared, was injurious, particularly in the
winter season; it opened one's pores, and it dried one's skin and
rendered one liable to the attacks of every disease. Heat?
Perspiration? Was it wise to resort to unnatural and artificial
means in order to rid oneself of a trifling annoyance? If
perspiration were injurious, nature would not have provided it. In
fact, it was nature's method of keeping the body clean, and if
people were unreasonably fastidious about such things a little
cologne would render them even more agreeable to the senses than
any number of baths. That was the purpose of cologne. This habit
of bathing at fixed intervals of a week or two, regardless of
conditions, might be, and probably was, responsible for all of
O'Reilly's rheumatism. Mr. Carbajal, for one, knew better than to
overdo the thing. He had never suffered an ache or a pain in his
life and his teeth were perfectly sound, as he demonstrated by
beating vigorously upon them with his mixing-spoon.

O'Reilly was impressed by this argument, he acknowledged, but
unfortunately it did not remedy the pain which was killing him.
During the hottest part of the day, when he knew the town would be
asleep, he reappeared in the cafe, his cheek in his hand. He
declared that something had to be done, at once, and inquired the
name and address of the best local dentist.

Mr. Carbajal named several, among them Dr. Tomas Alvarado,
whereupon his guest hurried away, followed at a respectful
distance by the secret agent.

Finding Doctor Alvarado's office was closed, as he had
anticipated, O'Reilly proceeded to the doctor's residence. There
was some delay when he rang the bell, but eventually the dentist
himself appeared. O'Reilly recognized him from his resemblance to
his brother. He addressed him in English.

"I come from Felipe," he began. "He well remembers the day you
whipped him to keep him from going to the Ten Years' War."

The languor of Doctor Alvarado's siesta vanished. He started, his
eyes widened.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"My name is O'Reilly. I am an American, a friend, so don't be
alarmed. The man you see approaching is following me, but he
thinks I have come to you with a toothache."

"What do you want?"

"I want your help in joining the Insurrectos."

By this time the detective had come within earshot. Making an
effort at self-possession, the dentist said: "Very well. I will
meet you at my office in a half-hour and see what can be done."
Then he bowed.

O'Reilly raised his hat and turned away.

Doctor Alvarado's dentist's chair faced a full-length window, one
of several which, after the Cuban fashion, opened directly upon
the sidewalk, rendering both the waiting-room and the office
almost as public as the street itself. Every one of these windows
was wide open when Johnnie arrived; but it seemed that the dentist
knew what he was about, for when his patient had taken his seat
and he had begun an examination of the troublesome tooth, he said,
under his breath:

"I, too, am watched. Talk to me in English. When I press, thus,
upon your gum, you will know that some one is passing. Now then,
what is the meaning of your amazing message from Felipe?"

While Doctor Alvarado pretended to treat a perfectly sound molar,
Johnnie managed, despite frequent interruptions, to make known the
reason and circumstances of his presence.

"But there are no rebels around here," Alvarado told him. "You
could escape to the country, perhaps, but what then? Where would
you go? How would they know who you are?"

"That's what I want to find out."

The Cuban pondered. "You'll have to go to Puerto Principe," he
said, at length. "Our men are operating in that neighborhood, and
my brother Ignacio will know how to reach them. I'll give you a
message to him, similar to the one you brought me from Felipe."
Then he smiled. "I've just thought of the very thing. Years ago I
lent him a book which I particularly prized, and one of his
children damaged it. I was furious. I declared I would never lend
him another, and I never have. Now then, I'll give you that very
volume; hand it to him and say that I asked you to return it to
him. I'd like to see his face when he receives it."

O'Reilly thanked him, promising to use every precaution in
delivering the message. The very care necessary in communicating
between brother and brother made him realize more clearly than
hitherto that he was among enemies.

The next morning he paid Carbajal's score and took the train to
the interior. In his bag was Tomas Alvarado's precious volume, and
in the same coach with him rode the Secret Service man.

In its general features Puerto Principe differed little from the
other Cuban cities O'Reilly knew. It was compactly built, it was
very old and it looked its centuries. Its streets were
particularly narrow and crooked, having been purposely laid out in
labyrinthian mazes, so the story goes, in order to fool the
pirates. In some ways it was quaint and unusual. For instance,
here and there were queer tinajones, vast venerable earthen jars
for holding rain-water, each inscribed with the date when it left
the potter's wheel; then, too, there was a remarkable number of
churches--massive structures, grayed by time--and in the northern
distance, blue against the sky, O'Reilly had a glimpse of the
Cubitas range, where he knew the insurrectos were in camp. That
was his goal: it seemed almost within his grasp. He was tempted to
abandon caution and make a dash for it, until he discovered that
the city was well guarded. One needed a pass to enter or to leave
Puerto Principe, and, moreover, the city had no suburbs, no
scattered residences outside its boundaries: when one came to the
end of a street one found oneself in an open field faced by a
barbed-wire barrier, and on every road leading from the town stood
a fortina, a little fort of brick or logs, in which were stationed
Spanish soldiers. The streets were alive with uniformed men,
patrols were everywhere, and martial law prevailed. For the first
time O'Reilly began to perceive the strength of that mailed hand
which held the island so tightly. Judging from the preparations
here, one must conclude that Spain had no intention of
relinquishing her last New World possession.

After a stroll through the city, during which he carefully used
his eyes, Johnnie asked himself how the ill-drilled, ill-equipped,
loosely organized Insurrectos could hope to overthrow so solid a
power as this, backed as it seemed to be by unlimited means and
unlimited armies of trained troops. It looked like a hopeless
undertaking. No seaport, no city, scarcely a hamlet, in fact, so
far as O'Reilly knew, was held by the rebels; they lurked in the
woods or rode the savannas in ragged bands, here to-day, there to-
morrow. To aid or comfort them was treason. They appeared out of
the jungles at unexpected moments; they faded like the mists of
the dawn. Theirs was an apparitional warfare, and even their
biggest victories were signals for retreat. How could they think
to win?

It seemed impossible that such resistance as they offered could
wear down and conquer the resources of Spain, yet the very numbers
and alertness of the Spanish troops argued a somewhat formidable
opposition. Did it not also argue an all-pervading restlessness
which might some day escape control? O'Reilly, of course, had no
part in this quarrel: but it struck him as a wicked waste to
destroy, to ravage, and to slay when settlement was so easy. The
motive behind this prodigal extravagance of blood and gold was
nothing but foolish resistance of a principle. A little yielding,
a little diminution of harshness, a little compassion on the part
of the mother country, and these men who were killing one another
would embrace and proclaim their blood brotherhood.

Pondering such thoughts as these, O'Reilly returned to his hotel.
As he sat in the cafe, sipping an orangeade, he heard some one
speaking in atrocious Spanish, and looked up to see that another
American had entered. The stranger was a tall, funereal young man,
with pallid cheeks and hollow, burning eyes: he was asking for
ice-water, but what he said resembled anything except the language
of the country.

"Hey, George!" he cried. "Try gimme a vasso of agwa con yellow."
He pronounced the words with elaborate pains. "Make it a long
one."

A waiter eyed him tolerantly, but with no faintest sign of
understanding.

"Agwa con yellow--agwa with ice. Ice! ICE!" the man repeated
loudly. Still failing of a response, he shouted, "Don't you know
what 'ice' is?" He wrapped his long, lean arms about himself and
shivered. "Cold! Icie! Freezum! Br-r-r! Savvy?"

Inspiration came to the waiter; a smile irradiated his
countenance, and with a murmured apology for his stupidity he
hurried away.

O'Reilly stepped over to the stranger's table and introduced
himself. "The hotel-keeper in Neuvitas told me I'd find you here,"
he said. "Your name is--"

"Branch; Leslie Branch. So Carbajal said you'd find me here, eh?
Oh, the greasy little liar. He didn't believe it. He thought his
cooking would have killed me, long ago, and it nearly did." This
time Mr. Branch's bony frame underwent a genuine shudder and his
face was convulsed with loathing. "Did you try his butter? 'Made
in Denmark' during the early Victorian period. I hate antiques--
can't eat anything oily. Carbajal's in the Secret Service. Nice
fat little spy."

"So I suspected."

Mr. Branch's beverage appeared at this moment. With a flourish the
waiter placed a small glass and a bottle of dark liquid before
him. Branch stared at it, then rolled a fiercely smoldering eye
upward.

"What's that?" he inquired.

O'Reilly read the label. "It's bitters," said he.

"BITTERS! And I asked for 'yellow'--a glass of agwa with yellow."
Branch's voice shook. "I'm dying of a fever, and this ivory-billed
toucan brings me a quart of poison. Bullets!" It was impossible to
describe the suggestion of profanity with which the speaker
colored this innocuous expletive. "Weak as I am, I shall gnaw his
windpipe." He bared his teeth suggestively and raised two talon-
like hands.

The waiter was puzzled, but not alarmed. He embraced himself as
his customer had done, and shuddered; then pointing at the
bitters, he nodded encouragingly.

O'Reilly forestalled an outburst by translating his countryman's
wants. "Un vaso de agua con hielo," said he, and the attendant was
all apologies.

"So, you speak the lingo?" marveled Mr. Branch. "Well, I can't get
the hang of it. Don't like it. Don't like anything Spanish. Hell
of a country, isn't it? where the ice is 'YELLOW' and the butter
is 'MEANT TO KILL YOU,' and does."

O'Reilly laughed. "You've been studying a guide-book, 'with
complete glossary of Spanish phrases.' By the way, Carbajal said
you are a writer."

Mr. Branch nodded listlessly. "I'm supposed to report this
insurrection, but the Spaniards won't let me. They edit my stuff
to suit themselves. I'm getting tired of the farce."

"Going home?"

"Don't dare." The speaker tapped his concave chest. "Bum lungs. I
came down here to shuffle off, and I'm waiting for it to happen.
What brings you to Cuba?"

"I'm here for my health, too." The real invalid stared. "I have
rheumatism."

"Going to sweat it out, eh? Well, there's nothing to do but
sweat"--Branch was racked by a coughing spasm that shook his reedy
frame--"sweat and cough. Bullets! No mistake about that hospital
bark, is there?" When he had regained his breath he said: "See
here! I'm going to take a chance with you, for I like your looks.
My newspaper work is a bluff: I don't send enough stuff to keep me
alive. I come here to cure my lungs, and--I want you to help me do
it."

O'Reilly stared at the man in surprise. "How can I help you?" he
asked.

"By taking me with you."

"With me? Where?"

"To the Insurrectos, of course."

The men eyed each other fixedly. "What makes you think--" O'Reilly
began.

"Oh, don't say it! I've got a hunch! I don't know what your game
is--probably dynamite: there's a story that the rebels have sent
for some American experts to teach them how to use the stuff, and
God knows they need instruction! Anyhow, I can't swallow that
rheumatism talk. I thought you might give me a lift. Take me
along, will you?"

"And how would that benefit your cough?" Johnnie inquired,
curiously.

Mr. Branch hesitated. "Well, I'll tell you," he said, after a
moment. "I'm afraid to die this way, by inches, and hours. I'm
scared to death." It seemed impossible that the sick man's cheeks
could further blanch, but they became fairly livid, while a
beading of moisture appeared upon his upper lip. "God! You've no
idea how it gets on a fellow's nerves to see himself slipping--
slipping. I'd like to end it suddenly, like that!" He voiced the
last sentence abruptly and snapped his fingers. "I've tried to
bump off, but--no courage! Funny, isn't it? Well, the doctors told
me another New York winter would put me in a rosewood show-case.
I've tried Colorado and it's no good. See? So I decided to join
the Cubans and--let a bullet do the trick. I never did like the
Spaniards--their cooking is too greasy. Then, too, I'd like to
have a thrill before I cash in--taste 'the salt of life,' as
somebody expressed it. That's war. It's the biggest game in the
world. What do you think of the idea?"

"Not much," O'Reilly said, honestly.

"Difference in temperament. I suppose it IS a sick fancy, but I've
got it. Unfortunately, now that I'm here, these Romeos won't let
me get out of town. If you're what I think you are, give me a
hand. I'm a rotten coward, but I'll fight if the Cubans will take
me."

"Where are the Cubans?"

"Oh, they're out yonder in the hills. I know all about 'em. Come
over to my quarters, and I'll show you a map, if you're
interested."

"I am," said O'Reilly, and, rising, he followed his new
acquaintance.




VIII

THE SPANISH DOUBLOON


On the whole, Pancho Cueto's plans had worked smoothly. After
denouncing the Varona twins as traitors he had managed to have
himself appointed trustee for the crown, for all their properties,
consummation for which he had worked from the moment he read that
letter of Esteban's on the morning after Dona Isabel's death. To
be sure, the overseer had acquired title, of a sort, to the
plantation by paying the taxes over a period of years, but it was
the quinta itself which he desired, the Quinta de Esteban with its
hidden gold. That there was a treasure Cueto had never doubted,
and, once the place was his to do with as he chose, he began his
search.

Cueto was a tireless, thorough-going man, therefore he did not set
about his explorations in the haphazard manner of Dona Isabel.
Commencing at the lower edge of the grounds, he ripped them up
with a series of deep trenches and cross-cuts. It was a task that
required the labor of many men for several weeks, and when it was
finished there was scarcely a growing thing left upon the place.
Only a few of the larger trees remained. Cueto was disappointed at
finding nothing, but he was not discouraged. Next he tore down the
old slave barracoons and the outbuildings, after which he
completely wrecked the residence itself. He pulled it apart bit by
bit, brick by brick. He even dug up its foundations, but without
the reward of so much as a single peseta. Finally, when the villa
was but a heap of rubbish and the grounds a scar upon the slope of
La Cumbre, he desisted, baffled, incredulous, while all Matanzas
laughed at him. Having sacrificed his choicest residence, he
retired in chagrin to the plantation of La Joya.

But Cueto was now a man with a grievance. He burned with rage, and
his contempt for the boy and girl he had wronged soured into
hatred. Such time as he did not spend in racking his brain to
explain the disappearance of the dead Esteban's riches, he devoted
to cursing the living Esteban and his sister, who, it seemed to
him, were somehow to blame for his wrecked hopes.

In time he began to realize also that so long as they lived they
would jeopardize his tenure of their property. Public feeling, at
present, was high; there was intense bitterness against all
rebels; but the war would end some day. What then? Cueto asked
himself. Sympathy was ever on the side of the weak and oppressed.
There would come a day of reckoning.

As if to swell his discomfiture and strengthen his fears, out from
the hills at the head of the Yumuri issued rumors of a little band
of guerrilleros, under the leadership of a beardless boy--a band
of blacks who were making the upper valley unsafe for Spanish
scouting parties.

Cursing the name of Varona, Pancho Cueto armed himself. He did not
venture far alone, and, like Dona Isabel before him, he began to
have bad dreams at night.

One day a field of Cueto's cane was burned, and his laborers
reported seeing Esteban and some negroes riding into the wood. The
overseer took horse within the hour and rode pell-mell to
Matanzas. In the city at this time was a certain Colonel Cobo, in
command of Spanish Volunteers, those execrable convict troops from
the Isle of Pines whose atrocities had already marked them as
wolves rather than men, and to him Pancho went with his story.

"Ah yes! That Varona boy. I've heard of him," Cobo remarked, when
his caller had finished his account. "He has reason to hate you, I
dare say, for you robbed him." The Colonel smiled disagreeably. He
was a disagreeable fellow, so dark of skin as to lend credence to
the gossip regarding his parentage; a loud, strutting, domineering
person, whose record in Santa Clara Province was such that only
the men discussed it.

Cueto murmured something to the effect that the law had placed him
in his position as trustee for the crown, and should therefore
protect him; but Colonel Cobo's respect for the law, it seemed,
was slight. In his view there was but one law in the land, the law
of force.

"Why do you come to me?" he asked.

"That fellow is a desperado," Pancho declared. "He should be
destroyed."

"Bah! The country is overrun with desperadoes of his kind, and
worse. Burning crops is nothing new. I'd make an end of him soon
enough, but nearly all of my men are in Cardenas. We have work
enough to do."

"I'd make it worth while, if you could put an end to him," Pancho
said, hesitatingly. Then, recalling some of those stories about
Colonel Cobo, he added, "There are two of them, you know, a boy
and a girl."

"Ah yes! I remember."

"I can direct you to the house of Asensio, where they live."

"Um-m!" Cobo was thoughtful. "A girl. How old is she?"

"Eighteen."

"Ugly as an alligator, I'll warrant."

"Ha! The most ravishing creature in all Matanzas. All the men were
mad over her." Cueto's eyes gleamed craftily, for he believed he
had measured Cobo's caliber. "She should have married old Castano
and all his money, but she was heart and soul in the revolution.
She and the boy were spying on us, you know, and sending the
information to that rebel, Lopez."

"Lopez! Spies, were they?"

"The worst kind. You'd scarcely believe it of a beautiful girl,
with her culture and refinement. I tell you it broke more than one
heart. De Castano, for instance, has never recovered. He sits all
day in the Casino and grieves for her. Such hair and eyes, such
skin--as white as milk--and flesh as pure as the petals of a
flower. Well, you wouldn't believe such charms existed."

Colonel Cobo, the guerrilla, licked his full, red lips and ran a
strong, square hand over his curly, short-cropped hair. "You say
you know where she--where they are living?"

"Ah, perfectly! It's less than a night's ride. There's no one
except the boy to reckon with."

"How much is he worth to you?" bluntly inquired the soldier, and
Cueto sat down to make the best terms possible.

"Do you think he received my letter?" Rosa asked of her brother
one evening as they sat on the board bench by Asensio's door. It
was a familiar question to Esteban; he had answered it many times.

"Oh yes!" he declared. "Lopez's messenger got through to Key
West."

"Then why doesn't he come?"

"But, my dear, you must be patient. Think of his difficulties."

The girl sighed. "I do. I think of nothing else. Sometimes I feel
that he is here--I seem to feel his presence--then again the most
terrible doubts assail me. You know there was another woman.
Perhaps."

"What an idea!" Esteban exclaimed. "As if he could think of any
one after knowing you. Did he not assure you that he was going to
New York for the sole purpose of breaking off that affair? Well,
then!" This subject always distressed young Varona; therefore he
changed it. "Come! You haven't heard of my good fortune. I
captured another fine snake to-day, a big, sleepy fellow. Believe
me, he'll wake up when I set fire to his tail. He'll go like the
wind, and with every foot he goes away will go more of Pancho
Cueto's profits."

"You intend to burn more of his fields?" absently inquired the
girl.

"Every one of them. You should have seen those rats when we soaked
them with oil and set them afire. They scampered fast; but their
hair is short; they don't run far. These snakes will be better."

"It seems terrible to destroy our own property."

Esteban broke out excitedly; he could not discuss Pancho Cueto
without losing control of himself. "Would you permit that traitor
to fatten upon the profits of our plantations? He thinks he is
safe; he is preparing for a rich crop at high prices, but he shall
never reap a dollar from Varona land as long as I live. I shall
ruin him, as he ruined us."

Rosa shook her dark head sadly. "And we are indeed ruined. Think
of our beautiful house; all our beautiful things, too! We used to
consider ourselves poor, but--how little we knew of real poverty.
There are so many things I want. Have we nothing left?"

"I thought it best to buy those rifles," the brother murmured,
dropping his eyes. "It was one chance in a million."

"No doubt it was. It seems those Spaniards will sell their souls."

"Exactly. We can dig food from the earth and pluck it from the
trees, but good Mausers don't grow on every bush. Besides, of what
use would money be to us when we have no place to spend it?"

"True!" After a moment Rosa mused aloud: "I wonder if Cueto found
the treasure? If only we had that--"

"He didn't find it," Esteban declared, positively. "I"--he
hesitated--"I think I know why he didn't."

"Yes?"

"I think I know where it is."

"Esteban!" Rosa stared, round-eyed, at her brother.

"Oh, I mean it. I've been thinking so ever since--"

"Where is it?" breathlessly inquired the girl.

After a furtive look over his shoulder Esteban whispered, "In the
well."

"You're joking!"

"No, no! Think for yourself. It was old Sebastian who dug that
well--"

"Yes."

"And he alone shared father's confidence. That sunken garden was
all Sebastian's work; he spent all his time there, although he was
a big, strong man and capable of any task. No one else was allowed
to tend it. Why? I'll tell you. They feared to let any one else
draw the water. Isabel searched for years: if that treasure had
been above ground her sharp nose would have smelled it out, and
now Cueto has moved the very earth."

Rosa sat back, disappointed. "So that's your theory?"

"It's more than a theory," the boy insisted. "Look at this!" From
the pocket of his cotton trousers he produced an odd-looking coin
which he placed in Rosa's hand.

"Why, it's gold! It's a Spanish doubloon," she said. "It's the
first one I ever saw. Where did you find it?"

"You'll think I'm crazy when I tell you--sometimes I think so
myself. I found it in Isabel's hand when I took her from the
well!"

Rosa was stricken speechless.

"She clutched it tightly," Esteban hurried on, "but as I made the
rope fast her hand relaxed and I saw it in the lantern-light. It
was as if--well, as if she gave it to me. I was too badly
frightened to think much about it, as you may imagine. It was a
horrible place, all slime and foul water; the rocks were slippery.
But that coin was in her fingers."

Rosa managed to say: "Impossible! Then she must have had it when
she fell."

"No, no! I saw her hands upstretched, her fingers open, in the
moonlight."

"It's uncanny. Perhaps--"

"Yes. Perhaps some unseen hand led her to the place so that we
should at last come into our own. Who knows? I didn't bother my
head about the matter at first, what with our flight and all, but
now I reason that there must be other coins where this one came
from. There's no doubt that father hid his money. He turned his
slaves into gold, he bought jewels, precious metal, anything he
could hide. Well, perhaps there were old coins in the lot. The
water in the well is shallow; Isabel must have groped this piece
from the bottom. Some day I shall explore the hole and--we shall
see."

Rosa flung her arms rapturously about her brother's neck and
kissed him. "Wouldn't it be glorious?" she cried. "Wouldn't it be
wonderful, to be rich, and to want for nothing; to have fine
clothes and good things to eat once more? Good things to eat!" Her
lip quivered. "Oh--I'm so hungry."

"Poor little girl!"

"Wait till O'Reilly hears about this." Rosa was all excitement
once more. "He'll be glad he came and got me, if he does come."

Esteban caressed her. "He'll come, never fear. You remember he
warned me to be careful? Well I--I blame myself for bringing you
to this. For myself, of course I don't mind, but for you this life
must be terrible. I know it. Every time I leave you my heart is in
my throat for fear of what may happen in my absence--and yet I
can't always be at your side."

"There! You acknowledge that I handicap you. Except for me you
would be making a glorious name for yourself."

"Nothing of the sort. More probably I'd be getting myself killed.
No! It's better this way. We must be brave and patient and--think
of what is waiting for us at the bottom of that well."

It was indeed a great piece of luck which had enabled Esteban
Varona to buy a half-dozen Mausers from a Spanish soldier. Through
Asensio's acquaintance he had profited by the dishonesty of an
enemy, and, although it had taken all his money to effect the
purchase, Esteban considered the sacrifice well worth while. The
fire of patriotism burned fiercely in him, as did his hatred of
Pancho Cueto, and the four trusty young negroes to whom he had
given rifles made, with Asensio and himself, an armed party large
enough to be reckoned with. These blacks were excitable fellows,
and wretched marksmen, but, on the other hand, each and every one
had been raised with a machete at his hip and knew how to use it.
After a few preliminary forays under Esteban's leadership they had
absorbed a bit of discipline and were beginning to feel a military
ardor.

In the Cuban field forces there were many negroes, and many of
their fellow-patriots fought better, or endured the hardships of
guerrilla warfare more cheerfully, than they. Gen. Antonio Maceo
was of mixed blood, and yet his leadership was characterized not
only by rare judgment and ability, but also by an exalted abandon
of personal bravery. His several brothers rendered Cuba services
scarcely less distinguished, and they were but of a few of many
dark-skinned heroes. This struggle for independence was no
patrician's war; the best stock of the island fought side by side
with field-hands.

At dawn of the morning following his talk with Rosa, when the
members of his command assembled, Esteban was up and ready. He had
made his preparations to destroy Pancho Cueto's fields, and since
the road over the hills to La Joya was long he had summoned them
early.

"Be careful!" Rosa implored him. "I shall die of suspense."

"It is for you to be careful," he laughed. "Keep a good watch, and
conceal yourself at the first alarm. However, I think we have
taught these bandits a lesson. As for Cueto, he would run to the
jungle if he saw us. He has the heart of a mouse." He kissed his
sister affectionately and then rode off at the head of his
tattered band.

Rosa waved him a last farewell as he disappeared into the woods,
then, to occupy herself, she helped Evangelina with what little
housework there was to do, later going with her to the garden
patch where the viandas grew.

Evangelina's early devotion to her mistress had not diminished
with time; if anything, it had deepened. When emancipation came
she would have returned to the service of her beloved twins had it
not been for Dona Isabel's refusal to accept her. As it was, she
and Asensio had married, and by means of Rosa's surreptitious help
they had managed to buy this little piece of land. Rosa had
practised self-denial to make the purchase possible, and her self-
sacrifice had borne fruit: that act of childish beneficence had
created a refuge for Esteban and herself and had ripened the negro
woman's affection into idolatry.

Evangelina's joy at having the girl to herself, where she could
daily see her, touch her, serve her, was tempered only by the
knowledge of Rosa's unhappiness. She scolded and tyrannized, she
mothered and adored the girl to her heart's content; she watched
over her like a hawk; she deemed no labor in her service too
exacting. It would have gone ill with any one who offered harm to
Rosa, for Evangelina was strong and capable; she had the arms and
the hands of a man, and she possessed the smoldering black temper
of Sebastian, her father.

Even in peaceful times few people came to this clearing, in the
woods, far off from the main-traveled roads of the Yumuri, and the
day, as usual, passed uneventfully. Evangelina worked, with one
eye upon her Rosa, the other watchfully alert for danger. When
evening came she prepared their scanty meal, upbraiding Rosa,
meanwhile, for her attempts to assist her. Then they sat for an
hour or two on the bench outside the door, talking about Juan
O'Rail-ye and the probable hour of his coming.

There were no candles in Asensio's house now, and had there been,
neither woman would have dared light one. To hunted creatures
darkness is a friend; danger stalks under the sun.

When Rosa fretted about her brother, the negress reassured her.
"Don't be frightened, little dove; he has the makings of a great
soldier. It's a good thing for the Spaniards that he isn't
general. Cuba would be free in no time."

"He's so reckless."

"Oh, he knows what he's doing. Besides, Asensio wouldn't let him
be hurt. I took pains to tell him that if ever he permitted
Esteban to suffer so much as a scratch I would disembowel him with
his own machete. He knows me. Now, then, it is growing cool and
the night air carries fevers. Creep into your bed and dream about
that handsome lover of yours."

"No, I'll keep watch with you."

Evangelina was indignant. "Go!" she stormed. "What will happen to
those red cheeks if you don't sleep? Do you think the American
will want to marry an old woman with wrinkles? He may be here to-
morrow--yes, I have a certain feeling about it."

Rosa obeyed, although reluctantly. "I'll sleep for a while," she
compromised, "then I'll come out and take my turn."

This exactly suited the elder woman, who knew something about the
slumbers of youth. Nevertheless, dawn was still a long way off
when, true to her promise, Rosa emerged from the hut with an
apology for having slept so long. Evangelina protested, though her
eyes were heavy and she had been yawning prodigiously for hours.
But for once the girl was firm. "I can't sleep," she declared.
"Why force me to lie staring into the dark while you suffer?"
Having finally prevailed in her determination, she seated herself
in the warm place Evangelina had vacated, and, curling her small
feet under her, she settled herself, chin in hand, to think of
O'Reilly. It was a good time to think, for the jungle was very
still and the night like a velvet curtain.

"We had better leave the horses here." Pancho Cueto hesitatingly
addressed the dim blur which he knew to be Colonel Cobo. The
Colonel of Volunteers was in a vile temper, what with the long
night ride and an error of Cueto's which had considerably
lengthened the journey.

"Where is the house?" growled the officer.

"Not far. But the path is rocky and the horses' feet--"

"God, yes!" There was a creak of saddle leathers and a groan as
the colonel dismounted. "Now, my good Cueto," he threatened,
"another of your mistakes and I'll give you something to remember
me by. Damnation! What a night! As black as hell."

"It will be daylight before we know it," the other said,
nervously.

"Excellent! Then I can see to deal with you if you've fooled me."
A curt order brought his men out of their saddles. One of their
number was detailed to guard the animals, while the rest fell in
behind Cueto and followed him up the trail by the starglow.




IX

MARAUDERS


The surprise was easily effected, for Colonel Cobo's men were
accomplished in this sort of work. Rosa, crouching upon her bench,
heard nothing, saw nothing, until out of the shadows beside her
human forms materialized. Her white dress, like a dim
phosphorescent glow in dark waters, betrayed her presence, and as
she sprang to her feet rough hands seized her. She screamed once,
twice; then a palm closed over her mouth and she began to struggle
like a cat.

Evangelina, who had waked at the first outcry, met the marauders
as they rushed through the door. The hush of the sleeping Jungle
was shattered now; there were shouts and curses, loudly bellowed
orders, a great scuffling and pounding of feet upon the dirt floor
of the hut, the rickety, bark-covered walls bulged and creaked.
Over all sounded the shrieks of the negress battling in the pitch-
black interior like an animal in its lair. Then some one set fire
to the thatch; the flames licked up the dead palm-leaves to the
ridge-pole, and the surroundings leaped into view.

Rosa saw a swarthy, thick-set man in the uniform of a Colonel of
Volunteers, and behind him Pancho Cueto. Tearing the hand from her
lips for a moment, she cried Cueto's name, but he gave no heed. He
was straining his gaze upon the door of the bohio in the immediate
expectation of seeing Esteban emerge. He clutched a revolver in
his hand, but it was plain from the nerveless way in which he held
the weapon that he had little stomach for the adventure. He was,
in fact, more inclined to run than to stand his ground. Rosa
shrieked his name again; then she heard the officer say:

"Where is the young fellow? I hear nothing but the squeals of that
common wench."

Evangelina's cries of rage and defiance suddenly ceased, and with
them the sounds of combat. From the blazing bohio ran two armed
men, brushing sparks from their clothing. A third followed,
dragging Evangelina by one naked arm. The black woman was inert;
her scanty garments were well-nigh ripped from her body: she lay
huddled where the soldier flung her.

Rosa felt herself swooning, and she knew nothing of what
immediately followed. After a time she felt herself shaken, and
heard the colonel addressing her.

"Come, come!" he was saying. "Why don't you answer me?" He dragged
her farther from what was now a roaring furnace. "Where is your
precious brother and that black fellow?"

Rosa could only stare dully.

"It seems we missed them," said Cueto.

"More of your bungling," Cobo broke out at him, wrathfully. "God!
I've a mind to toss you into that fire." He turned his attention
once more to Rosa, and with a jerk that shook her into fuller
consciousness repeated: "Where are they? Speak to me."

"Gone!" she gasped. "Gone!" She struggled weakly toward Cueto,
imploring him, "Pancho, don't you know me?"

"Well, we've taught him a lesson," said Cueto, grinning
apprehensively at Cobo. "We've accomplished something, anyhow,
eh?" He nodded at Rosa. "She's all that I told you. Look at her!"

Colonel Cobo took time to scrutinize his prisoner. He turned her
about in the light from the burning dwelling; then he agreed.

"Yes! She's a pretty little spy--quite a prize, truly. Now then!"
His thick lips spread; he spoke to her more gently. "I want you to
tell me about that brother of yours, eh? Cueto said I would find
him here. Ha! Still frightened, I see. Well, I have a way with
women; I dare say you'll be glad to tell me everything by and by."
Then, seeing that his men risked a scorching in their search of
the hut and were already quarreling over the scanty plunder which
it afforded, he turned from Rosa to call them away.

Profiting by his inattention, Rosa wriggled out of his grasp and
ran to Evangelina, who lay face down in the dirt, her limbs
sprawled loosely. She flung herself upon the prostrate body and
cried the black woman's name, but she could awaken no response.

The first pink of dawn was now deepening in the east, and as soon
as it had grown light enough to see to travel Colonel Cobo
prepared to return to his horses. The roof and walls of the bohio
had fallen away to ashes, its skeleton of poles and its few pieces
of crude furniture alone were smoldering when he called his men
together and gave the word to go.

"Come, my sweetheart." He addressed himself to the girl. "Leave
that carrion for the buzzards."

Rosa looked up to find him leering at her. She brushed the tears
from her eyes, crying:

"Go away! In God's name haven't you done harm enough?"

"Oh, but you're going with me."

The girl rose; her face was colorless; she was aquiver with
indignation. "Leave me!" she stormed. "What have I done to you?
Don't--"

"Caramba! A temper. And you have strength, too, as I discovered.
Must I bind those pretty hands or--"

Colonel Cobo reached forth, laughing, and encircled her in his
powerful arms. Rosa fought him as she had fought at the first
moment of desperation, but he lifted her easily and went striding
across the field behind his men.

Esteban's party made good time over the hills and into the San
Juan, for Asensio knew the country well. Mid-afternoon found them
in sight of La Joya. Cueto's cane was thick and high; it was ready
for the knife or for the torch. Making a detour, the incendiaries
approached it from the east in order to have the trade-winds at
their backs. They dismounted in the shelter of a wood and removed
the bags which they had carried on their saddles. Inside these
bags were several snakes, the largest perhaps eight feet in
length. To the tail of each the negroes fastened a leather thong,
and then to each thong a length of telegraph-wire, the end of
which had been bent into a loop to hold a bundle of oil-soaked
waste. These preliminaries accomplished, they bore the reptiles
into the cane-fields at widely separated places and lighted the
waste.

Esteban, from his saddle, saw the first wisps of smoke arise and
grow and unwind into long ribbons, reaching deep into the standing
crop. Soon tongues of flame appeared and the green tops of the
cane began to shrivel and to wave as the steady east wind took
effect. From the nearest conflagration a great snapping and
crackling of juicy stalks arose. The thin, dry strippings with
which the earth was carpeted formed a vast tinder bed, and once
the fire was started there was no checking it. Smoke billowed
upward and was hurried westward before the breeze; in a dozen
places the fields burst into flame. From somewhere came a faint
shouting, then a shot or two, and finally the ringing of a bell.

Esteban waited only until he saw that his work of devastation was
well under way, then he led his followers back toward the hills.
At sunset he reined in upon the crest of a ridge and looked behind
him into the valley. The whole sky was black with smoke, as if a
city were in flames.

Removing his wide jipi-japa hat, the young man swept a mocking
salutation to the east.

"So now, good Pancho Cueto," he cried, "I leave you the
compliments of those twins you love so well."

In the shelter of a ravine the party took time to eat supper,
their first meal since leaving home, and it was after dark when
they finished. The negroes, who were thoroughly tired, were for
spending the night here, but Esteban, more cautious than they,
would not have it so. Accordingly, the men remounted their weary
horses, though not without some grumbling, and set out. It was
slow traveling, for the woods were dark and the trails were blind;
the men were fairly obliged to feel their way. At length they
crossed the summit and worked down toward the Yumuri, but it
seemed as if daylight would never come.

"A weary ride," Esteban yawned. "I shall sleep for a week."

Asensio agreed. "That Cueto will be furious," said he. "Some day,
perhaps, he and I will meet face to face. Then I shall kill him."

Esteban reined in his horse. "Look!" said he. "Yonder is a light."

The other horsemen crowded close, staring through the darkness. It
was very still in the woods; dawn was less than half an hour away.

"What is Evangelina thinking about?" Asensio muttered.

"But, see! It grows brighter." There followed a moment or two
during which there was no sound except the breathing of the horses
and the creak of saddle leathers as the riders craned their necks
to see over the low tree-tops below them. Then Esteban cried:

"Come! I'm--afraid it's our house." Fear gripped him, but he
managed to say, calmly, "Perhaps there has been an--accident."

Asensio, muttering excitedly, was trying to crowd past him; for a
few yards the two horses brushed along side by side. The distant
point of light had become a glare now; it winked balefully through
the openings as the party hurried toward it. But it was still a
long way off, and the eastern sky had grown rosy before the dense
woods of the hillside gave way to the sparser growth of the low
ground.

Esteban turned a sick, white face over his shoulder and jerked out
his orders; then he kicked his tired mount into a swifter gallop.
It was he who first broke out into the clearing. One glance, and
the story was told.

The hut was but a crumbling skeleton of charred poles. Strung out
across the little field of malangas, yuccas, and sweet-potatoes
were several hilarious Volunteers, their arms filled with loot
from the cabin. Behind them strode an officer bearing Rosa
struggling against his breast.

Esteban did not pause; he drove his horse headlong through the
soft red earth of the garden. His sudden appearance seemed briefly
to paralyze the marauders. It was a moment before they could drop
their spoils, unsling their rifles, and begin to fire at him, and
by that time he had covered half the distance to his sister. Those
rifle-shots came faintly to Esteban's ears; he scarcely heard
them; he merely lowered his head and rode straight at that black-
visaged colonel, sobbing and whimpering in his fury.

But in spite of his speed he made no difficult target. A bullet
brought his horse down and the boy went flying over its neck.
Nothing but the loose loam saved him from injury. As he rose to
his feet, breathless and covered with the red dirt, there came a
swift thudding of hoofs and Asensio swept past him like a rocket.
Esteban caught one glimpse of the negro's face, a fleeting vision
of white teeth bared to the gums, of distended yellow eyes, of
flat, distorted features; then Asensio was fairly upon Colonel
Cobo. The colonel, who had dropped his burden, now tried to dodge.
Asensio slashed once at him with his long, murderous machete, but
the next instant he was engaged with a trooper who had fired
almost into his face.

The other negroes also were in the open by this time, yelling and
firing as fast as they could work the bolts of their rifles, and
although they aimed at nothing in particular, the effect of their
fusillade was all that could be wished. Cobo's men, led by the
terrified Pancho Cueto, turned and fled for cover, believing
themselves in danger of annihilation. Nor was the colonel himself
in any condition to rally them, for Asensio's blade had cloven one
full dark cheek to the bone, and the shock and pain had unnerved
him; he was frightened at sight of the blood that streamed down
over the breast of his white tunic, and so, when he saw his men
turn tail, he followed suit, lunging through the lush garden
growth, holding his wound in his hand and shrieking profane
commands which went unheeded.

The field was small, the jungle was close at hand. A moment and
the interlopers had vanished into it, all but one, who lay kicking
among the broad malanga-leaves, and over whom Asensio kept
spurring his terrified horse, hacking downward with insane fury.

This was the first hand-to-hand encounter Esteban's men had had,
and their swift victory rendered them ferocious. Flinging their
guns aside, they went crashing into the brush on the trail of
their enemies.

Rosa found herself in her brother's arms, sobbing out the story of
the outrage and quivering at every sound of the chase. He was
caressing her, and telling her to have no further fears; both of
them were fairly hysterical. Even before Esteban had heard all,
Lorenzo, the mulatto, reappeared, leading three cavalry horses and
shouting extravagant praises of his own bravery. Esteban
complimented him and the fellow galloped away again, voicing the
most blood-curdling threats.

Evangelina, thanks to her thick skull, was not dead. In the course
of time under Rosa's and Esteban's ministrations she regained her
senses, and when the other men returned they found her lying sick
and dazed, but otherwise quite whole.

Then, there beside the ruins of the hut, was a strange scene of
rejoicing. Asensio, recovered now from his burst of savagery, was
tearful, compassionate; his comrades laughed and chattered and
bragged about their prodigious deeds of valor. Over and over they
recounted their versions of the encounter, each more fanciful than
the other, until it seemed that they must have left the forest
filled with corpses.

Esteban alone was grave. He had heard of Colonel Cobo, and,
remembering that denim-clad figure out yonder in the trampled
garden, he knew that serious consequences would follow. The
Volunteers were revengeful; their colonel was not the sort of man
to forgive a deep humiliation. Doubtless he would put a price upon
the heads of all of them, and certainly he would never allow them
another encounter upon anything like even terms. Then, too, the
narrowness of Rosa's escape caused the boy's heart to dissolve
with terror.

After a conference with Asensio he decided that they must prepare
for flight, and late that afternoon they all set out to seek a
safer refuge, Evangelina in tears at leaving her precious garden
plot. Their led horse, one of those Lorenzo had captured, carried
a pitifully light burden--only some tools, some pans and kettles,
and a roll of charred bedclothes. Johnnie O'Reilly had no
difficulty in locating the Residence of Ignacio Alvarado, but to
communicate with him was quite another matter, inasmuch as his
every step was dogged by that persistent shadow from Neuvitas.
Leslie Branch had told him enough about conditions here in Puerto
Principe to make him extremely cautious, and after their first
talk he had once more concealed his revolver in a safe hiding-
place, taking good care thereafter that nothing in his conduct
should awaken suspicion.

Unfortunately his room was on the second floor of the hotel, and
hence his goings and comings were always open to observation. But
he noted that a window at one end of the upper hall overlooked a
sloping, tile-roofed shed, and that the garden wall behind the
hotel premises was not provided with those barbarous spikes or
broken bottles which decorate so many Cuban walls. It promised him
a means of egress when the time should come to use it. In this
hall, moreover, directly opposite his door there was an oil
bracket-lamp which gave light to the passageway, and which was
forever going out, a fact which the young man noted with
satisfaction.

One evening, several days after his arrival, a sudden rain-storm
drove O'Reilly indoors, and as he ascended to his room he saw that
the lamp in the hallway flared and smoked at every gust of wind.
It was very dark outside; he reasoned that the streets would be
deserted. Hastily securing that book which Alvarado, the dentist,
had given him, he took a position close inside his door. When he
heard the spy pass and enter the next chamber he stole out into
the hall and breathed into the lamp-chimney. A moment later he was
safely through the window and was working his way down the shed
roof, praying that his movements had not been seen and that the
tiles were firm. The rain was driving in sheets and he was wet to
the skin when he dropped into the patio; nevertheless he was
laughing to himself. He nimbly scaled the wall, crossed an
inclosure, climbed a second wall, and descended into a dark side
street. Taking advantage of the densest shadows and the numerous
overhanging balconies, he set out at a brisk trot.

A light showed through the barred windows of the Alvarado home,
indicating that the family was in. After some fumbling O'Reilly
laid hold of the latch; then, without knocking, he opened the
front door and stepped in.

He found himself, as he had expected, in the parlor, a high-
ceilinged, sparsely furnished room with a glazed floor of Spanish
mosaics. His sudden appearance threw the occupants into alarm: a
woman cried out sharply; a man whom O'Reilly identified as Ignacio
Alvarado himself leaped to his feet and faced him, exclaiming:

"Who are you?"

"I'm a friend. Don't be alarmed." Johnnie summoned his most
agreeable smile, then he extended the sodden package he had
carried beneath his arm. "I come from your brother Tomas. He asked
me to hand you this book and to say that he is returning it with
his thanks."

"What are you saying?" Plainly the speaker did not comprehend;
there was nothing but apprehension in his voice.

O'Reilly tore the wet paper from the volume and laid it in
Alvarado's hand. "Look at it, please, and you'll understand. I
didn't take time to knock, for fear I might be followed."

Alvarado stared first at the book, then at his caller. After a
moment he made a sign to his wife, who left the room. Wetting his
lips, he inquired, with an effort, "What do you want?"

O'Reilly told him in a few words. Alvarado showed relief; he even
smiled. "I see, but--Caramba! You gave me a start. And this book!
Ha! Tomas will have his jokes. It is well you took precautions,
for I am under surveillance. I'll help you, yes! But you must not
come here again. Return to your hotel and--Let me think." Senor
Alvarado frowned in deepest thought; then he said: "I have it!
Every morning at half past nine a man wearing a Panama hat and a
gray silk necktie with a large gold pin will pass along the
sidewalk across the street from the Isla de Cuba. You will know
him. One day, I cannot promise how soon, he will lift his hat
thus, and wipe his face. You understand? Good. Follow him. He will
give you final directions. Meanwhile I will make known your
presence to certain of our friends who can be trusted. You know
Manin, the druggist? Well, you can talk to him, and he will keep
you posted as to our progress. Now go before some one comes."

O'Reilly wrung the Cuban's hand. Then he stepped out into the
night, leaving a pool of water on the clean blue tiles where he
had stood.




X

O'REILLY TALKS HOG LATIN


In the days that followed his call on Ignacio Alvarado, O'Reilly
behaved so openly that the Secret Service agent detailed to watch
him relaxed his vigilance. Certainly there was nothing suspicious
in the conduct of a fellow who sat all the morning tipped back in
a hotel chair, languidly scanning the passers-by, whose afternoons
were spent on the streets or at the soda-fountain in Martin's
drug-store, and whose evenings were devoted to aimless gossip with
his countryman, the newspaper writer. Manifestly this O'Reilly was
a harmless person. But the spy did not guess how frantic Johnnie
was becoming at this delay, how he inwardly chafed and fretted
when two weeks had rolled by and still no signal had come. Manin
told him to be patient; he assured him that word had been sent
into the Cubitas hills, and that friends were busy in his behalf;
but Johnnie was eager to be up and doing. This inaction paralyzed
him; it made him almost ill to think how much time had slipped
away. Then, too, his money was running low.

At last, however, the day arrived when the man with the gray
necktie raised his hat and wiped his brow as he passed the Isla de
Cuba. Johnnie could scarcely hold himself in his chair. By and by
he rose, stretching himself, and sauntered after the fellow. For
several blocks he kept him in sight, but without receiving any
further sign. The man paused to greet friends, he stopped at
several shops, and his aimless wanderings continued for the best
part of an hour, during which he led the way to the outskirts of
the city. Fortunately O'Reilly's shadow was nowhere in sight.

Without a glance over his shoulder the man turned into a large,
walled inclosure. When Johnnie followed he found himself in one of
the old cemeteries. Ahead of him, up a shady avenue bordered with
trees, the stranger hurried; then he swerved to his left, and when
O'Reilly came to the point where he had disappeared there was
nobody in sight. Apprehending that he had made some mistake in the
signal, O'Reilly hastened down the walk. Then at last, to his
great relief, he heard a sibilant:

"Psst! Psst!"

It came from behind a screen of shrubbery, and there he found the
Cuban waiting. The latter began rapidly:

"Our plans are complete. Listen closely. One week from to-day, at
ten o'clock in the morning, you must be in Manin's drug-store.
Directly across the street you will see two negroes with three
horses. At fifteen minutes past ten walk out San Rafael Street to
the edge of the city, where the hospital stands. The negroes will
follow you. There is a fort near by--"

"I know."

"It commands the road. You will be challenged if you pass it, so
turn in at the hospital. But do not enter the gates, for the
negroes will overtake you at that point. They will stop to adjust
the saron of the lead horse. That will be your signal; mount him
and ride fast. The Spaniards will fire at you, but if you are hit
one of the blacks will take you on his horse. If one of them is
hit or his horse falls you must stop and take him up. Ride out
half a mile and you will find a band of Insurrectos in the woods
at the right. They know you are coming. Now, adois and good luck."

With a smile and a quick grip of the hand the messenger walked
swiftly away. O'Reilly returned to his hotel.

At last! One week, and this numbing, heartbreaking delay would
end; he would be free to take up his quest. O'Reilly choked at the
thought; the blood drummed in his ears. Rosa would think he was
never coming; she would surely believe that his heart had changed.
As if it could! "O God! Come quickly, if you love me." Well, a
week was only seven days. He longed to risk those Spanish bullets
this very hour.

But those seven days were more than a week, they were seven
eternities. The hours were like lead; O'Reilly could compose his
mind to nothing; he was in a fever of impatience.

Meanwhile, he was compelled to see a good deal of Leslie Branch.
The reporter was anything but cheerful company, for, believing
firmly in the steady progress of his malady, he was weighed down
by the deepest melancholy. The fellow was a veritable cave of
despair; he voiced never-ceasing complaints; nothing suited him;
and but for something likable in the man--an effect due in part to
the fact that his chronic irritation took amusing forms--he would
have been an intolerable bore. To cheer him up was quite
impossible, and although it seemed to Johnnie that the Cuban
climate agreed with him and that he lacked only strength of will
to cheat the grave, the mere suggestion of such a thought was
offensive to the invalid. He construed every optimistic word,
every effort at encouragement, either as a reflection upon his
sincerity or as the indication of a heartless indifference to his
sufferings. He continued to talk wistfully about joining the
Insurrectos, and O'Reilly would have been glad to put him in the
way of realizing his fantastic ambition to "taste the salt of
life" had it been in his power; but, since he himself depended
upon friends unknown to him, he did not dare to risk complicating
matters. In fact, he did not even tell Branch of his coming
adventure.

The day of days dawned at last, and Johnnie was early at Manin's
soda-fountain, drinking insipid beverages and anxiously watching
the street. In due time the negroes appeared, their straw sarons
laden with produce which they innocently disposed of. O'Reilly
began to consult his watch with such frequency that the druggist
joked him.

Manin's banter was interrupted by a bugle-call. Down the street
came perhaps two hundred mounted troops. They wheeled into San
Rafael Street at a gallop and disappeared in the direction of the
suburbs.

"Now what does that mean?" murmured the druggist. "Wait here while
I go to the roof where I can see something."

O'Reilly tried to compose himself, meanwhile becoming aware of a
growing excitement in the street. Pedestrians had halted,
shopkeepers had come to their doors, questions were flying from
mouth to mouth. Then from the direction of the fort at the end of
San Rafael Street sounded a faint rattling fusillade, more bugle-
calls, and finally the thin, distant shouting of men.

"Rebels!" some one cried.

"Dios mio, they are attacking the city!"

"They have audacity, eh?"

The roofs were black with people now. Manin came hurrying down
into the store.

"Something has gone wrong," he whispered. "They're fighting out
yonder in the woods. There has been some treachery."

"It is ten-fifteen," said O'Reilly. "I must be going."

Manin stared at him. "You don't understand--"

"Those black fellows are getting their horses ready. I'm going."

The druggist tried to force Johnnie into a chair. "Madman!" he
panted. "I tell you our friends have been betrayed; they are
retreating. Go back to your hotel quickly."

For the first time during their acquaintance Manin heard the good-
natured American curse; O'Reilly's blue eyes were blazing; he had
let go of himself completely.

"I'm going!" he cried, hoarsely. "All the damned Spaniards in Cuba
won't stop me. God! I've waited too long--I should have made a
break--"

"Idiot!" stormed the druggist. "You wish to die, eh?"

O'Reilly ripped out another oath and fought off the other's
restraining hands.

"Very well, then," cried Manin, "but have some thought of us who
have risked our lives for you. Suppose you should escape? How
would our troops receive you now? Would they not think you had
cunningly arranged this trap?"

A light of reason slowly reappeared in the younger man's eyes.

"No!" Manin pressed his advantage. "You must wait until--" He
broke off abruptly and stepped behind his counter, for a man in
the uniform of a Spanish lieutenant had entered the store.

The new-comer walked directly to O'Reilly; he was a clean-cut,
alert young fellow. After a searching glance around the place he
spoke in a voice audible to both men:

"Senor, you are in danger. To-night, at midnight, you will be
arrested. I beg of you to see that there is nothing incriminating
in your possession."

O'Reilly's face betrayed his amazement. "Arrested? What for? On
what charge--"

The stranger shrugged. "I don't know. That newspaper man will be
arrested at the same moment, so you had better warn him. But be
careful where and how you do so, for all his movements are
watched, all his words are overheard."

"Why do you tell me this--you? Is it some scheme to--to
incriminate me?" O'Reilly inquired.

Manin was leaning over the counter, his face drawn with anxiety,
his lips framing the same question.

"No!" The lieutenant shook his head. "I am a friend--a Cuban, in
spite of this uniform. If you repeat my words I shall be shot
within the hour. I implore you"--his voice became more urgent--"to
heed my warning. I don't know what you had to do with this
skirmish out San Rafael Street, but a short time ago a message
came from the fortina that Insurrectos were in the woods close by.
I hope it will not prove to be a bloody encounter. And now
remember--midnight!" He bowed, turned to the door, and was gone.

Manin heaved a sigh of relief. "Caramba! He gave me a fright: I
thought my time had come. But what did I tell you, eh?"

"That fellow is a Cuban spy!"

"No doubt. We have many friends. Well! You see what would have
happened if you had tried to go. Now then, you must prepare
yourself for the worst."

Perhaps a half-hour later O'Reilly saw the cavalry squadron
returning to its barracks. The men were laughing; they were
shouting brief boastful accounts of their encounter to the people
on the sidewalks. Two of them were sick and white; they lurched in
their saddles, and were supported by their comrades, but it was
not upon them that the eyes of the onlookers centered. Through the
filth of the street behind the cavalcade trailed a limp bundle of
rags which had once been a man. It was tied to a rope and it
dragged heavily; its limbs were loose; its face, blackened by mud,
stared blindly skyward.

O'Reilly gazed at the object with horrified fascination; then with
a sudden sick feeling of dizziness he retired to his room, asking
himself if he were responsible for that poor fellow's death.

Meanwhile the citizens of Puerto Principe looked on with stony
eyes. There was no cheering among them, only a hush in their
chatter, above which sounded the rattle of accoutrements, the
clump-clump of hoofs, and the exultant voices of the Spanish
troopers.

For some reason or other Leslie Branch was nowhere to be found;
his room was locked and no one had seen him; hence there was no
possibility of warning him, until that evening, when he appeared
while O'Reilly was making a pretense of eating dinner.

"Where the devil have you been?" the latter inquired, anxiously.

"Been getting out my weekly joke about the revolution. Had to
write up this morning's 'battle.' Couldn't work in my room, so I--
"

"Sit down; and don't jump when I tell you what has happened. We're
going to be pinched at midnight."

"Why midnight?"

"I don't know, unless that's the fashionable hour for military
calls."

"What's it all about?"

"I guess they don't like us. Have you got anything incriminating
about you?"

"N-no! Nothing, except my citizen's papers and--a letter of
introduction to General Maximo Gomez."

O'Reilly suddenly lost what appetite remained to him.

"Nothing EXCEPT a letter to General Gomez!" he cried. "Good Lord,
Branch! Were you ever shot at sunrise?"

The reporter coughed dismally. "N-no! It's too damp. I suppose you
mean to hint I'd better destroy that letter, eh?"

"Just as quickly as possible. Where is it?"

"In my room."

"Hm-m! Then I'm not sure you'll have a chance to destroy it."
O'Reilly was thinking rapidly. "From what I was told I suspect you
are being watched even there."

"Bullets! I thought as much."

"Would you mind using some other oath?" O'Reilly broke out,
irritably. "I've always considered 'bullets' weak and ineffective,
but--it has a significance."

"There's a new lodger in the room next to me. I've heard him
moving around. I'll bet he's got a peephole in the wall." Branch
was visibly excited.

"Quite likely. I have the same kind of a neighbor; that is he
watching us now."

Leslie cast a hostile eye at the man his friend indicated. "Looks
like a miserable spy, doesn't he? But, say, how am I going to make
away with that letter?"

"I'm trying to think," said Johnnie. After a time he rose from the
table and the two strolled out. Johnnie was still thinking.

When the two arrived at Branch's quarters O'Reilly scrutinized the
room as closely as he dared, and then sat for some time idly
gossiping. Both men were under a considerable strain, for they
thought it more than likely that hostile eyes were upon them. It
gave them an uncomfortable thrill; and while it seemed a simple
thing to burn that letter of introduction, they realized that if
their suspicions were correct such a procedure would only serve to
deepen their difficulties. Nothing they could later say would
explain to the satisfaction of the authorities so questionable an
act. The mere destruction of a mysterious document, particularly
at this late hour, would look altogether too queer; it might
easily cause their complete undoing. Inasmuch as his enemies were
waiting only for an excuse to be rid of him, O'Reilly knew that
deportation was the least he could expect, and at the thought his
fingers itched to hold that letter over the lamp-chimney.
Imprisonment, almost any punishment, was better than deportation.
That would mean beginning all over again.

While he was talking he used his eyes, and finally a plan
suggested itself. To make doubly sure that his words would not be
understood he inquired, casually:

"Do you speak any foreign languages?"

"Sure! Spanish and--hog Latin."

In spite of himself O'Reilly grinned; then making use of that
incoherent derangement of syllables upon the use of which every
American boy prides himself, he directed Branch's attention to the
tiles of the roof overhead.

The reporter's wits were sharp; his eyes brightened; he nodded his
instant understanding. The house had but one story, its roof was
constructed of the common, half-round Cuban tiling, each piece
about two feet long. These tiles were laid in parallel rows from
ridge-pole to eave, and these rows were locked together by other
tiling laid bottom side up over them. Where the convex faces of
the lower layer overlapped, after the fashion of shingles, were
numerous interstices due to imperfections in manufacture; more
than one of these was large enough to form a hiding-place for a
letter.

Continuing to disguise his language, O'Reilly directed his
companion to open the table drawer in which the unwelcome document
reposed and to see that it was where he could instantly lay hands
upon it in the dark. Branch did as he was told.

For some time longer they talked; then they rose as if to leave
the room. O'Reilly took his stand near the door and directly
beneath the most promising crevice in the roof, which at this
point was perhaps nine feet from the floor.

Branch stooped over the table and breathed into the lamp-chimney;
the room was plunged into darkness. There followed a faint
rustling of paper; the next instant he was at O'Reilly's side.
Stooping, Johnnie seized him about the knees and lifted him. There
was the briefest pause; then feeling a pinch upon his shoulder,
O'Reilly lowered his burden noiselessly, and the two men left the
room.

When they were safely out in the street Branch rubbed his head and
complained: "Bullets, you're strong! You nearly broke a rafter
with my head. But I guess I got 'em out of sight."

"THEM?"

"Yes. I hid my American 'papers,' too. These Dons are sore on
Yankees, you know. I'm going to be an Englishman, and you'd better
follow suit. I'm the--the youngest son of the Earl of Pawtucket,
and you'd better tell 'em your uncle was the Duke of Ireland, or
something."




XI

THE HAND OF THE CAPTAIN-GENERAL


On the stroke of midnight O'Reilly was arrested. After a thorough
search of his person and his premises he was escorted to
Government headquarters, where he found Leslie Branch.

The invalid looked taller, thinner, more bloodless than ever, and
his air of settled gloom admirably became the situation.

"Hello, Earl. What luck?" Johnnie flashed at him.

"Good!"

An officer sharply commanded them to be silent.

There ensued a long delay, introduced, perhaps, for its effect
upon the prisoners; then they were led into a large room where, it
seemed, the entire staff of the Spanish garrison was waiting. It
was an imposing collection of uniforms, a row of grim faces and
hostile eyes, which the two Americans beheld. Spread out upon a
table in front of the officers were the personal belongings of
both men.

The prisoners were ordered to stand side by side, facing their
accusers. Then each in turn was subjected to a rigorous
examination. Owing to his acquaintance with Spanish, O'Reilly was
able to defend himself without the aid of an interpreter. He began
by asserting that he had come to Cuba for his health, and declared
that he had endeavored at all times since his arrival to conduct
himself in strict conformity with local regulations. If in any way
he had offended, he had not done so intentionally, He denied
having the remotest connection with the rebels, and demanded an
explanation of his arrest.

But his plausible words did not in the least affect his hearers.
General Antuna, the comandante, a square-faced man with the airs
of a courtier, but with the bold, hard eyes of a fighter, leaned
forward, saying:

"So you suffer from ill health, senor?"

"I do, severely. Rheumatism."

The general nodded. "Three days ago you were overtaken by a rain-
storm while walking through the city."

"Yes, sir."

"When the rain had passed, you returned to your hotel. At the
junction of San Rafael and Estrella streets a pool of water had
gathered and you leaped it. Am I right?"

"No doubt."

General Antuna consulted a report before him. "That pool measured
six feet four inches in width. Do you ask me to believe that a
person suffering from rheumatism could do that?"

Leslie Branch shifted his weight and wet his lips, but O'Reilly
only shrugged impatiently. "My dear General," said he, "did you
never experience a neuralgia? Well then, was the pain continuous?
In this climate my affliction troubles me very little. That is why
I remain here."

From among the articles in front of him the general selected a
solitary 44-caliber revolver cartridge and, holding it up, said:

"What do you say to this?"

"I don't know what to say. Where did it come from?"

"It was found in the cloth pocket of your valise."

O'Reilly frowned; then a light of understanding irradiated his
frank countenance. "It must have lain there ever since I left
Matanzas, three months ago."

"Ha! Matanzas!" fiercely ejaculated a colonel. "What were you
doing in Matanzas?"

It was unnecessary to prevaricate now. Johnnie told of his earlier
connection with the Carter Importing Company, gave names, dates,
and facts to bear out his statements, and challenged his accusers
to verify them.

Undoubtedly some of his hearers were impressed, but they were by
no means convinced of the innocence of his present purpose, and,
in fact, the ferocious colonel seemed to regard past residence in
Cuba as proof conclusive of a present connection with the rebels.
Johnnie gathered that he was suspected of being one of those
American engineers who were reported to have been engaged to
instruct the enemy in the use of explosives: his inquisitors did
their best to wring such an admission from him or to entrap him
into the use of some technical phrase, some slip of the tongue
which would verify their suspicions. They even examined his hands
with minutest care, as if to find some telltale callous or
chemical discoloration which would convict him. Then finally, to
give him the lie absolute, the aggressive colonel seized a nickel-
plated atomizer from the table and brandished it triumphantly
before the young men's eyes.

"Enough of this pretense!" he cried. "What is this instrument,
eh?"

"It is evidently an atomizer, a nasal syringe. I never saw it
before."

"It's mine," said Leslie Branch; but the colonel did not heed the
interruption.

"Ha! And pray explain its use."

Johnnie undertook to do so, but it was plain that his words
carried no conviction, for his mocking inquisitor gave a loud
snort and gestured eloquently to his commander. "There you have
it!" he declared, proudly. "This impostor betrays himself."

The other officers were eying the unfamiliar article curiously;
one of them ventured gingerly to handle it; they exchanged
whispers.

"What do you call it?" the general inquired, leaning forward.

This was the colonel's moment. "I will tell you!" he said, with a
sneer at O'Reilly. "I am something of a genius at mechanical
inventions, and therefore I am not for a moment deceived by this
fellow's common lies. This"--he paused dramatically and held his
brother officers with a burning glance--"this instrument, in my
opinion, was devised for the purpose of injecting fulminate of
mercury into dynamite."

There was a breathless hush. The Spaniards stared at the little
syringe with amazement.

"And how does it operate?" queried one.

"It is one of those ingenious Yankee contrivances. I have never
seen one quite like it, but my intelligence makes its principle
plain. Evidently one inserts the tube into the dynamite, so, and
presses the bulb---"

There came a loud cry from General Antuna, who had bent closer; he
clapped his hands to his face and staggered from his chair, for in
suiting his action to his words the colonel had squeezed the bulb,
with the result that a spray of salt water had squirted fairly
into his superior officer's interested and attentive countenance.

"My eyes! Dios mio! I am blinded for life!" shouted the unhappy
general, and his subordinates looked on, frozen with
consternation.

The author of this calamity blanched; he was stricken dumb with
horror.

Some one cried: "A doctor, quickly. Jesus Cristo! Such
carelessness!"

"This is terrible!" another stammered. "It will explode next."

There was a concerted scramble away from the table.

Leslie Branch laughed--it was the first time that O'Reilly had
ever heard him give audible evidence of amusement. His reedy frame
was shaken as by a painful spasm; his colorless face was
distorted, and from his lips issued queer, hysterical barks and
chortles. "Tell 'em it's nothing but brine," he said, chokingly.

When this welcome intelligence had been translated, and when the
general had proved it to be true, there was a great sigh of
relief, followed by a subdued titter at the colonel's expense. The
latter was chagrined. Having made himself and the comandante
ridiculous, he took refuge behind an assumption of somber and
offended dignity. But it was plain that he still considered these
Americans dangerous people, and that his suspicions were as keen
as ever.

The interruption served to end O'Reilly's ordeal, for the moment
at least, and attention was now turned to his companion. It was
evident from the first that Branch's case was hopeless. He readily
acknowledged himself to be a newspaper writer, and admitted having
sent articles for publication through the mails. This was quite
enough; from the attitude of the military men it promised to go
hard with him. But he sprung a surprise by boldly proclaiming
himself an English citizen and warning his captors not to treat
him with the contempt or with the severity they reserved for
Americans. Curiously his words had an effect. Judgment for the
moment was suspended, and the two prisoners were led away, after
which another delay ensued.

At last O'Reilly was recalled; but when he re-entered the big room
he found General Antuna awaiting him, alone.

"Permit me to apologize for the inconvenience we have put you to,"
the comandante began.

"Then am I free?"

"You are."

"I thank you."

The general's hard eyes gleamed. "Personally I at no time put
faith in the idea that you are a powder expert," said he. "No. I
had my own suspicions and I regret to say this inquiry has not in
the least served to lessen them."

"Indeed? May I ask of what you suspect me?" Johnnie was genuinely
interested.

The general spoke with force and gravity: "Mr. O'Reilly, I believe
you to be a far greater menace to the interests of my country
than--well, than a score of dynamite experts. I believe you are a
writer."

The American smiled. "Are writers such dangerous people?"

"That altogether depends upon circumstances. The United States is
inclined to recognize the belligerency of these Cuban rebels, and
her relations with Spain are becoming daily more strained; ill-
feeling grows, and all because of the exaggerations, the
mendacities, that have gone forth from here to your newspapers. We
are determined to put down this uprising in our own way; we will
tolerate no foreign interference. War is never a pleasant thing,
but you journalists have magnified its horrors and misrepresented
the cause of Spain until you, threaten to bring on another and a
more horrible combat. Now then, you understand what I mean when I
say that you are more dangerous than a powder expert; that your
pen can do more injury, can cause the death of more Spanish troops
than could a regiment of Americans with dynamite. Your English
friend makes no secret of his business, so we shall escort him to
Neuvitas and see him safely out of the country, once for all."

"And yet you permit me to remain?" Johnnie was surprised.

"For the present, yes! That is my official message to you.
Privately, however"--the speaker eyed O'Reilly with a
disconcerting expression--"I would like to warn you. You are a
bright fellow, and you have a way with you--there's no denying it.
Under other conditions it would be a pleasure to know you better.
It grieves me, therefore, to warn you that your further stay in
Cuba will not be--pleasant. I almost regret that there is no
conclusive evidence against you; it would so simplify matters.
Come now, hadn't you better acknowledge that I have guessed your
secret?"

O'Reilly's perplexity was, changing to dismay, for it seemed to
him he was being played with; nevertheless, he shook his head. "I
would only be deceiving you, sir," he said.

General Antuna sighed. "Then I see embarrassments ahead for both
of us."

"More arrests?"

"Not necessarily. Understand me, I speak as one gentleman to
another, but--you must have noticed that Americans are unpopular
with our troops. Eh? They are impulsive, these troopers; accidents
cannot be prevented. Suppose something should happen to you? There
is the trouble. You came to Cuba to enjoy its climate; you cannot
be expected to remain indoors. Of course not. Well! Among our
soldiers are many new recruits, patriotic, enthusiastic young
fellows, but--careless. They are wretchedly unproficient marksmen,
and they haven't learned the dangers of promiscuous rifle fire.
They are forever shooting at things, merely to score a hit. Would
you believe it? Oh, I have to discipline them frequently. To think
of you going abroad through the streets, therefore, worries me
intensely."

"Your solicitude is touching." O'Reilly bowed mockingly; but
disregarding his tone, General Antuna proceeded in the same false
key:

"Suppose you should be found dead some day. Imagine my feelings."
The speaker's tone and expression were eloquent of concern. "How
could I fix the responsibility?"

"By having me followed, as usual, I dare say," O'Reilly said,
bitterly.

"Oh, you will of course be shadowed day and night; in fact, to be
quite sure of your--er--safety I shall ask you to permit one of my
men to accompany you everywhere and even to share your room. We
shall try never to lose sight of you, depend upon it. But these
detectives are careless fellows at best; I don't trust them. Of
course such precautions would exonerate me from all blame and
relieve my Government from any responsibility for injury to you,
but, nevertheless, it would tend to complicate relations already
strained. You see I am quite honest with you." The general allowed
time for his words to sink in; then he sighed once more. "I wish
you could find another climate equally beneficial to your
rheumatism. It would lift a great load from my mind. I could offer
you the hospitality of an escort to Neuvitas, and your friend Mr.
Branch is such good company he would so shorten your trip to New
York!" The speaker paused hopefully; that same sardonic flicker
was on his lips.

Johnme could not summon an answering smile, for his heart was like
lead. He realized now the utter futility of resistance; he knew
that to remain in Puerto Principe after this thinly veiled warning
would be to court destruction--and destruction of a shocking
character against which it would be impossible to guard. Even an
espionage stricter than that to which he had been subjected would
utterly defeat his plans. After a moment of thought he said,
gravely:

"I appreciate the delicacy of your consideration, sir, and--I
shall go."

General Antuna leaped to his feet, his grim face alight; striding
to O'Reilly, he pressed his hands--he seemed upon the point of
embracing him. "I thank you!" he cried. "You render me a supreme
service. See, I breathe easy. Permit me to offer you refreshment--
one of our famous Spanish wines. No? Then the best cigar in all
Cuba!"

His expressions of gratitude were fulsome; he swore that O'Reilly
had done him the greatest favor of his life, but his words were
like poison to his hearer.

"You embarrass me," O'Reilly told him, endeavoring to carry off
his defeat with some show of grace. In his bitterness he could not
refrain from adding, "If my accursed affliction returns, perhaps
we shall meet again before long, either here or elsewhere."

"Oh, I have little hope for such a pleasure," the general quickly
replied. "But if we do meet, remember we Spaniards have a cure for
rheumatism. It is unpleasant, but efficacious. A little, nickel-
plated pill, that is all." General Antuna's teeth shone for an
instant. "There is another remedy, not quite so immediate in its
effect, but a good one. I have tried it and found it excellent.
Drink plenty of cocoanut-water! That is the Cuban remedy; the
other I call the Spanish cure. Cocoanuts are splendid. I shall see
that a crate of the choicest fruit is placed aboard your steamer.
Accept them with my compliments, and when you partake of them
think of me."

O'Reilly did think of General Antuna, not only when he was
escorted to the railway station at daylight, but when he and
Branch took their seats and their guards filed in behind them. He
assured himself moodily that he would not cease to think of that
sardonic old joker for a long time to come. He cursed savagely;
the memory of these wasted weeks, the narrow margin of his
failure, filled him with a sick feeling of dismay and impotence.
His mind quailed at the consequence of this new delay. Where was
Rosa now? How and when would he return? With difficulty he
resisted the impulse to fling himself from the moving train; but
he composed himself by the thought that Cuba was not fenced about
with bayonets. He would come back.

Leslie Branch broke in upon his gloomy preoccupation by asking,
"How much money have you?"

"Less than ten dollars."

"You're rich. My landlady cleaned me. Is it the practice of
beneficent monarchies to provide transportation for their
departing guests?"

"Undoubtedly."

Branch coughed dismally. "It 'll be all right if they just buy me
a ticket to the first fog. One more hemorrhage and I'll wing my
way aloft. God! I'd hate to be buried at sea."

"Cheer up!" O'Reilly reassured him, irritably. "There may be ice
aboard."

"ICE!" Leslie gasped. "Oh, bullets!"

In marked contrast to the difficulties of entering Cuba was the
ease of leaving it. A ship was sailing from Neuvitas on the very
afternoon when the two Americans arrived, and they were hurried
aboard. Not until the anchor was up did their military escort
depart from them.

With angry, brooding eyes O'Reilly watched the white houses along
the water-front dwindle away, the mangrove swamps slip past, and
the hills rise out of their purple haze. When the salt breath of
the trades came to his nostrils he turned into his state-room,
and, taking the crate of cocoanuts with which General Antuna had
thoughtfully provided him, he bore it to the rail and dropped it
overboard.

"Rheumatism was a fool disease, anyhow," he muttered.

"Great news!" Esteban Varona announced one day as he dismounted
after a foraging trip into the Yumuri, "We met some of Lacret's
men and they told us that Spain has recalled Captain-General
Campos. He acknowledges himself powerless to stem the flood of
Cuban revolution. What do you say to that?"

"Does that mean the end of the war?" Rosa eagerly inquired.

"Oh no. They have sent a new man--he's in Havana now--a dark
little, old fellow who never smiles. He has a long nose and a big
chin; he dresses all in black--a very 'jew-bird' in appearance,
from what I hear. His name is Weyler--Valeriano Weyler, Marquis of
Teneriffe." Esteban laughed tolerantly, for as yet the name of
Weyler meant nothing to him.

"No wonder we knew nothing about it," said the girl. "We hide like
animals and we see no one for weeks at a time. I sometimes wonder
how O'Reilly will manage to find us."

"Oh, he'll manage it somehow," Esteban declared, cheerfully. Then
he ran an approving eye over the new bohio and the new garden plot
which Evangelina had courageously begun. "We're not so badly
fixed, are we? At least Colonel Cobo won't find us so readily this
time."

"Cobo!" shuddered the girl. "I dream about him."

Esteban scowled. "I've seen him at a distance several times, but
he takes pains to guard himself well when he comes into the
Yumuri. They say he's trying to destroy the whole valley."

"He will never forget."

Esteban covertly appraised his sister's charms, but respecting her
terror of Cobo he did not speak his thoughts. He was certain,
however, that Rosa knew, as well as he, what motive lay behind the
fellow's tireless persecutions of the valley dwellers; for in
spite of their isolation stories of Cobo had reached the refugees-
-stories that had rendered both the boy and the girl sick with
apprehension. The colonel, it seemed, had nearly died of his
machete wound, and on recovering he had sworn to exterminate the
wasps that had stung him. He had sworn other oaths, too, oaths
that robbed Esteban of his sleep.

Esteban idolized his sister; her loyalty to him was the most
precious thing of his life, Therefore, the thought of that swarthy
ruffian hunting her down as a hound hangs to the trail of a doe
awoke in him a terrible anger. Second only to his hatred for the
guerrilla chief was his bitterness against the traitor, Pancho
Cueto, who had capped his villainy by setting this new peril upon
them; and since Rosa's safety and his own honor called for the
death of both men, he had sworn that somehow he would effect it.
It was, of course, a difficult matter to get at the Colonel of
Volunteers, but Cueto still lived in the midst of his blackened
fields, and it was against him that the boy was now planning to
launch his first blow.

The mention of Cobo's name had momentarily distracted Esteban's
thoughts. Now he collected them and said:

"Wait! I am forgetting something. See what Lacret's men handed me;
they are posted from one end of the island to the other." He
displayed a printed bando, or proclamation, signed by the new
captain-general, and read as follows:

  "All inhabitants of the country districts, or those who reside
outside the lines of fortifications of the towns, shall, within a
period of eight days, enter the towns which are occupied by   the
troops. Any individual found outside the lines in the   country at
the expiration of this period shall be considered a   rebel and
shall be dealt with as such."

It was that inhuman order of concentration, the result of which
proved to be without parallel in military history--an order which
gave its savage author the name of being the arch-fiend of a
nation reputed peculiarly cruel. Neither Esteban nor Rosa,
however, grasped the full significance of the proclamation; no one
could have done so. No eye could have foreseen the merciless
butchery of non-combatants, the starvation and death by disease of
hordes of helpless men, women, and children herded into the
cities. Four hundred thousand Cubans driven from their homes into
shelterless prison camps; more than two hundred thousand dead from
hunger and disease; a fruitful land laid bare of all that could
serve as food, and changed to an ash-gray desolation; gaunt famine
from Oriente to Pinar del Rio--that was the sequel to those
printed words of "Weyler the Butcher" which Esteban read.

"Eight days! When is the time up?" Rosa inquired.

"Bless you, this is already two weeks old!" her brother told her.

"Why, then, it means that we'll be shot if we're caught."

"Exactly! But we sha'n't be caught, eh? Let the timid ones take
fright at the squeaks of this old black-bird. Let them go into the
cities: we shall have the more to eat!" Esteban crumpled the paper
in his hand and dropped it. "Meanwhile I shall proceed toward my
settlement with Pancho Cueto." His very careless confidence gave
Rosa courage.




XII

WHEN THE WORLD RAN BACKWARD


Esteban went about his plan of destroying Pancho Cueto with
youthful energy and zest. First he secured, at some pains, a half-
stick of dynamite, a cap and fuse, and a gallon or more of
kerosene; then he assembled his followers and led them once again
into the San Juan.

This time the ride to La Joya was longer than before, and since
every member of the little band was proscribed, Esteban insisted
upon the greatest caution. But there was little need of especial
care, for the country was already depopulated, as a result of
Weyler's proclamation. Fields were empty, houses silent; no living
creatures stirred, except in the tree-tops, and the very birds
seemed frightened, subdued. It struck young Varona queerly. It was
as if the whole land was in mourning; he saw nothing but
blackbirds, somber-hued vultures, dismal Judea-birds with their
ebony plumage and yellow beaks. Far up the valley a funeral pall
of smoke hung in the sky itself; that was where the Spaniards were
burning the houses of those too slow in obeying the order of
concentration.

La Joya, however, was still tenanted when early in the evening its
rightful owner arrived; the house and some of its outbuildings
showed lights. Esteban concealed his men. While the horses cropped
and the negroes rested he fitted fuse and cap to his precious
piece of dynamite. It was likely, he thought, that Cueto had
provided himself with a body-guard, and knowing the plantation
house as he did, he had no intention of battering weakly at its
stout ironwood door while his quarry took fright and slipped away.

Now while Esteban was thus busied, Pancho Cueto was entertaining
an unwelcome guest. In the late afternoon he had been surprised by
the visit of a dozen or more Volunteers, and inasmuch as his
relations with their colonel had been none of the friendliest
since that ill-starred expedition into the Yumuri, he had felt a
chill of apprehension on seeing the redoubtable Cobo himself at
their head.

The colonel had explained that he was returning from a trip up the
San Juan, taken for the purpose of rounding up those inhabitants
who had been dilatory in obeying the new orders from Havana. That
smoke to the southward was from fires of his kindling: he had
burned a good many crops and houses and punished a good many
people, and since this was exactly the sort of task he liked he
was in no unpleasant mood. He had demanded of Cueto lodging for
himself and his troop, announcing that a part of his command was
somewhere behind and would rejoin him later in the night.

Cueto had welcomed his visitor in all humility; he put up the
soldiers in the bate of the sugar-mill, and then installed Cobo in
his best room, after which he ransacked the house for food and
drink and tobacco.

Later he and the colonel sat long over their supper, for the
latter's exultant humor continued. Cobo, it transpired, was
delighted with the new captain-general, a man of blood and iron, a
man after his own heart. This Weyler, he predicted, would put an
end to the insurrection; there would be no more of Campos's weak,
merciful methods, which were, in reality, nothing less than
encouragement to revolt. Cueto, of course, agreed.

"We're sweeping the country as with a broom, and already Matanzas
is bulging with refugees," the officer told him. "They call
themselves pacificos, but they carry information and aid our
enemies. We'll have no more of that."

"Will it not be a great expense to feed so many people?" Cueto
ventured.

"Let them feed themselves. Is it our fault that they make such
measures necessary? By no means. Once we have them safe, we shall
exterminate all whom we encounter in the country." The speaker
drank deeply of Cueto's good wine and smacked his lips. "It's the
kind of work I like. Extermination! They have had their warning.
From now on we shall spare neither man, woman, nor child. The men
are traitors, the women breed, and the children grow up."

Cueto nodded his complete approval of this program. "Oh,
decidedly," said he. "This spirit of violence must be stamped out
or none of us will be safe. Let me tell you I myself live in
constant dread of that young villain, Varona. I--hope you haven't
forgotten him."

"Forgotten him?" Colonel Cobo fingered a lately healed scar which
further disfigured his ugly face, then he cursed frightfully.
"It's by God's mercy alone that I'm alive to-night. And I haven't
forgotten the girl, either. She'll have to come in, along with the
others. The boy may stay out, but she can't." He licked his lips.
"Wait until I have finished with this valley. I'll drive the
Yumuri next, as a hunter drives a thicket for his game, and
nothing will slip through."

His thoughts once turned upon Rosa, the colonel could talk of
little else, and Cueto realized that the girl had indeed made a
deep impression upon him. The overseer was well pleased, and when
Cobo finally took himself off to bed he followed in better spirits
than he had enjoyed for some time. For one thing, it was agreeable
to look forward to a night of undisturbed repose. Pancho's
apprehensions had fattened upon themselves, and he had been living
of late in a nightmare of terror.

But it seemed to him that he had barely closed his eyes when he
was awakened by a tremendous vibration and found himself in the
center of the floor, undecided whether he had been hurled from his
bed or whether he had leaped thither. Still in a daze, he heard a
shout from the direction of Cobo's room, then a din of other
voices, followed by a rush of feet; the next instant his door was
flung back and he saw, by the light of high-held torches, Esteban
Varona and a ragged rabble of black men. Cueto knew that he faced
death. He uttered a shrill scream of terror, and, seizing the
revolver which was always close at his hand, he fired blindly.
Then his foes were upon him. What happened thereafter took but an
instant. He dodged a blow from Esteban's clubbed rifle only to
behold the flash of a machete. Crying out again, he tried to guard
himself from the descending blade, but too late; the sound of his
hoarse terror died in his throat, half born.

"Quick! Soak the bed with oil and fire it," Esteban directed; then
he ran out into the hall to investigate that other shouting. He
found the chamber whence it issued and tried to smash the door;
but at the second blow he heard a gun-shot from within and the
wood splintered outward almost into his face. Simultaneously, from
somewhere outside the house, arose the notes of a Spanish bugle-
call.

Young Varona waited to hear no more. Nor did his men; realizing
the peril into which they had been led, they bolted from the house
as fast as they could go. There was no need for questions; from
the direction of the sugar-mill came bellowed orders and the sound
of men shouting to their horses. Evidently those were troops--and
trained troops, too, for they took no time to saddle; they were up
and mounted almost before the marauders had gained the backs of
their own animals. There was no opportunity to choose a retreat
across the fields; Esteban spurred down the driveway toward the
main calzada, yelling to his men to follow him.

The approach to La Joya was by way of a notable avenue, perhaps a
half-mile in length, and bordered by tall, even rows of royal
palms. These stately trees shaded the avenue by day and lent it a
cavern-like gloom by night. Near the public causeway the road was
cut through a bit of rising ground, and was walled by steep banks
overgrown with vines.

Into the black tunnel formed by the palms the fugitives plunged,
with the clatter of hoofs close behind them. Those of the
Volunteers who pressed them hardest began to shoot wildly, for
this typically Cuban refusal to stand ground enraged them beyond
measure.

Esteban's party would doubtless have made good their escape had it
not been for that other guerrillero returning from its raid; but,
as it happened, the two forces met in the sunken road. Nothing but
the darkness and the head-long approach of the fleeing men saved
them from immediate destruction, for the collision occurred
between banks too steep for a horse to climb, and with that
yelling pack too close behind to permit of retreat.

Instantly there began a blind battle in these desperately cramped
quarters. After the first moment or two friend and foe were
indistinguishable and the men of both parties began firing or
thrusting at whatever loomed nearest out of the gloom. The narrow
ravine quickly became a place of utter confusion, a volcano of
blasphemies, a press of jostling, plunging, struggling bodies.
Horses reared and bit at one another. Riders fought stirrup to
stirrup with clubbed rifles and machetes; saddles were emptied and
the terrified horses bolted. Some of them lunged up the banks,
only to tumble down again, their threshing limbs and sharp-shod
hoofs working more havoc than blows from old-time battle-hammers.
Meanwhile those of Cobo's men who had ridden out from the sugar-
mill naturally attributed this new uproar to a stand of their
enemies, and began to rake the road with rifle fire; then, in
obedience to the commands of their half-clad colonel, they
charged. A moment and they were fighting hand to hand with their
returning comrades. Spaniard clashed with Spaniard, and somewhere
in the melee the six marauders battled for their lives.

Of course, after the first moment of conflict, Esteban had not
been able to exert the least control over his men; in fact, he
could not make himself heard. Nor could he spare the breath to
shout; he was too desperately engaged. When the full truth of the
situation dawned upon him he gave up hope for his life and at
first merely strove to wreak such havoc as he could. Yet while
some of his faculties were completely numbed in the stress of that
white-hot moment, others remained singularly clear. The shock of
his surprise, the imminence of his peril, rendered him dead to any
emotion save dismay, and yet, strangely enough, he remembered
Rosa's pressing need for him and, more for her sake than for his
own, fought to extricate himself from the confusion. His rifle was
empty, he had its hot barrel in his hands; he dimly distinguished
Asensio wielding his machete. Then he found himself down and half
stunned. He was running here and there to avoid lunging horses; he
was tripping and falling, but meanwhile, as opportunity offered,
he continued to use his clubbed weapon. Something smote him
heavily, at last--whether a hoof or a gun-stock he could not tell-
-and next he was on all-fours, trying to drag himself out of this
rat-pit. But his limbs were queerly rebellious, and he was sick;
he had never experienced anything quite like this and he thought
he must be wounded. It greatly surprised him to find that he could
struggle upward through the brambles, even though it was hard
work. Men were fighting all around and below him, meanwhile, and
he wondered vaguely what made them kill one another when he and
his negroes were all dead or dying. It seemed very strange--of a
piece with the general unreality of things--and it troubled him
not a little.

At last he gained the top of the bank and managed to assume an
upright position, clinging to the bole of a palm-tree. One of his
arms was useless, he discovered, and he realized with a curious
shock that it was broken. He was bleeding, too, from more than one
wound, but he could walk, after a fashion.

He was inclined to stay and finish the fight, but he recollected
that Rosa would be waiting for him and that he must go to her, and
so he set out across the fields, staggering through the charred
cane stubble. The night was not so black as it had been, and this
puzzled him until he saw that the plantation house was ablaze.
Flames were belching from its windows, casting abroad a lurid
radiance; and remembering Pancho Cueto, Esteban laughed.

By and by, after he was well away, his numbness passed and he
began to suffer excruciating pain. The pain had been there all the
time, so it seemed; he was simply gaining the capacity to feel it.
He was ready to die now, he was so ill; moreover, his left arm
dangled and got in his way. Only that subconscious realization of
the necessity to keep going for Rosa's sake sustained him.

After a while he found himself on a forest trail; then he came to
other fields and labored across them. Fortune finally led his feet
down into a creek-bed, and he drank greedily, sitting upon a stone
and scooping the water up in his one useful hand. He was a long
time in quenching his thirst, and a longer time in getting up, but
he finally managed this, and he succeeded thereafter in keeping on
his feet. Daylight came at last to show him his way. More than
once he paused, alarmed, at voices in the woods, only to find that
the sounds issued from his own throat.

It had grown very hot now, so hot that heat-waves obscured his
vision and caused the most absurd forms to take shape. He began to
hunt aimlessly for water, but there was none. Evidently this heat
had parched the land, dried up the streams, and set the stones
afire. It was incredible, but true.

Esteban reasoned that he must be near home by this time, for he
had been traveling for days--for years. The country, indeed, was
altogether unfamiliar; he could not recall ever having seen the
path he trod, but for that matter everything was strange. In the
first place he knew that he was going west, and yet the morning
sun persisted in beating hotly into his face! That alone convinced
him that things had gone awry with the world. He could remember a
great convulsion of some sort, but just what it was he had no
clear idea! Evidently, though, it had been sufficient to change
the rotation of the earth. Yes, that was it; the earth was running
backward upon its axis; he could actually feel it whirling under
his feet. No wonder his journey seemed so long. He was laboring
over a gigantic treadmill, balancing like an equilibrist upon a
revolving sphere. Well, it was a simple matter to stop walking,
sit down, and allow himself to be spun backward around to the
place where Rosa was waiting. He pondered this idea for some time,
until its absurdity became apparent. Undoubtedly he must be going
out of his head; he saw that it was necessary to keep walking
until the back-spin of that treadmill brought Rosa to him.

But the time came when he could walk no farther. He tried
repeatedly and failed, and meanwhile the earth spun even more
rapidly, threatening to whirl him off into space. It was a
terrible sensation; he lay down and hugged the ground, clinging to
roots and sobbing weakly. Rosa, he knew, was just around the next
bend in the trail; he called to her, but she did not answer, and
he dared not attempt to creep forward because his grip was
failing. He could feel his fingers slipping--slipping. It was
agony. He summoned his last atom of determination, but to no
avail. He gave up finally, and felt himself propelled dizzily
outward into immeasurable voids. His last thought, as he went
whirling end over end through space, was of his sister. She would
never know how hard he had tried to reach her.




XIII

CAPITULATION


Late on the second day after the battle Asensio returned to his
bohio. Rosa and Evangelina, already frantic at the delay, heard
him crying to them while he was still hidden in the woods, and
knew that the worst had happened. There was little need for him to
tell his story, for he was weaponless, stained, and bloody. He had
crossed the hills on foot after a miraculous escape from that
ravine of death. Of his companions he knew nothing whatever; the
mention of Esteban's name caused him to beat his breast and cry
aloud. He was weak and feverish, and his incoherent story of the
midnight encounter was so highly colored that Rosa nearly swooned
with horror.

The girl stood swaying while he told how the night had betrayed
them, how he had wrought incredible feats of valor before the
shifting tide of battle had spewed him out the end of the sunken
road and left him half dead in the grass. Asensio had lain there
until, finding himself growing stronger, he had burrowed into a
tangle of vines at the foot of a wall, where he had remained until
the fighting ceased. When the Spaniards had finally discovered
their mistake and had ceased riding one another down, when lights
came and he heard Colonel Cobo cursing them like one insane, he
had wriggled away, crossed the calzada, and hidden in the woods
until dawn. He had been walking ever since; he had come home to
die.

Rosa heard only parts of the story, for her mind was numbed, her
heart frozen. Her emotion was too deep for tears, it paralyzed her
for the time being; she merely stood staring, her dark eyes
glazed, her ashen lips apart. Finally something snapped, and she
knew nothing more until hours afterward, when she found herself
upon her comfortless bed with Evangelina bending over her. All
night she had lain inert, in a merciful stupor; it was not until
the next morning that she gradually came out of her coma.

Then it was that the negress was really alarmed, fearing that if
the girl did rally her mind would be affected. But Rosa was young
and, despite her fragility of form, she was strong--too strong, it
seemed to her, and possessed of too deep a capacity for suffering.
How she ever survived those next few days, days when she prayed
hourly to die, was a mystery. And when she found that she could at
last shed tears, what agony! The bond between her and Esteban had
been stronger than usually exists between sister and brother; he
had been her other self; in him she had centered her love, her
pride, her ambition. The two had never quarreled; no angry word
had ever passed between them: their mutual understanding,
moreover, had been almost more than human, and where the one was
concerned the other had been utterly unselfish. To lose Esteban,
therefore, split the girl's soul and heart asunder; she felt that
she could not stand without him. Born into the world at the same
hour, welded into unity by their mother's supreme pain, the boy
and girl were of the same flesh and spirit; they were animated by
the same life-current. Never had the one been ill but that the
other had suffered corresponding symptoms; never had the one been
sad or gay but that the other had felt a like reaction.
Personalities so closely knit together are not uncommon, and to
sever them is often dangerous.

Into Rosa's life, however, there had come one interest which she
could not share with her twin--that was her love for O'Reilly.
Spanish-reared women, as a rule, do not play with love; when it
comes they welcome it, even though it be that first infatuation so
often scorned by older, colder people. So it was with Rosa Varona.
Whatever might have been the true nature of her first feeling for
the Irish-American, suffering and meditation had deepened and
strengthened it into a mature and genuine passion. As the wise men
of old found wisdom in cave or desert, so Rosa in her solitude had
learned the truth about herself. Now, in the hour of her
extremity, thoughts of O'Reilly acted as a potent medicine. Her
hungry yearning for him and her faith in his coming stimulated her
desire to live, and so aided her recovery.

The day arrived when her brain was normal and when she could creep
about the hut. But she was only the ghost of the girl she had
been; she seldom spoke, and she never smiled. She sat for hours
staring out into the sunshine, and when she found tears upon her
cheeks she was surprised, for it seemed to her that she must long
ago have shed the very last.

Asensio, likewise recovered, but he, too, was sadly changed. There
was no longer any martial spirit in him; he feared the Spaniards,
and tales of their atrocities cowed him.

Then Cobo came into the Yumuri. The valley, already well-nigh
deserted, was filled to the brim with smoke from burning fields
and houses, and through it the sun showed like a copper shield.
Refugees passed the bohio, bound farther into the hills, and
Asensio told the two women that he and they must also go. So the
three gathered up what few things they could carry on their backs
and fled.

They did not stop until they had gained the fastnesses of the Pan
de Matanzas. Here they built a shelter and again took up the
problem of living, which was now more difficult than ever.

Asensio would not have been greatly inconvenienced by the change
had he been alone, for certain fruits grew wild in the forests,
and the earth, where the Spaniards had not trod, was full of roots
upon which a creature of his primitive habits could have managed
to live. But hampered as he was by two women, one of whom was as
delicate as a flower, Asensio found his task extremely difficult.
And it grew daily more difficult; for there were other people here
in the woods, and, moreover, the country round about was being
steadily scoured by the enemy, who had orders to destroy every
living, growing thing that was capable of sustaining human life.
Stock was butchered and left to rot, trees were cut down, root-
fields burned. Weyler's policy of frightfulness was in full sway,
and starvation was driving its reluctant victims into his net.
Meanwhile roving bands of guerrillas searched out and killed the
stronger and the more tenacious families.

The Pan de Matanzas, so called because of its resemblance to a
mighty loaf of bread, became a mockery to the hungry people
cowering in its shelter. Bread! Rosa Varona could not remember
when she had last tasted such a luxury. Raw cane, cocoanuts, the
tasteless fruita bomba, roots, the pith from palm tops, these were
her articles of diet, and she did not thrive upon them. She was
always more or less hungry. She was ragged, too, and she shivered
miserably through the long, chill nights. Rosa could measure the
change in her appearance only by studying her reflection from the
surface of the spring where she drew water, but she could see that
she had become very thin, and she judged that the color had
entirely gone from her cheeks. It saddened her, for O'Reilly's
sake.

Time came when Asensio spoke of giving up the struggle and going
in. They were gradually starving, he said, and Rosa was ill; the
risk of discovery was ever present. It was better to go while they
had the strength than slowly but surely to perish here. He had
heard that there were twenty thousand reconcentrados in Matanzas;
in such a crowd they could easily manage to hide themselves; they
would at least be fed along with the others.

No one had told Asensio that the Government was leaving its
prisoners to shift for themselves, supplying them with not a pound
of food nor a square inch of shelter.

Evangelina at first demurred to this idea, declaring that Rosa
would never be allowed to reach the city, since the roads were
patrolled by lawless bands of troops. Nevertheless her husband
continued to argue. Rosa herself took no part in the discussion,
for it did not greatly matter to her whether she stayed or went.

Misery bred desperation at last; Evangelina's courage failed her,
and she allowed herself to be won over. She began her preparations
by disguising Rosa. Gathering herbs and berries, she made a stain
with which she colored the girl's face and body, then she sewed a
bundle of leaves into the back of Rosa's waist so that when the
latter stooped her shoulders and walked with a stick her
appearance of deformity was complete.

On the night before their departure Rosa Varona prayed long and
earnestly, asking little for herself, but much for the two black
people who had suffered so much for her. She prayed also that
O'Reilly would come before it was too late.




XIV

A WOMAN WITH A MISSION


Within a few hours after O'Reilly's return to New York he
telephoned to Felipe Alvarado, explaining briefly the disastrous
failure of his Cuban trip.

"I feared as much," the doctor told him. "You were lucky to escape
with your life."

"Well, I'm going back."

"Of course; but have you made any plans?"

"Not yet. I dare say I'll have to join some filibustering outfit.
Won't you intercede for me with the Junta? They're constantly
sending parties."

"Um-m! not quite so often as that." Alvarado was silent for a
moment; then he said: "Dine with me to-night and we'll talk it
over. I'm eager for news of my brothers and--there is some one I
wish you to meet. She is interested in our cause."

"'She'? A woman?"

"Yes, and an unusual woman. She has contributed liberally to our
cause. I would like you to meet her."

"Very well; but I've only one suit of clothes, and it looks as if
I'd slept in it."

"Oh, bother the clothes!" laughed the physician. "I've given most
of mine to my destitute countrymen. Don't expect too much to eat,
either; every extra dollar, you know, goes the same way as my
extra trousers. It will be a sort of patriotic 'poverty party.'
Come at seven, please."

"Dining out, eh? Lucky devil!" said Leslie Branch when he had
learned of his companion's invitation. "And to meet a
philanthropic old lady! Gee! Maybe she'll offer to adopt you. Who
knows?"

"I wish you'd offer to lend me a clean shirt."

"I'll do it," readily agreed the other. "I'll stake you to my last
one. But keep it clean! Have a care for the cuffs--a little
inadvertency with the soup may ruin my prospects for a job. You
understand, don't you, that our next meal after this one may
depend upon this shirt's prosperous appearance?" Branch dove into
his bag and emerged with a stiffly laundered shirt done up in a
Cuban newspaper. He unwrapped the garment and gazed fondly upon
it, murmuring, "'Tis a pretty thing, is it not?" His exertions had
brought on a violent coughing-spell, which left him weak and
gasping; but when he had regained his breath he went on in the
same key: "Again I solemnly warn you that this spotless bosom is
our bulwark against poverty. One stain may cut down my space
rates; editors are an infernally fastidious lot. Fortunately they
want facts about the war in Cuba, and I'm full of 'em: I've fought
in the trenches and heard the song of grape and canister--"

"Grape-fruit and canned goods, you mean," O'Reilly grinned.

"Well, I shall write with both in mind. The hope of one will stir
memories of the other. And who is there to dispute me? At least I
know what a battle should be like, and I shall thrill my readers
with imaginary combats."

O'Reilly eyed the speaker with appreciation. On the way north he
had learned to know Leslie Branch and to like him, for he had
discovered that the man possessed a rare and pleasing peculiarity
of disposition. Ordinarily Branch was bitter, irritable,
pessimistic; but when his luck was worst and his fortunes lowest
he brightened up. It seemed that he reacted naturally,
automatically, against misfortune. Certainly his and O'Reilly's
plight upon leaving Cuba had been sufficiently unpleasant, for
they were almost penniless, and the invalid, moreover, knew that
he was facing a probably fatal climate; nevertheless, once they
were at sea, he had ceased his grumbling, and had surprised his
traveling-companion by assuming a genuinely cheerful mien. Even
yet O'Reilly was not over his amazement; he could not make up his
mind whether the man was animated by desperate courage or merely
by hopeless resignation. But whatever the truth, the effect of
this typical perversity had been most agreeable. And when Leslie
cheerfully volunteered to share the proceeds of his newspaper work
during their stay in New York, thus enabling his friend to seize
the first chance of returning to Cuba, Johnnie's affection for him
was cemented. But Branch's very cheerfulness worried him; it
seemed to betoken that the fellow was sicker than he would
confess.

That evening O'Reilly anticipated his dinner engagement by a few
moments in order to have a word alone with Alvarado.

"I've seen Enriquez," he told the doctor, "but he won't promise to
send me through. He says the Junta is besieged by fellows who want
to fight for Cuba--and of course I don't. When I appealed in
Rosa's name he told me, truthfully enough, I dare say, that there
are thousands of Cuban women as badly in need of succor as she. He
says this is no time for private considerations."

"Quite so!" the doctor agreed. "We hear frightful stories about
this new concentration policy. I--can't believe them."

"Oh, I guess they are true; it is the more reason why I must get
back at once," O'Reilly said, earnestly.

"This lady who is coming here to-night has influence with
Enriquez. You remember I told you that she has contributed
liberally. She might help you."

"I'll implore her to put in a word for me. Who is she?"

"Well, she's my pet nurse--"

"A nurse!" O'Reilly's eyes opened wide. "A nurse, with MONEY! I
didn't know there was such a thing."

"Neither did I. They're rarer even than rich doctors," Alvarado
acknowledged. "But, you see, nursing is merely Miss Evans's
avocation. She's one of the few wealthy women I know who have real
ideals, and live up to them."

"Oh, she has a 'mission'!" Johnnie's interest in Doctor Alvarado's
other guest suddenly fell away, and his tone indicated as much. As
the doctor was about to reply the ringing of the door-bell
summoned him away.

O'Reilly had met women with ideals, with purposes, with
avocations, and his opinion of them was low. Women who had
"missions" were always tiresome, he had discovered. This one, it
appeared, was unusual only in that she had adopted a particularly
exacting form of charitable work. Nursing, even as a rich woman's
diversion, must be anything but agreeable. O'Reilly pictured this
Evans person in his mind--a large, plain, elderly creature,
obsessed with impractical ideas of uplifting the masses! She would
undoubtedly bore him stiff with stories of her work: she would
reproach him with neglect of his duties to the suffering. Johnnie
was too poor to be charitable and too deeply engrossed at the
moment with his own troubles to care anything whatever about the
"masses."

And she was a "miss." That meant that she wore thick glasses and
probably kept cats.

A ringing laugh from the cramped hallway interrupted these
reflections; then a moment later Doctor Alvarado was introducing
O'Reilly to a young woman so completely out of the picture, so
utterly the opposite of his preconceived notions, that he was
momentarily at a loss. Johnnie found himself looking into a pair
of frank gray eyes, and felt his hand seized by a firm, almost
masculine grasp. Miss Evans, according to his first dazzling
impression, was about the most fetching creature he had ever seen
and about the last person by whom any young man could be bored. If
she kept cats they must be pedigreed Persian cats, and well worth
keeping, Johnnie decided. The girl--and she was a girl--had
brought into the room an electric vitality, a breeziness hard to
describe. Her eyes were humorous and intelligent; her teeth, which
she seemed always ready to show in a friendly, generous smile,
were strong and white and sparkling. Altogether she was such a
vision of healthy, unaffected, and smartly gotten-up young
womanhood that O'Reilly could only stammer his acknowledgment of
the introduction, inwardly berating himself for his awkwardness.
He was aware of Alvarado's amusement, and this added to his
embarrassment.

"The doctor has told me all about you." Miss Evans addressed
Johnnie over her shoulder as she laid off her furs and a stylish
little turban hat. "I'm dying to hear what happened on your trip."

"So am I," confessed Alvarado. "You know, Mr. O'Reilly has seen my
brothers."

"You men must go right ahead and talk as if I weren't here. I
won't interrupt, except with a few vivas or carambas or--What are
some other lady-like Spanish exclamations?"

"There aren't very many," Johnnie acknowledged. "I always try to
swear in English."

Alvarado placed an affectionate hand upon Miss Evans's shoulder.
"O'Reilly, this girl has done more for Cuba than any of us. She
has spent a small fortune for medical supplies," said he.

"Those poor men must live on quinine," the girl exclaimed. "Any
one who can bear to take the stuff ought to have all he wants.
I've a perfect passion for giving pills."

"Oh, you may joke about it. All the same, if others would make the
same sacrifice--"

Miss Evans interrupted breezily: "It wasn't any sacrifice at all.
That's the worst of it. The salve I bought was really for my
conscience, if you must know. I squander altogether too much on
myself." Then, turning to O'Reilly, "I love extravagance, don't
you?"

"Dearly! It's my one unconquerable vice," he told her. He thought
grimly of the four dollars in his pocket which represented his and
Leslie Branch's total wealth, but it seemed to him that he was
called upon to agree with anything Miss Evans might choose to say.

O'Reilly liked this girl. He had liked her the instant she favored
him with her friendly smile, and so, trusting fatuously to his
masculine powers of observation, he tried to analyze her. He could
not guess her age, for an expensive ladies' tailor can baffle the
most discriminating eye. Certainly, however, she was not too old--
he had an idea that she would tell him her exact age if he asked
her. While he could not call her beautiful, she was something
immensely better--she was alive, human, interesting, and
interested. The fact that she did not take her "mission" over-
seriously proved that she was also sensible beyond most women.
Yes, that was it, Norine Evans was a perfectly sensible, unspoiled
young person, who showed the admirable effects of clean living and
clean thinking coupled with a normal, sturdy constitution.
O'Reilly told himself that here was a girl who could pour tea,
nurse a sick man, or throw a baseball.

And she was as good as her promise. She did not interrupt when,
during dinner, Alvarado led Johnnie to talk about his latest
experience in Cuba, but, on the contrary, her unflagging interest
induced O'Reilly to address his talk more often to her than to the
doctor. He soon discovered that she understood the Cuban situation
as well as or better than he, and that her sympathies were keen.
When she did speak it was to ask intelligent questions, some of
which, by the way, it taxed O'Reilly's wits to answer
satisfactorily. Heretofore, Johnnie had looked upon the war
primarily as an unfortunate condition of affairs which had played
the mischief with his own personal fortunes; he had not allowed
himself to be very deeply affected by the rights or the wrongs of
either party. But Norine Evans took a much deeper and broader view
of the matter. She was genuinely moved by the gallant struggle of
the Cuban people, and when the dinner was over she exploded a
surprise which left both men speechless.

"This settles it with me," she announced. "I'm going down there."

Alvarado stared at her for a moment. "My dear--" he began.

But she warned him: "Don't argue with me. You know I detest
arguments. I've been thinking about it for some time, and--"

"It is quite impossible," the doctor declared, firmly; and
O'Reilly agreed.

"Of course you could go to Havana," said the latter, "but you
wouldn't be allowed to see anything."

"I'm going right to the Insurrectos with you."

"WITH ME!" O'Reilly could not conceal his lack of enthusiasm. "I
don't know that the Junta will take me."

"They will if I ask them."

Alvarado inquired, "What ever put such a ridiculous idea into your
head?"

The girl laughed. "It's the only kind of ideas I have. But there
are ten thousand reasons why I want to go. In the first place, I
fairly itch to give pills. You say the rebels have no hospitals,
no nurses--"

"We do the best we can, with our equipment."

"Well, I'll supply better equipment, and I'll handle it myself.
I'm in earnest. You sha'n't stop me."

O'Reilly was uncomfortably aware of the speaker's determination;
protests had no effect upon her; her clear cheeks had flushed, her
eyes were dancing. Evidently here was a girl who did very much as
she chose.

"You don't realize what you are saying," he told her, gravely.
"You'd have to go as a filibuster, on some decrepit, unseaworthy
freighter loaded to the guards and crowded with men of all sorts.
It's dangerous business, running the Spanish blockade. If captured
you would be treated just like the rest of us."

"Lovely! We'd land in small boats some dark night. Maybe we'd have
a fight!"

"And if you got through, what then? Life in a bark hut, with
nothing to eat. Bugs! Snakes! Hardships!"

"That decides me. I eat too much--Doctor Alvarado tells me I do. I
adore huts, and I don't seriously object to insects."

The physician stirred uneasily. "It's utterly absurd," he
expostulated. "Some women might do it, but you're not the sort.
You are--pardon me--a most attractive young person. You'd be
thrown among rough men."

"Mr. O'Reilly will look out for me. But for that matter I can take
care of myself. Oh, it's of no use trying to discourage me. I
always have my own way; I'm completely spoiled."

"Your family will never consent," O'Reilly ventured; whereupon
Miss Evans laughed.

"I haven't such a thing. I'm alone and unencumbered. No girl was
ever so fortunate. But wait--I'll settle this whole thing in a
minute." She quitted the table, ran to Alvarado's telephone, and
called a number.

"She's after Enriquez," groaned the physician. "He's weak; he
can't refuse her anything."

"I don't want a woman on my hands," O'Reilly whispered, fiercely.
"Suppose she got sick? Good Lord! I'd have to NURSE her." He wiped
a sudden moisture from his brow.

"Oh, she won't get sick. She'll probably nurse you--and--and all
the other men. You'll like it, too, and you will all fall in love
with her--everybody does--and start fighting among yourselves.
There! She has Enriquez. Listen."

Johnnie shivered apprehensively at the directness with which Miss
Evans put her request. "You understand, I want to go and see for
myself," she was saying. "If you need medicines I'll give them--
bushels of the nastiest stuff I can buy. I'll organize a field
hospital. ... Oh, very well, call it a bribe, if you like. Anyhow,
I've fully determined to go, and Mr. O'Reilly has volunteered to
take care of me. He's charmed with the idea." Miss Evans giggled.
"That means you'll have to take him along, too."

There followed a pause during which the two men exchanged dismayed
glances.

"She doesn't seem to care what she says," O'Reilly murmured. "But-
-I'll put a flea in Enriquez's ear."

"Put it in writing, please." There was another wait. "Now read it
to me. ... Good!" Miss Evans fairly purred over the telephone.
"Send it to me by messenger right away; that's a dear. I'm at
Doctor Alvarado's house, and he's beside himself with joy. Thanks,
awfully. You're so nice." A moment, and she was back in the
dining-room facing her two friends--a picture of triumph. "You
have nothing more to say about it," she gloated. "'The Provisional
Government of Cuba, through its New York representatives, extends
to Miss Norine Evans an invitation to visit its temporary
headquarters in the Sierra de--something-or-other, and deems it an
honor to have her as its guest so long as she wishes to remain
there. It requests that all military and civil officers afford her
every safety and convenience within their power.' That's
practically what Mr. Enriquez read to me. In fifteen minutes it
will be here in black and white. Now then, let's celebrate."

She executed a dance step, pirouetted around the room, then
plumped herself down into her chair. She rattled her cup and
saucer noisily, crying, "Fill them up, Doctor Gloom. Let's drink
to Cuba Libre."

Johnnie managed to smile as he raised his demi-tasse. "Here's to
my success as a chaperon," said he. "I'm disliked by the
Spaniards, and now the Cubans will hate me. I can see happy days
ahead."




XV

FILIBUSTERS


Leslie Branch was asleep when O'Reilly returned to their room, but
he awoke sufficiently to listen to the latter's breathless account
of the dinner-party.

"I'm rattled," Johnnie confessed. "Why, that girl just bounced
right into the middle of everything, and--and I can't bounce her
out again."

"You say she's young, and PRETTY, and--RICH?" Leslie was
incredulous.

"Y-yes! All of that."

"Um-m! Doctor Alvarado must mix a good cocktail."

"Why?"

"Because you're drunk and delirious. They don't come that way, my
boy. When they're rich they're old and ugly."

"I tell you this girl is young and--stunning."

"Of course she is," Branch agreed, soothingly. "Now go to sleep
and don't think any more about her, there's a good boy! Everything
will be all right in the morning. Perhaps it never happened;
perhaps you didn't meet any woman at all." The speaker yawned and
turned over.

"Don't be an ass," Johnnie cried, impatiently. "What are we going
to do with a woman on our hands?"

"WE? Don't divide her with me. What are YOU going to do? The truth
is plain, this Miss Evans is in love with you and you don't know
it. She sees in you her soul mate. Well, if you don't want her, I
want her. I'll eat her medicine. I'll even--marry the poor old
soul, if she's rich."

O'Reilly arose early the next morning and hurried down to the
office of the Junta, hoping that he could convince Mr. Enriquez of
the folly of allowing Norine Evans to have her way. By the light
of day Miss Evans's project seemed more hare-brained than ever,
and he suspected that Enriquez had acquiesced in it only because
of a natural inability to refuse anything to a pretty woman--that
was typically Cuban. But his respect for Miss Evans's energy and
initiative deepened when, on arriving at 56 New Street, he
discovered that she had forestalled him and was even then closeted
with the man he had come to see. Johnnie waited uneasily; he was
dismayed when the girl finally appeared, with Enriquez in tow, for
the man's face was radiant.

"It's all settled," she announced, at sight of O'Reilly. "I've
speeded them up."

"You're an early riser," the latter remarked. "I hardly expected--
"

Enriquez broke in. "Such enthusiasm! Such ardor! She whirls a
person off his feet."

"It seems that the Junta lacks money for another expedition, so
I've made up the deficit. We'll be off in a week."

"Really? Then you're actually--going?"

"Of course."

"It was like a gift from Heaven," Enriquez cried. "Our last
embarrassment is removed, and--"

But Johnnie interrupted him. "You're crazy, both of you," he
declared, irritably. "Cuba is no place for an American girl. I'm
not thinking so much about the danger of capture on the way down
as the hardship after she gets there and the fact that she will be
thrown among all sorts of men."

The elder man lifted his head. "Every Cuban will know who Miss
Evans is, and what she has done for our cause. You do not seem to
have a high regard for our chivalry, sir."

"There!" Norine was triumphant.

"There is bound to be some danger, of course," Enriquez continued,
"for the coast is well patrolled; but once the expedition is
landed, Miss Evans will be among friends. She will be as safe in
our camps as if she were in her own home."

"Don't be hateful, and argumentative, or I'll begin to think
you're a born chaperon," Miss Evans exclaimed. "Come! Make up your
mind to endure me. And now you're going to help me buy my tropical
outfit."

With a smile and a nod at Enriquez she took O'Reilly's arm and
bore him away.

In spite of his panic-struck protestations that he knew less than
nothing about woman's requirements, she led him up-town. And she
kept him at her side all that morning while she made her
purchases; then when she had loaded him down with parcels she
invited him to take her to lunch. The girl was so keenly alive and
so delighted with the prospect of adventure that Johnnie could not
long remain displeased with her. She had an irresistible way about
her, and he soon found himself sharing her good spirits. She had a
healthy appetite, too; when O'Reilly set out for his lodgings
after escorting her home he walked in order to save car fare.
Clams, consomme, chicken salad, French pastry, and other
extravagances had reduced his capital to zero.

The days of idle waiting that followed were trying, even to one of
O'Reilly's philosophic habit of mind. He could learn nothing about
the Junta's plans, and, owing to his complete uncertainty, he was
unable to get work. Leslie Branch, too, failed to find steady
employment, though he managed, by the sale of an occasional
column, to keep them both from actual suffering. His cough,
meanwhile, grew worse day by day, for the spring was late and raw.
As a result his spirits rose, and he became the best of all
possible good companions. Johnnie, who was becoming constantly
more fond of him, felt his anxiety increase in proportion to this
improvement in mood; it seemed to him that Branch was on the very
verge of a collapse.

At last there came a message which brought them great joy.
Enriquez directed them to be in readiness to leave Jersey City at
seven o'clock the following morning. Neither man slept much that
night.

As they waited in the huge, barn-like station Enriquez appeared
with Norine Evans upon his arm. The girl's color was high; she was
tremulous with excitement. Leslie Branch, who saw her for the
first time, emitted a low whistle of surprise.

"Glory be! That goddess!" he cried. "And I called her a 'poor old
soul'!"

When Norine took his bony, bloodless hand in her warm grasp and
flashed him her frank, friendly smile, he capitulated instantly.
In hyperbolical terms he strove to voice his pleasure at the
meeting; but he lost the thread of his thought and floundered so
hopelessly among his words that Norine said, laughingly:

"Now, Mr. Branch, bold buccaneers don't make pretty speeches.
Hitch up your belt and say, 'Hello, Norine!' I'll call you
Leslie."

"Don't call me 'Leslie,'" he begged. "Call me often."

Then he beamed upon the others, as if this medieval pun were both
startling and original. It was plain that he wholly and inanely
approved of Norine Evans.

Enriquez was introducing a new-comer now, one Major Ramos, a
square-jawed, forceful Cuban, who, it seemed, was to be in command
of the expedition.

"My duties end here," Enriquez explained. "Major Ramos will take
charge of you, and you must do exactly as he directs. Ask no
questions, for he won't answer them. Do you think you can follow
instructions?"

"Certainly not. I sha'n't even try," Norine told him. "I'm fairly
bursting with curiosity at this moment."

"Remember, Ramos, not a word."

"I promise," smiled the major.

"Good-by and good luck." Enriquez shook hands all around; then he
bowed and kissed Miss Evans's fingers. "I shall pray that you
escape all danger, senorita, and I shall see that Cuba remembers
her debt to you."

When he had gone the three Americans followed their new guide
through the iron gates.

Major Ramos proved that he knew how to obey orders even though the
other members of his party did not. He remained utterly deaf to
Miss Evans's entreaties that he let her know something about the
plans of the expedition; he would not even tell her where he was
taking her, where the other filibusters had assembled, or from
what port their ship would sail. He did go so far, however, as to
explain that an inkling of the Junta's plans had leaked out, and
that determined efforts to upset them were being made, efforts
which necessitated the greatest care on his part. This, of course,
whetted the girl's curiosity; but to her most artful queries he
opposed a baffling silence. When Philadelphia, Washington, then
Baltimore, and finally Richmond were left behind, Miss Evans was,
in truth, ready to explode, and her two companions were in a
similar frame of mind.

Major Ramos was not naturally a silent man; he had all the
loquacity of the Latin, and all the Latin's appreciation of a
pretty woman; he made no secret of the fact that his orders irked
him. Despite his official reserve he proved himself a pleasant
traveling-companion, and he talked freely on all but one subject.
He played a good game of cards, too, and he devoted himself with
admirable courtesy to Norine's comfort. It was not until the train
was approaching Charleston that he finally announced:

"Now then, my first command. This is the end of our journey; the
other members of the expedition are here. But I must ask you not
to talk with them or with any strangers, for our friends are being
watched by detectives in the employ of the Spanish minister at
Washington and by United States deputy-marshals. One little
indiscretion might ruin everything."

"Spies! Oh, goody!" cried Miss Evans.

"The local authorities intend to seize any vessel we try to sail
on. We must be careful."

The hotel to which Major Ramos led his guests appeared to be well
filled; there were many Cubans in the lobby, and the air was heavy
with the aroma of their strong, black cigarettes. As the major
entered they turned interested and expectant faces toward him and
they eyed his companions with frank curiosity. Miss Evans became
the target for more than one warmly admiring glance.

As for O'Reilly, the familiar odor of those Cuban cigarettes, the
snatches of Spanish conversation which he overheard, awoke in him
a great excitement; he realized with an odd thrill that these
eager, dark-visaged men were now his friends and comrades, and
that those Americans loitering watchfully among them were his
enemies--the spies of whom Ramos had spoken. There were at least a
score of the latter, and all were plainly stamped with the
distinctive marks of their calling. That they, too, were
interested in the latest arrivals was soon made evident by their
efforts to get acquainted.

To Norine Evans it was all immensely exciting. The attention she
evoked delighted her vastly, and she was almost offended when
O'Reilly threatened one particularly forward sleuth with a
thrashing, thereby ending her fun.

It was a strangely restless gathering. The Cubans sat in groups or
in pairs with their heads together, smoking furiously and
whispering, pausing now and then to glare balefully at some
detective who drew within ear-shot. Every hour increased the
strain.

On the street it became known that a party of filibusters was in
the city and curious townspeople came to investigate, while others
journeyed to the water-front to stare at the big ocean-going tug
which had slipped into the harbor on the evening previous. When
they learned that she was none other than the Dauntless, that most
famous of Cuban blockade-runners, and that "Dynamite Johnny"
O'Brien himself was in command, interest grew. The exploits of
that redoubtable mariner were familiar to the citizens of
Charleston, and their sympathies were quite naturally with the
cause he served; therefore they were disappointed to behold a
revenue cutter at anchor close alongside the Dauntless. Her steam
was up; she was ready for instant action; it seemed impossible for
"Dynamite Johnny" to get his cargo and his passengers aboard under
her very nose. Some imaginative person claimed to have a tip that
the Dauntless intended to ram the revenue cutter, and a warning to
that effect appeared in the evening paper, together with the rumor
that a Spanish cruiser was waiting just outside the three-mile
limit.

Charleston awoke with a start, and the Cuban patriots who found
themselves the object of this sudden interest buzzed like flies.
They muttered and whispered more mysteriously than ever, and
consumed even greater quantities of tobacco. The detectives became
painfully alert.

To O'Reilly and his two companions it seemed that the expedition
had already failed. Through some blunder its plans had evidently
become known, and all was ruined. That was the worst of these
Cubans; they couldn't keep a secret. Branch stalked the hotel
lobby like a restless wraith. O'Reilly was furious. Of the entire
party Ramos alone maintained an unruffled pleasantry; he spent the
evening in Miss Evans's company, quite oblivious to the general
feeling of dismay.

On the next afternoon word was quietly passed to get ready, and
the filibusters, carrying their scant hand-baggage, began to leave
the hotel in groups, followed, of course, by the watchful spies.

As the three Americans prepared for departure Norine whispered:
"Listen! Everything is all right. We're not going aboard the
Dauntless at all; she's here as a blind."

"Are you sure?" O'Reilly shot her a quick glance.

"Major Ramos himself gave that story to the news-papers; it's all
a part of his plan. I promised not to tell, but--I just can't help
myself. Gee! I'm having a good time."

Leslie Branch shook his head mournfully. "You may enjoy it, but I
don't," he grumbled. "We'll end by being pinched, and that will
finish me. One week in a damp cell, with my lungs--"

O'Reilly, whose spirits had risen magically, clapped him heartily
on the back, crying: "Congratulations! You're feeling better."

"I never felt worse!" the other complained.

"Nonsense! That's the first kick you've made since we hit cold
weather. By the time we reach Cuba you'll be nice and melancholy
and your cough will be all gone."

Ramos led his three charges to the railroad station and into the
rear coach of a south-bound train, where the other members of the
expedition had already found seats. As they climbed aboard, a
Secret Service agent essayed to follow them, but he was stopped by
a brakeman, who said:

"You can't ride in here; this is a special car. Some sort of a
picnic party. They're 'wops' or Greeks or something."

Other detectives who attempted to invade the privacy of that rear
coach after the train had gotten under way were also denied.
Meanwhile, the filibusters cast restraint aside, and for the first
time intermingled freely.

Evening came, then night, and still the party was jerked along at
the tail of the train without a hint as to its destination. About
midnight those who were not dozing noted that they had stopped at
an obscure pine-woods junction, and that when the train got under
way once more their own car did not move. The ruse was now
apparent; owing to the lateness of the hour, it was doubtful if
any one in the forward coaches was aware that the train was
lighter by one car.

There was a brief delay; then a locomotive crept out from a
siding, coupled up to the standing car, and drew it off upon
another track. Soon the "excursion party" was being rushed swiftly
toward the coast, some twenty miles away.

Major Ramos came down the aisle, laughing, and spoke to his
American protege's.

"Well, what do you think of that, eh? Imagine the feelings of
those good deputy-marshals when they wake up. I bet they'll rub
their eyes."

Miss Evans bounced excitedly in her seat; she clapped her hands,

"You must have friends in high places," O'Reilly grinned, and the
Cuban agreed.

"Yes, I purposely drew attention to us in Charleston, while our
ship was loading. She's ready and waiting for us now; and by
daylight we ought to be safely out to sea. Meanwhile the Dauntless
has weighed anchor and is steaming north, followed, I hope, by all
the revenue cutters hereabouts."

It was the darkest time of the night when the special train came
to a stop at a bridge spanning one of the deep Southern rivers. In
the stream below, dimly outlined in the gloom, lay the Fair Play,
a small tramp steamer; her crew were up and awake. The new
arrivals were hurried aboard, and within a half-hour she was
feeling her way seaward.

With daylight, caution gave way to haste, and the rusty little
tramp began to drive forward for all she was worth. She cleared
the three-mile limit safely and then turned south. Not a craft was
in sight; not a smudge of smoke discolored the sky-line.

It had been a trying night for the filibusters, and when the low
coast-line was dropped astern they began to think of sleep.
Breakfast of a sort was served on deck, after which those favored
ones who had berths sought them, while their less fortunate
companions stretched out wherever they could find a place.

Johnnie O'Reilly was not one of those who slept; he was too much
elated. Already he could see the hills of Cuba dozing behind their
purple veils; in fancy he felt the fierce white heat from close-
walled streets, and scented the odors of "mangly" swamps. He heard
the ceaseless sighing of royal palms. How he had hungered for it
all; how he had raged at his delays! Cuba's spell was upon him; he
knew now that he loved the island, and that he would never feel at
rest on other soil.

It had seemed so small a matter to return; it had seemed so easy
to seek out Rosa and to save her! Yet the days had grown into
weeks; the weeks had aged into months. Well, he had done his best;
he had never rested from the moment of Rosa's first appeal. Her
enemies had foiled him once, but there would be no turning back
this time--rather a firing-squad or a dungeon in Cabanas than
that.

O'Reilly had taken his bitter medicine as becomes a man--he had
maintained a calm, if not a cheerful, front; but now that every
throb of the propeller bore him closer to his heart's desire he
felt a growing jubilation, a mounting restlessness that was hard
to master. His pulse was pounding; his breath swelled in his
lungs. Sleep? That was for those who merely risked their lives for
Cuba. Hunger? No food could satisfy a starving soul. Rest? He
would never rest until he held Rosa Varona in his arms. This
rusty, sluggish tub was standing still!

Into the midst of his preoccupation Norine Evans forced herself,
announcing, breathlessly:

"Oh, but I'm excited! They're hoisting a cannon out of the hold
and putting it together, so that we can fight if we have to."

"Now don't you wish you'd stayed at home?" O'Reilly smiled at her.

"Good heavens, no! I'm having the time of my life. I nearly died
of curiosity at first--until I found Major Ramos's tongue."

"Hm-m! You found it, all right. He appears to be completely
conquered."

"I-I'm afraid so," the girl acknowledged, with a little grimace.
"You'd think he'd never seen a woman before. He's very--intense.
Very!"

"You don't expect me, as your chaperon, to approve of your
behavior? Why, you've been flirting outrageously."

"I had to flirt a little: I simply had to know what was going on.
But--I fixed him."

"Indeed?"

"I couldn't let him spoil my fun, could I? Of course not. Well, I
put a damper on him. I told him about you--about us."

O'Reilly was puzzled. "What do you mean?" he inquired.

"You won't be angry, will you? When he waxed romantic I told him
he had come into my life too late. I confessed that I was in love
with another man--with you." As her hearer drew back in dismay
Miss Evans added, quickly, "Oh, don't be frightened; that isn't
half--"

"Of course you're joking," Johnnie stammered.

"Indeed I'm not. I thought it would discourage him, but--it
didn't. So I told him a whopper. I said we were engaged." The
speaker tittered. She was delighted with herself.

"Engaged? To be MARRIED?"

"Certainly! People aren't engaged to--to go fishing, are they? I
had to tell him something; he was getting positively feverish. If
he'd kept it up I'd have told him we were secretly married."

"This may be funny," the young man said, stiffly, "but I don't see
it."

"Oh, don't look so glum! I'm not going to hold you to it, you
know. Why"--Miss Evans's bantering manner ceased, and she said,
earnestly: "Doctor Alvarado told me your story, and I think it is
splendid. I'm going to help you find that little Rosa, if you'll
let me. You were thinking about her when I came up, weren't you?"

Johnnie nodded.

"You--might talk to me about her, if you care to."

O'Reilly's voice was husky and low as he said: "I daren't trust
myself. I'm afraid. She's so young, so sweet, so beautiful--and
these are war-times. I'm almost afraid to think--"

Norine saw her companion's cheeks blanch slowly, saw his laughing
eyes grow grave, saw the muscular brown hand upon the rail tighten
until the knuckles were white; impulsively she laid her palm over
his.

"Don't let yourself worry," she said. "If money would buy her
safety you could have all that I have. Just be brave and true and
patient, and you'll find her. I'm sure you will. And in the mean
time don't mind my frivolity; it's just my way. You see this is my
first taste of life, and it has gone to my head."




XVI

THE CITY AMONG THE LEAVES


The night was moonless and warm. An impalpable haze dimmed the
star-glow, only the diffused illumination of the open sea enabled
the passengers of the Fair Play to identify that blacker darkness
on the horizon ahead of them as land. The ship herself was no more
than a formless blot stealing through the gloom, and save for the
phosphorescence at bow and stern no light betrayed her presence,
not even so much as the flare of a match or the coal from a cigar
or cigarette. Orders of the strictest had been issued and the
expedicionarios, gathered along the rails, were not inclined to
disregard them, for only two nights before the Fair Play, in spite
of every precaution, had shoved her nose fairly into a hornets'
nest and had managed to escape only by virtue of the darkness and
the speed of her engines.

She had approached within a mile or two of the pre-arranged
landing-place when over the mangroves had flared the blinding
white light of a Spanish patrol-boat; like a thief surprised at
his work the tramp had turned tail and fled, never pausing until
she lay safe among the Bahama Banks.

Now she was feeling her way back, some distance to the westward.
Major Ramos was on the bridge with the captain. Two men were
taking soundings in a blind search for that steep wall which forms
the side of the old Bahama Channel. When the lead finally gave
them warning, the Fair Play lost her headway and came to a stop,
rolling lazily; in the silence that ensued Leslie Branch's
recurrent cough barked loudly.

"They're afraid to go closer, on account of the reef," O'Reilly
explained to his companions.

"That must be it that I hear," Norine ventured. "Or maybe it's
just the roaring in my ears."

"Probably the latter," said Branch. "I'm scared stiff. I don't
like reefs. Are there any sharks in these waters?"

"Plenty."

"Well, I'm glad I'm thin," the sick man murmured.

Major Ramos spoke in a low tone from the darkness above, calling
for a volunteer boat's crew to reconnoiter and to look for an
opening through the reef. Before the words were out of his mouth
O'Reilly had offered himself.

Ten minutes later he found himself at the steering-oar of one of
the ship's life-boats, heading shoreward. A hundred yards, and the
Fair Play was lost to view; but, keeping his face set toward that
inky horizon, O'Reilly guided his boat perhaps a half-mile nearer
before ordering his crew to cease rowing. Now through the
stillness came a low, slow, pulsating whisper, the voice of the
barrier reef.

The trade-winds had died with the sun, and only the gentlest
ground-swell was running; nevertheless, when the boat drew farther
in the sound increased alarmingly, and soon a white breaker streak
showed dimly where the coral teeth of the reef bit through.

There was a long night's work ahead; time pressed, and so O'Reilly
altered his course and cruised along outside the white water,
urging his crew to lustier strokes. It was haphazard work, this
search for an opening, and every hour of delay increased the
danger of discovery.

A mile--two miles--it seemed like ten to the taut oars-men, and
then a black hiatus of still water showed in the phosphorescent
foam. O'Reilly explored it briefly; then he turned back toward the
ship. When he had gone as far as he dared, he lit a lantern and,
shielding its rays from the shore with, his coat, flashed it
seaward. After a short interval a dim red eye winked once out of
the blackness. O'Reilly steered for it.

Soon he and his crew were aboard and the ship was groping her way
toward the break in the reef. Meanwhile, her deck became a scene
of feverish activity; out from her hold came cases of ammunition
and medical supplies; the field-piece on the bow was hurriedly
dismounted; the small boats, of which there were an extra number,
were swung out, with the result that when the Fair Play had
manoeuvered as close as she dared everything was in readiness.

Many of these expedicionarios were professional men, clerks,
cigar-makers, and the like; few of them had ever done hard manual
labor; yet they fell to their tasks willingly enough. While they
worked a close watch with night glasses was maintained from the
bridge.

O'Reilly took the first load through the reef, and discharged it
upon a sandy beach. No one seemed to know positively whether this
was the mainland or some key; and there was no time for
exploration; in either event, there was no choice of action. Every
man tumbled overboard and waded ashore with a packing-case; he
dropped this in the sand above high-tide mark, and then ran back
for another. It was swift, hot work. From the darkness on each
side came the sounds of other boat crews similarly engaged.

Johnnie was back alongside the ship and ready for a second cargo
before the last tender had set out upon its first trip, and then
for several hours this slavish activity continued. Some crews lost
themselves in the gloom, fetched up on the reef, and were forced
to dump their freight into the foam, trusting to salvage it when
daylight came. Every one was wet to the skin; bodies steamed in
the heat; men who had pulled at oars until their hands were raw
and bleeding cursed and groaned at their own fatigue. But there
was little shirking; those whose strength completely failed them
dropped in the sand and rested until they could resume their
labors.

Daylight was coming when the last boat cast off and the Fair Play,
with a hoarse triumphant blast of her whistle, faded into the
north, her part in the expedition at an end.

O'Reilly bore Norine Evans ashore in his arms, and when he placed
her feet upon Cuban soil she hugged him, crying:

"We fooled them, Johnnie! But if it hadn't been for you we'd have
turned back. The captain was afraid of the reef."

"I don't mind telling you I was afraid, too," he sighed, wearily.
"Now then, about all we have to fear are Spanish coast-guards."

Dawn showed the voyagers that they were indeed fortunate, for they
were upon the mainland of Cuba, and as far as they could see, both
east and west, the reef was unbroken. There was still some
uncertainty as to their precise position, for the jungle at their
backs shut off their view of the interior; but that gave them
little concern. Men were lolling about, exhausted, but Major Ramos
allowed them no time for rest; he roused them, and kept them on
the go until the priceless supplies had been collected within the
shelter of the brush. Then he broke open certain packages, and
distributed arms among his followers.

Even while this was going on there came an alarm; over the low
promontory that cut off the eastern coastline a streamer of smoke
was seen. There was a scurry for cover; the little band lay low
and watched while a Spanish cruiser stole past not more than a
mile outside the line of froth.

The three Americans, who were munching a tasteless breakfast of
pilot-bread, were joined by Major Ramos. He was no longer the
immaculate personage he had been: he was barefooted; his clothes
were torn; his trousers were rolled up to the knee and whitened by
sea-water, while the revolver at his hip and the bandolier of
cartridges over his shoulder lent him an incongruously ferocious
appearance. Ever since Norine had so rudely shattered his romantic
fancies the major had treated both her and O'Reilly with a stiff
and distant formality. He began now by saying:

"I am despatching a message to General Gomez's headquarters,
asking him to send a pack-train and an escort for these supplies.
There is danger here; perhaps you would like to go on with the
couriers."

O'Reilly accepted eagerly; then thinking of the girl, he said,
doubtfully:

"I'm afraid Miss Evans isn't equal to the trip."

"Nonsense! I'm equal to anything," Norine declared. And indeed she
looked capable enough as she stood there in her short walking-suit
and stout boots.

Branch alone declined the invitation, vowing that he was too weak
to budge. If there was the faintest prospect of riding to the
interior he infinitely preferred to await the opportunity, he
said, even at the risk of an attack by Spanish soldiers in the
mean time.

It took O'Reilly but a short time to collect the few articles
necessary for the trip; indeed, his bundle was so small that
Norine was dismayed.

"Can't I take any clothes?" she inquired in a panic. "I can't live
without a change."

"It is something you'll have to learn," he told her. "An
Insurrecto with two shirts is wealthy. Some of them haven't any."

"Isn't it likely to rain on us?"

"It's almost sure to."

Miss Evans pondered this prospect; then she laughed. "It must feel
funny," she said.

There were three other members of the traveling-party, men who
knew something of the country round about; they were good
fighters, doubtless, but in spite of their shiny new weapons they
resembled soldiers even less than did their major. All were
dressed as they had been when they left New York; one even wore a
derby hat and pointed patent-leather shoes. Nevertheless, Norine
Evans thought the little cavalcade presented quite a martial
appearance as it filed away into the jungle.

The first few miles were trying, for the coast was swampy and
thickly grown up to underbrush; but in time the jungle gave place
to higher timber and to open savannas deep in guinea-grass. Soon
after noon the travelers came to a farm, the owner of which was
known to one of the guides, and here a stop was made in order to
secure horses and food.

It was a charming little rancho. The palm-thatched house was set
in a grove of mamey and mango trees, all heavily burdened with
fruit; there was a vianda-patch, and, wonder of wonders, there
were a half-dozen cows dozing in the shade. Spying these animals,
Norine promptly demanded a glass of milk, and O'Reilly translated
her request to the farmer.

The man was obliging until he learned that the American lady
purposed drinking the milk fresh and warm; then he refused
positively. Fresh milk was full of fever, he explained: it was
alive with germs. He would bring her, instead, some which had been
boiled and salted in the usual Cuban manner. This he did, but
after one bitter mouthful Norine insisted upon her original
request. With a dubious shake of his head and a further warning
the farmer directed his son to oblige the pretty lady by milking
one of the cows; he made it plain, however, that he disclaimed all
responsibility for the result.

Johnnie, who was badly fagged from the previous night's work,
found a shady spot and stretched himself out for a nap. He
inquired idly if there were any Spaniards in the vicinity, and
learned that there were, but that they seldom came this way.

"We'd never see them here, if it were not for these sin
verguenzas--may a bad lightning split them!--who take money to
show them the bridle-paths," the country-man explained. "I'd like
to guide them once. I'd lead them into a swamp and leave them to
sink in the mud, then I'd go back and cut off their heads. Ha!
That would be a satisfaction, now, wouldn't it?"

O'Reilly agreed sleepily that it would doubtless be a very great
satisfaction indeed.

"I'm as good a patriot as God ever made," the fellow ran on. "You
can see that, eh? But what do you think? I have a brother, a very
blood brother, who would sell himself for a peseta. He passed here
the other day at the head of a whole Spanish guerrillero." The
speaker bared his teeth and spat viciously. "Christ! How I would
like to cut his throat!"

The shade was grateful. O'Reilly dozed. He was awakened by being
roughly shaken, and he found the man with the derby hat bending
over him. The fellow was excited; his eyes were ringed with white;
his expression bespoke the liveliest alarm. Loud voices came from
the rear of the bohio.

"What's the matter? Spaniards?" Johnnie was on his feet in an
instant.

"No, no! Your senorita!" the man gasped, "For the love of God come
quickly." He set off at a run, and Johnnie followed, a prey to
sudden sick misgivings.

Around the house they dashed, and into a group the center of which
was Norine herself, a gourdful of milk in one hand, a partially
devoured mango in the other. At first glance there seemed to be
nothing amiss; but the owner of the farm was dancing; he was
trying to seize first the mango, then the drinking-vessel. His
wife was wringing her hands and crying, shrilly:

"God have mercy! So young--so beautiful! What a pity!"

The two filibusters and the farmer's eldest son, all visibly
perturbed, likewise joined in the commotion, while the smaller
children looked on from the background and whimpered.

"What's happened?" O'Reilly demanded, breathlessly.

Norine turned a puzzled face to him, meanwhile warding off the
farmer's attack. "I can't quite make out," she said. "They all
talk at once. Please ask them what I've done." Mechanically she
raised the ripe mango to her lips, whereupon the ranchero, with a
yell, leaped upon her and violently wrenched it out of her
fingers.

Facing O'Reilly, the man panted: "There! You saw her! She wouldn't
listen to my wife--"

"Oh, I warned her!" wailed the woman. "But it was too late."

"You must tell her what she has done," said the fellow. in the
stiff hat.

"Well, what has she done?" Johnnie managed to inquire, whereupon
every one began a separate explanation:

"She will never become your wife. ... Look! That's not her first
mango. ... Enough to destroy an army. ... You can see for
yourself. ... Wait! Ask her how many she ate. Ask her, senor, I
implore you!"

There was a silence while Johnnie translated the question and
repeated the answer:

"She says she doesn't remember, they are so nice and ripe--"

"'So nice and ripe'!" shouted the owner of the farm, tearing his
hair.

"'So nice and ripe'!" echoed his wife.

'"So nice and ripe'!" groaned the man who had awakened O'Reilly.
"Major Ramos told me to guard her with my life because she is the
guest of Cuba. Well, I shall kill myself."

The country woman laid a trembling hand upon Norine's arm,
inquiring, gently: "How are you feeling, my beautiful dove? Sick,
eh?"

"What on earth ails these people?" inquired the object of all this
solicitude. "I haven't made away with a baby. Maybe they're afraid
I won't pay for my food?"

Light came to O'Reilly. "I remember now," said he. "Mangoes and
milk are supposed to be poisonous. The woman wants to know how you
feel."

"Poisonous! Nonsense! They taste splendid. Tell her I'm still half
starved."

It proved now that one of the three members of the landing-party
possessed an unsuspected knowledge of English, which modesty alone
had prevented him from revealing. Under the stress of his emotion
he broke out:

"Oh, missy! Those fruit is skill you."

"I don't believe it," Miss Evans declared.

"It skill you, all right. Maybe you got a headache here, eh?" The
speaker laid a hand upon his abdomen and leaned forward
expectantly.

"Nothing but an aching void."

This confession, or a garbled translation of it, was enough for
the others; it confirmed their worst fears. The farmer volunteered
to ride for the nearest priest, but hesitated, declaring it a
waste of time, inasmuch as the lady would be dead in half an hour.
His wife ran to the house for her crucifix and rosary, which
latter she insisted upon hanging around Norine's neck. After that
she directed the men to carry the sufferer indoors, her intention
being to make her guest's last moments as comfortable as possible.
When Norine refused to be carried she was warned that the least
exertion would but hasten the end, which was, alas! all too near.

O'Reilly was impressed, in spite of himself, by this weight of
conviction, especially when the Cubans ridiculed his suggestion
that the combination of milk and mango might not prove altogether
fatal to an American. Nothing, they assured him, could possibly be
deadlier than this abominable mixture.

The victim herself, however, remained skeptical; she alone treated
the matter lightly, and although she did finally consent to lie
down, it was merely to please the others and because she was
tired.

"They have set their minds on seeing me expire, and they're such
nice people I'm almost ashamed to disappoint them," she confided
to O'Reilly. "But really I'm too hungry to die. Now don't forget
to call me when dinner is ready."

"Honestly, do you feel all right?" he asked of her.

"Never better."

The meal was slow in coming, for not only were the cooking
arrangements primitive, but the apprehensive housewife could not
long remain away from the sick-room. She made frequent visits
thereto, and after each she reported in a whisper the condition of
the patient. The lady looked very white. ... Her breathing was
becoming slower. ... She was unconscious. ... All would soon be
over. ... It was better to let her pass painlessly to paradise
than to torture her with useless remedies. Realizing that the
poison had at last begun to work, the men tip-toed to the door and
peered in compassionately, whereupon the sufferer roused herself
sufficiently to call them "a lot of rubber-necks" and bid them
begone.

"Her mind wanders," explained the man of the house; and then to
cheer O'Reilly he added, "She is young and strong; she may linger
until evening."

The meal was set at last, however; the men were stealthily
attacking it. Suddenly the sick woman swept out from her retreat
and sat down among them.

"Senorita! This is suicide!" they implored.

Then, as she ignored them and helped herself liberally to the
food, their own appetites vanished and they pushed themselves away
from the table.

With a twinkle in his eye O'Reilly said, gravely, "Dying people
have strange fancies. Pray don't thwart her."

Indifference so callous on the part of a lover shocked the Cubans.
They rebuked O'Reilly silently; it was plain that they considered
Americans a barbarously cold-blooded race. Meanwhile they
apprehensively watched Norine's every mouthful.

When, after a time, no ill effects having appeared, she suggested
departing, they whispered together. They agreed at last that it
was perhaps the course of wisdom to humor her. She was the guest
of their Government; it would not do to displease her. Inasmuch as
her end was inevitable, it could matter little whether she died
here or elsewhere. Accordingly they saddled their borrowed horses
and set out.

All that afternoon Norine was an object of the tenderest
solicitude on the part of her three Cuban guides. They momentarily
expected to see her stricken. Then when she gave no sign of
distress they marveled, and expressed great admiration at her
fortitude in enduring pain.

That night was spent at another farm-house. When on the next
morning Norine not only was seen to be alive and well, but
insisted upon making her breakfast of mangoes and milk, the fellow
in the derby hat flung his hands on high and told O'Reilly:

"It is no less than a miracle, but now she courts the wrath of
God, senor! As for me, I shall never again associate with
eccentric persons who delight to fly in the face of Providence. It
is my opinion that all Americans are crazy."

The party had penetrated to the foot-hills of the Sierra de
Cubitas now, and as they ascended, the scenery changed. Rarely is
the Cuban landscape anything but pleasing. For the most part green
pastures sown with stately palm-trees and laid out as if for a
picnic alternate with low rolling hills, and in but few places are
the altitudes at all impressive. It is a smiling island. It has
been said, too, that everything in it is friendly to man: the
people are amiable, warm-hearted; the very animals and insects are
harmless. Cuban cattle are shy, but trusting; Cuban horses are
patient and affectionate; the serpents have no poison, and
although the spiders and the scorpions grow large and forbidding,
their sting is ineffective. But here in the Cubitas range all was
different. The land was stern and forbidding: canons deep and damp
raised dripping walls to the sky; bridle-paths skirted ledges that
were bold and fearsome, or lost themselves in gloomy jungles as
noisome as Spanish dungeons. Hidden away in these fastnesses, the
rebel Government had established its capital. Here, safe from
surprise, the soldiers of Gomez and Maceo and Garcia rested
between attacks, nursing their wounded and recruiting their
strength for further sallies.

It was a strange seat of government--no nation ever had a
stranger--for the state buildings were huts of bark and leaves,
the army was uniformed in rags. Cook-fires smoldered in the open
glades; cavalry horses grazed in the grassy streets, and wood-
smoke drifted over them.

The second evening brought O'Reilly and Miss Evans safely through,
and at news of the expedition's success a pack-train was made
ready to go to its assistance. Norine's letter from the New York
Junta was read, and the young woman was warmly welcomed. One of
the better huts was vacated for her use, and the officers of the
provisional Government called to pay their respects.




XVII

THE CITY OF BEGGARS


There were other Americans in Cubitas, as O'Reilly soon
discovered. During his first inspection of the village he heard
himself hailed in his own language, and a young man in dirty white
trousers and jacket strode toward him.

"Welcome to our city!" the stranger cried. "I'm Judson, Captain of
Artillery, Departmento del Oriente; and you're the fellow who came
with that quinine lady, aren't you?"

O'Reilly acknowledged his identity, and Judson grinned:

"The whole camp is talking about her and those mangoes. Jove! It's
a wonder she didn't die of fright. Something tells me you're
Irish. Anyhow, you look as if you'd enjoy a scrap. Know anything
about artillery?"

"Nothing whatever."

"I'm sorry. We need gunners. Still, you know as much as the rest
of us did when we came."

"I'm not a fighter," Johnnie told him. "I'm here on--other
business."

Captain Judson was plainly disappointed. Nevertheless, he
volunteered to assist his countryman in any way possible. "Have
you met the old man," he inquired--"General Gomez?"

"No, I'd like to meet him."

"Come along, then; I'll introduce you. This is about the right
time of day for it; he'll probably be in good humor. He has
dyspepsia, you know, and he's not always pleasant."

It was nearly sundown; the eastern slopes were in shadow, and
supper was cooking. As the two men passed down the wide street
between its rows of bohios the fragrance of burning fagots was
heavy in the air--that odor which is sweet in the nostrils of
every man who knows and loves the out-of-doors. To O'Reilly it was
like the scents of Araby, for his hopes were high, his feet were
light, and he believed his goal was in sight.

Gen. Maximo Gomez, father of patriots, bulwark of the Cuban cause,
was seated in a hammock, reading some letters; O'Reilly recognized
him instantly from the many pictures he had seen. Gomez was a
keen, wiry old man; the color of his swarthy, sun-bitten cheeks
was thrown into deeper relief by his snow-white mustache and
goatee. He looked up at Judson's salute and then turned a pail of
brilliant eyes, as hard as glass, upon O'Reilly. His was an
irascible, brooding face; it had in it something of the sternness,
the exalted detachment, of the eagle, and O'Reilly gained a hint
of the personality behind it. Maximo Gomez was counted one of the
world's ablest guerrilla leaders; and indeed it had required the
quenchless enthusiasm of a real military genius to fuse into a
homogeneous fighting force the ill-assorted rabble of nondescripts
whom Gomez led, to school them to privation and to render them
sufficiently mobile to defy successfully ten times their number of
trained troops. This, however, was precisely what the old Porto-
Rican had done, and in doing it he had won the admiration of
military students. He it was, more than any other, who bore the
burden of Cuba's unequal struggle; it was Gomez's cunning and
Gomez's indomitable will which had already subjugated half the
island of Cuba; it was Gomez's stubborn, unflagging resistance
which was destined to shatter for all time the hopes of Spain in
the New World.

With a bluntness not unkind he asked O'Reilly what had brought him
to Cuba, Then before the young man could answer he gestured with a
letter in his hand, saying:

"Major Ramos gives you splendid credit for helping him to land his
expedition, but he says you didn't come to fight with us. What
does he mean?"

When O'Reilly explained the reason for his presence the old
fighter nodded.

"So? You wish to go west, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I want to find Colonel Lopez."

"Lopez? Miguel Lopez?" the general inquired, quickly.

"I believe that's his name--at any rate the Colonel Lopez who has
been operating in Matanzas Province, You see, he knows the
whereabouts of my--friends."

"Well, you won't have to look far for him." General Gomez's
leathery countenance lightened into a smile. "He happens to be
right here in Cubitas." Calling Judson to him, he said: "Amigo,
take Mr. O'Reilly to Colonel Lopez; you will find him somewhere
about. I am sorry we are not to have this young fellow for a
soldier; he looks like a real man and--quite equal to five
quintos, eh?"

It was the habit of the Cubans to refer to their enemies as
quintos--the fifth part of a man! With a wave of his hand Gomez
returned to his reading.

As Judson led his companion away he said: "When you have finished
with Lopez come to my shack and we'll have supper and I'll
introduce you to the rest of our gang. You won't get much to eat,
for we're short of grub; but it's worse where Lopez comes from."

Col. Miguel Lopez, a handsome, animated fellow, took O'Reilly's
hand in a hearty clasp when they were introduced; but a moment
later his smile gave way to a frown and his brow darkened.

"So! You are that O'Reilly from Matanzas," said he. "I know you
now, but--I never expected we would meet."

"Esteban Varona told you about me, did he not?"

The colonel inclined his head.

"I'm here at last, after the devil's own time. I've been trying
every way to get through. The Spaniards stopped me at Puerto
Principe--they sent me back home, you know. I've been half crazy.
I--You--" O'Reilly swallowed hard. "You know where Esteban is?
Tell me-"

"Have you heard nothing?"

"Nothing whatever. That is, nothing since Rosa, his sister--You
understand, she and I are--engaged-"

"Yes, yes; Esteban told me all about you."

Something in the Cuban's gravity of manner gave O'Reilly warning.
A sudden fear assailed him. His voice shook as he asked:

"What is it? My God! Not bad news?"

There was no need for the officer to answer. In his averted gaze
O'Reilly read confirmation of his sickest apprehensions. The men
faced each other for a long moment, while the color slowly drove
out of the American's cheeks, leaving him pallid, stricken. He wet
his lips to speak, but his voice was no more than a dry, throaty
rustle.

"Tell me! Which one?" he whispered.

"Both!"

O'Reilly recoiled; a spasm distorted his chalky face. He began to
shake weakly, and his fingers plucked aimlessly at each other.

Lopez took him by the arm. "Try to control yourself," said he.
"Sit here while I try to tell you what little I know. Or, would it
not be better to wait awhile, until you are calmer?" As the young
man made no answer, except to stare at him in a white agony of
suspense, he sighed: "Very well, then, as you wish. But you must
be a man, like the rest of us. I, too, have suffered. My father"--
Lopez's mustached lip drew back, and his teeth showed through--
"died in the Laurel Ditch at Cabanas. On the very day after my
first victory they shot him--an old man, Christ! It is because of
such things that we Cubans fight while we starve--that we shall
continue to fight until no Spaniard is left upon this island. We
have all faced something like that which you are facing now--our
parents murdered, our sisters and our sweethearts wronged. ..."

O'Reilly, huddled where he had sunk upon the bench, uttered a
gasping, inarticulate cry, and covered his face as if from a lash.

"I will tell you all I know--which isn't much. Esteban Varona came
to me soon after he and his sister had fled from their home; he
wanted to join my forces, but we were harassed on every side, and
I didn't dare take the girl--no woman could have endured the
hardships we suffered. So I convinced him that his first duty was
to her, rather than to his country, and he agreed. He was a fine
boy! He had spirit. He bought some stolen rifles and armed a band
of his own--which wasn't a bad idea. I used to hear about him.
Nobody cared to molest him, I can tell you, until finally he
killed some of the regular troops. Then of course they went after
him. Meanwhile, he managed to destroy his own plantations, which
Cueto had robbed him of. You knew Cueto?"

"Yes."

"Well, Esteban put an end to him after a while; rode right up to
La Joya one night, broke in the door, and macheted the scoundrel
in his bed. But there was a mistake of some sort. It seems that a
body of Cobo's Volunteers were somewhere close by, and the two
parties met. I have never learned all the details of the affair,
and the stories of that fight which came to me are too
preposterous for belief. Still, Esteban and his men must have
fought like demons, for they killed some incredible number. But
they were human--they could not defeat a regiment. It seems that
only one or two of them escaped."

"Esteban? Did he--"

Colonel Lopez nodded; then he said, gravely: "Cobo takes no
prisoners. I was in the Rubi hills at the time, fighting hard, and
it was six weeks before I got back into Matanzas. Naturally, when
I heard what had happened, I tried to find the girl, but Weyler
was concentrating the pacificos by that time, and there was nobody
left in the Yumuri; it was a desert."

"Then you don't know positively that she ... that she--"

"Wait. There is no doubt that the boy was killed, but of Rosa's
fate I can only form my own opinion. However, one of Esteban's men
joined my troops later, and I not only learned something about the
girl, but also why Esteban had been so relentlessly pursued. It
was all Cobo's doings. You have heard of the fellow? No? Well, you
will." The speaker's tone was eloquent of hatred. "He is worse
than the worst of them--a monster! He had seen Miss Varona. She
was a beautiful girl. ..."

"Go on!" whispered the lover.

"I discovered that she didn't at first obey Weyler's edict. She
and the two negroes--they were former slaves of her father, I
believe--took refuge in the Pan de Matanzas. Later on, Cobo's men
made a raid and--killed a great many. Some few escaped into the
high ravines, but Miss Varona was not one of them. Out of regard
for Esteban I made careful search, but I could find no trace of
her."

"And yet, you don't know what happened?" O'Reilly ventured.
"You're not sure?"

"No, but I tell you again Cobo's men take no prisoners. When I
heard about that raid I gave up looking for her."

"This--Cobo"--the American's voice shook in spite of his effort to
hold it steady--"I shall hope to meet him some time."

The sudden fury that filled Colonel Lopez's face was almost hidden
by the gloom. "Yes. Oh yes!" he cried, quickly, "and you are but
one of a hundred; I am another. In my command there is a standing
order to spare neither Cobo nor any of his assassins; they neither
expect nor receive quarter from us. Now, companero"--the Cuban
dropped a hand on O'Reilly's bowed head--"I am sorry that I had to
bring you such evil tidings, but, we are men--and this is war."

"No, no! It isn't war--it's merciless savagery! To murder children
and to outrage women--why, that violates all the ethics of
warfare."

"Ethics!" the colonel cried, harshly. "Ethics? Hell is without
ethics. Why look for ethics in war? Violence--injustice--insanity-
-chaos--THAT is war. It is man's agony--woman's despair. It is a
defiance of God. War is without mercy, without law; it is--well,
it is the absence of all law, all good."

There was a considerable silence. Then Lopez went on in another
key.

"We Cubans carry heavy hearts, but our wrongs have made us mighty,
and our sufferings have made us brave. Here in the orient we do
well enough; but, believe me, you cannot imagine the desolation
and the suffering farther west--whole provinces made barren and
their inhabitants either dead or dying. The world has never seen
anything like Weyler's slaughter of the innocents. If there is
indeed a God--and sometimes I doubt it--he will not permit this
horror to continue; from every pool of Cuban blood another patriot
will spring up, until we drive that archfiend and his armies into
the sea. Go back to your own country now, and if your grief has
made you one of us in sympathy, tell the world what that black
butcher in Havana is doing, and beg your Government to recognize
our belligerency, so that we may have arms. ARMS!"

It was some time before O'Reilly spoke; then he said, quietly: "I
am not going back. I am going to stay here and look for Rosa."

"So!" exclaimed the colonel. "Well, why not? So long as we do not
know precisely what has happened to her, we can at least hope.
But, if I were you, I would rather think of her as dead than as a
prisoner in some concentration camp. You don't know what those
camps are like, my friend, but I do. Now I shall leave you. One
needs to be alone at such an hour--eh?" With a pressure of his
hand, Colonel Lopez walked away into the darkness.

Judson and his adventurous countryman did not see O'Reilly that
night, nor, in fact, did any one. But the next morning he appeared
before General Gomez. He was haggard, sick, listless. The old
Porto-Rican had heard from Lopez in the mean time; he was
sympathetic.

"I am sorry you came all the way to hear such bad news," he said.
"War is a sad, hopeless business."

"But I haven't given up hope," O'Reilly said. "I want to stay here
and--and fight."

"I inferred as much from what Lopez told me." The general nodded
his white head. "Well, you'll make a good soldier, and we shall be
glad to have you." He extended his hand, and O'Reilly took it
gratefully.

The city of Matanzas was "pacified." So ran the boastful bando of
the captain-general. And this was no exaggeration, as any one
could see from the number of beggars there. Of all his military
operations, this "pacification" of the western towns and provinces
was the most conspicuously successful and the one which gave
Valeriano Weyler the keenest satisfaction; for nowhere did
rebellion lift its head--except, perhaps, among the ranks of those
disaffected men who hid in the hills, with nothing above them but
the open sky. As for the population at large, it was cured of
treason; it no longer resisted, even weakly, the law of Spain. The
reason was that it lay dying. Weyler's cure was simple,
efficacious--it consisted of extermination, swift and pitiless.

Poverty had been common in Matanzas, even before the war, but now
there were so many beggars in the city that nobody undertook to
count them. When the refugees began to pour in by the thousands,
and when it became apparent that the Government intended to let
them starve, the better citizens undertook an effort at relief;
but times were hard, food was scarce, and prices high. Moreover,
it soon transpired that the military frowned upon everything like
organized charity, and in consequence the new-comers were,
perforce, abandoned to their own devices. These country people
were dumb and terrified at the misfortunes which had overtaken
them; they wandered the streets in aimless bewilderment, fearful
of what blow might next befall. They were not used to begging, and
therefore they did not often implore alms; but all day long they
asked for work, for bread, that their little ones might live.
Work, however, was even scarcer than food, and the time soon came
when they crouched upon curbs and door-steps, hopeless, beaten,
silently reproachful of those more fortunate than they. Their eyes
grew big and hollow; their outstretched hands grew gaunt and
skinny. The sound of weeping women and fretting babies became a
common thing to hear.

In the suburbs, just within the ring of guardian forts, an "area
of cultivation" was set aside, and here the prisoners put up huts
of yagua--comfortless bark shelters, which were well enough,
perhaps, in fair weather, but sadly ineffective against wind and
rain. Here, housed with hunger and crowded together in
indescribable squalor, they dwelt, seeking comfort in their common
wretchedness. Since they had no farm implements, no seeds, no
means whatever of cultivating this ground apportioned to their
use, it remained untilled while they grew hungrier day by day.
Outside the lines there were yams, potatoes, edible roots and
such, for the Spaniards' work of desolation had not been quite
complete, and no hand can rob the Cuban soil of all its riches;
but the pacificos were not allowed to leave the city.

Fish were plentiful in the harbor, too, but to catch them was
forbidden. Sentries were on guard with ready rifles and bared
machetes; every morning through the filthy reconcentrado quarter
guerrillas drove pack-mules bearing the mutilated bodies of those
who had dared during the night to seek food surreptitiously.
Sometimes they dragged these ghastly reminders at the ends of
ropes; this, indeed, was a favorite way with them.

Dogs and cats became choice articles of diet, until they
disappeared. The Government did supply one quality of food,
however; at intervals, it distributed yucca roots. But these were
starchy and almost indigestible. From eating them the children
grew pinched in limb and face, while their abdomens bloated
hugely. Matanzas became peopled with a race of grotesquely
misshapen little folks, gnomes with young bodies, but with faces
old and sick.

Of course disease became epidemic, for in the leaky hovels, dirt-
floored and destitute of any convenience, there could be no effort
at sanitation. Conditions became unspeakable. The children died
first, then the aged and infirm. Deaths in the street were not
uncommon; nearly every morning bodies were found beneath the
portales. Starving creatures crept to the market in the hope of
begging a stray bit of food, and some of them died there, between
the empty stalls. The death-wagons, heavy with their daily
freight, rumbled ceaselessly through the streets, adding to the
giant piles of unburied corpses outside the city.

Typhoid, smallpox, yellow fever, raged unchecked. The hospitals
were crowded, and even in them the commonest necessities were
lacking. It is believed that men have returned from the grave, but
no one, either Spaniard or Cuban, had ever been known to return
from one of these pest-houses, and, in consequence, those who were
stricken preferred to remain and to die among their dear ones.

Yes, Matanzas was pacified. Weyler's boast was true. Nowhere in
the entire province was a field in cultivation; nowhere, outside
the garrisoned towns, was a house left standing. Nor was the city
of Matanzas the only concentration camp; there were others dotted
through Santa Clara, Habana, and Pinar del Rio. In them half a
million people cried for food. Truly no rebellious land was ever
more completely pacified than this, no people's spirits ever more
completely crushed. Voices no longer preached resistance; they
prayed to "Our Lady of Pity" for a merciful conclusion of this
misery. Hands were upraised, but only to implore. In leaky huts
from Jucaro to Cape San Antonio the dead lay huddled thickly.

Into Matanzas, city of beggary and death, came Rosa Varona and her
two negro companions, looking for relief. They made the journey
without mishap, for they were too destitute to warrant plundering,
and Rosa's disguise concealed what charms remained to her. But
once they had entered the city, what an awakening! What suffering,
what poverty, what rags they saw! The three of them grew weak with
dismay at the horror of it all; but there was no retreat.

Asensio built a makeshift shelter close under La Cumbre--from it
the ruins of the Quinta de Esteban were visible--and there they
settled down to live. They had hoped to lose themselves among the
other prisoners, and in this they were successful, for none of
their miserable neighbors were in any condition to notice them,
and there was nothing sufficiently conspicuous about two tattered
blacks and their hunchbacked daughter to draw attention from the
soldiers.

Asensio foraged zealously, and at first he managed somehow to
secure enough food for his little family. He developed a real
talent for discovering vegetables and fruits. He stole, he begged,
and he found food where there was none. One day the soldiers
seized him and put him to work on the fortifications along with a
gang of other men who appeared strong enough to stand hard labor.
Asensio was not paid for this, but he was allowed one meal a day,
and he succeeded in bringing home each night a share of his
allotment.

It is surprising how little nourishment will sustain life. Rosa
and her two friends had long felt the pinch of hunger, but now
they plumbed new depths of privation, for there were days when
Asensio and his fellow-conscripts received nothing at all. After a
time Evangelina began making baskets and weaving palm-leaf hats,
which she sold at six cents each. She taught Rosa the craft, and
they worked from dawn until dark, striving with nimble, tireless
fingers to supplement Asensio's rations and postpone starvation.
But it was a hopeless task. Other nimble fingers worked as
tirelessly as theirs, and the demand for hats was limited.

Their hut overlooked the road to San Severino, that via dolorosa
on which condemned prisoners were marched out to execution, and in
time the women learned to recognize the peculiar blaring notes of
a certain cornet, which signified that another "Cuban cock was
about to crow." When in the damp of dewy mornings they heard that
bugle they ceased their weaving long enough to cross themselves
and whisper a prayer for the souls of those who were on their way
to die. But this was the only respite they allowed themselves.

Rosa meditated much upon the contrast between her present and her
former condition. Matanzas was the city of her birth, and time was
when she had trod its streets in arrogance and pride, when she had
possessed friends by the score among its residents. But of all
these there was not one to whom she dared appeal in this, her hour
of need. These were harsh times; Spanish hatred of the
revolutionists was bitter, and of the Cuban sympathizers none were
left. Moreover, Esteban's denouncement as a traitor had estranged
all who remained loyal to the crown, and so far as Rosa herself
was concerned, she knew that it would not matter to them that she
had cleaved to him merely from sisterly devotion: by that act she
had made herself a common enemy and they would scarcely sympathize
with her plight. The girl had learned only too well what spirit
was abroad. But even had she felt assured of meeting sympathy, her
pride was pure Castilian, and it would never down. She, a Varona,
whose name was one to conjure with, whose lineage was of the
highest! She to beg? The thing was quite impossible. One crumb, so
taken, would have choked her. Rosa preferred to suffer proudly and
await the hour when hunger or disease would at last blot out her
memories of happy days and end this nightmare misery.

Then, too, she dreaded any risk of discovery by old Mario de
Castano, who was a hard, vindictive man. His parting words had
shown her that he would never forgive the slight she had put upon
him; and she did not wish to put his threats to the test. Once
Rosa saw him, on her way to buy a few centavos' worth of sweet-
potatoes; he was huddled in his victoria, a huge bladder of flesh,
and he rode the streets deaf to the plaints of starving children,
blind to the misery of beseeching mothers. Rosa shrank into a
doorway and drew her tattered shawl closer over her face for fear
Don Mario might recognize in this misshapen body and in these
pinched, discolored features the beauteous blossom he had craved.

Nor did she forget Colonel Cobo. The man's memory haunted her,
asleep and awake; of him she was most desperately afraid. When for
the first time she saw him riding at the head of his cutthroats
she was like to swoon in her tracks, and for a whole day
thereafter she cowered in the hut, trembling at every sound.

In these dark hours she recalled the stories of the old Varona
treasure and Esteban's interesting theory of its whereabouts, but
she could not bring herself to put much faith in either. At the
time of her brother's recital she had been swayed by his
conviction, but now on cooler thought a dozen explanations of Dona
Isabel's possession of that doubloon offered themselves, no one of
which seemed less probable than Esteban's. Of course it was barely
possible that there was indeed a treasure, and even that Esteban's
surmise had been correct. But it was little more than a remote
possibility. Distance lends a rosy color of reality to our most
absurd imaginings, but, like the haze that tints a far-off
landscape, it dissolves upon approach. Now that Rosa was here, in
sight of the ruined quinta itself, her hopes and half-beliefs
faded.

She wanted, oh, so desperately, to believe in it, but the grinding
misery of her situation made it hard to do so. Wonders like that
came true only in fairy stories, she told herself; and certainly
she had no cause to consider herself a favorite of fortune.

More than once she was tempted to confide in Evangelina and
Asensio, but she thought better of it. Although she put implicit
faith in Evangelina's discretion, she knew that Asensio was not
the sort of fellow to be trusted with a secret of great magnitude-
-he was boastful, talkative, excitable; he was just the sort, to
bring destruction upon all of them. Rosa had sufficient
intelligence to realize that even if she found her father's riches
they would only constitute another and a greater menace to the
lives of all of them. Nevertheless, she wished to set her mind at
rest once and for all. Taking Evangelina with her, she climbed La
Cumbre one day in search of roots and vegetables.

It turned out to be a sad experience for both women. The negress
wept noisily at the destruction wrought by Pancho Cueto, and Rosa
was overcome by painful memories. Little that was familiar
remained; evidence of Cueto's all-devouring greed spoke from the
sprouting furrows his men had dug, from the naked trees they had
felled and piled in orderly heaps, from the stones and mortar of
the house itself. Tears blinded Rosa. After a time she left the
black woman mourning among the ruins and stole away to the sunken
garden. Here the marks of vandalism were less noticeable.
Nevertheless, few signs of beauty remained. Neglected vines
drooped spiritlessly from the ledges: such fruit-trees as had been
spared were sickly and untended; time and the elements had all but
completed the disheartening work.

The well remained, although it had been planked over, but it was
partially filled up with rubbish, as Rosa discovered when she
peered into it. Only a tiny pool of scum was in the bottom. After
a long scrutiny the girl arose, convinced at last of her brother's
delusion, and vaguely ashamed of her own credulity. This was about
the last repository that such a man as Don Esteban, her father,
would have been likely to select; for, after all, the most
valuable part of his fortune had consisted of the deeds of title
to the plantations. No, if ever there had been a treasure, it was
hidden elsewhere; all of value that this well contained for Rosa
was her memory of a happiness departed. Of such memories, the
well, the whole place, was brimful. Here, as a child, she had
romped with Esteban. Here, as a girl, she had dreamed her first
dreams, and here O'Reilly, her smiling knight, had found her.
Yonder was the very spot where he had held her in his arms and
begged her to await the day of his return. Well, she had waited.

But was that Rosa Varona who had promised so freely and so
confidently this pitiful Rosa whose bones protruded through her
rags? It could not be. Happiness, contentment, hope--these were
fictions; only misery, despair, and pain were real. But it had
been a glorious dream, at any rate--a dream which Rosa vowed to
cherish always.

Evangelina found the girl sitting in the sun, her thin face
radiant, her great eyes wet but smiling.

"Come, little dove," said the negress, "there is nothing here to
eat; we must get back to our weaving."




XVIII

SPEAKING OF FOOD


It was part of the strategy practised by the Cuban leaders to
divide their forces into separate columns for the purpose of
raiding the smaller Spanish garrisons and harassing the troops
sent to their relief, reassembling these bands only when and where
some telling blow was to be struck. Not only had the military
value of this practice been amply demonstrated, but it had been
proved a necessity, owing to the fact that the Insurrectos were
compelled to live off the country.

When O'Reilly and Branch enlisted in the Army of the Orient they
were assigned to the command of Colonel Miguel Lopez, and it was
under his leadership that they made their first acquaintance with
the peculiar methods of Cuban warfare.

Active service for the two Americans began at once; scarcely a
week had passed before Leslie Branch gained his opportunity of
tasting the "salt of life" in its full flavor, for the young
Matanzas colonel was one of the few Cuban commanders who really
enjoyed a fight.

There had been, at first, some doubt of Branch's fitness to take
the field at all--he had suffered a severe hemorrhage shortly
after his arrival at Cubitas--and it was only after a hysterical
demonstration on his part that he had been accepted as a soldier.
He simply would not be left behind. At first the Cubans regarded
him with mingled contempt and pity, for certainly no less
promising volunteer had ever taken service with them.
Nevertheless, he would doubtless have made many friends among them
had he not begun his service by refusing to abide by discipline of
any sort and by scorning all instruction in the use of arms,
declaring this to be, in his case, a silly waste of effort. Such
an attitude very naturally aroused resentment among the other men;
it was not long before they began to grumble at the liberty
allowed this headstrong weakling. But upon the occasion of the
very first fight this ill-will disappeared as if by magic, for,
although Branch deliberately disobeyed orders, he nevertheless
displayed such amazing audacity in the face of the enemy, such a
theatrical contempt for bullets, as to stupefy every one.
Moreover, he lived up to his reputation; he continued to be
insanely daring, varying his exploits to correspond with his
moods, with the result that he attained a popularity which was
unique, nay, sensational.

His conduct in the face of this general admiration was no less
unexpected than his behavior under fire: Branch gruffly refused to
accept any tribute whatever; he snarled, he fairly barked at those
of his comrades who tried to express their appreciation of his
conduct--a demeanor which of course awakened even greater
admiration among the Cubans. He was uniformly surly and sour; he
sneered, he scoffed, he found fault. He had the tongue of a common
scold, and he used it with malevolent abandon.

It was fortunate indeed that he knew no Spanish and that most of
his companions were equally ignorant of English, for mere
admiration, even of the fervent Latin quality, would scarcely have
been proof against his spleen. As it was, his camp-mates endured
his vituperations blandly, putting him down as a pleasing
eccentric in whom there blazed a curious but inspiring spirit of
patriotism.

O'Reilly alone understood the reason for the fellow's morbid
irritability, his suicidal recklessness; but when he privately
remonstrated he was gruffly told to mind his own business. Branch
flatly refused to modify his conduct; he seemed really bent upon
cheating the disease that made his life a misery.

But, as usual, Fate was perverse; she refused to humor the sick
man's hope. When, after blindly inviting death, Leslie had emerged
from several engagements unscathed, his surprise--and perhaps a
natural relief at finding himself whole--became tinged with a
certain apprehension lest he survive those deliberately courted
dangers, only to succumb to the ills and privations of camp life.
Cuban equipment was of the scantiest. Cuban dews are heavy; Cuban
nights are cool--these were perils indeed for a weak-lunged
invalid. Branch began to fret. Rain filled him with more terror
than fixed bayonets, a chill caused him keener consternation than
did a thousand Spaniards; he began to have agonizing visions of
himself lying in some leaky hovel of a hospital. It was typical of
his peculiar irritability that he held O'Reilly in some way
responsible, and vented upon him his bitterness of spirit.

The fellow's tongue grew ever sharper; his society became
intolerable, his gloom oppressive and irresistibly contagious.
When, after several weeks of campaigning, the column went into
camp for a short rest, O'Reilly decided that he would try to throw
off the burden of Leslie's overwhelming dejection, and, if
possible, shift a portion of it upon the shoulders of Captain
Judson.

On the day after their arrival O'Reilly and the big artilleryman
took advantage of a pleasant stream to bathe and wash their
clothes; then, while they lay in their hammocks, enjoying the
luxury of a tattered oil-cloth shelter and waiting for the sun to
dry their garments, O'Reilly spoke what was in his mind.

"I'm getting about fed up on Leslie," he declared. "He's the
world's champion crepe-hanger, and he's painted the whole world
such a deep, despondent blue that I'm completely dismal. You've
got to take him off my hands."

Judson grunted. "What ails him?"

"Well, he wears a wreath of immortelles day and night. Haven't you
guessed why he runs such desperate chances? He's sick--thinks he's
going to die, anyhow, and wants to finish the job quick. I'm the
one who has to endure him."

"Suicide?"

"It amounts to that."

"The devil!" Judson pondered for a moment. "Can't you cheer him
up?"

"I?" O'Reilly lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "When
I try he gets sore at my heartless indifference; when I sympathize
he declares I'm nudging him closer to his grave--says I'm kicking
the crutches out from under him. He's just plain vitriol. I--I'd
rather live with an adder!"

O'Reilly's youthful asistente, who at the moment was painstakingly
manufacturing a huge, black cigar for himself out of some
purloined tobacco, pricked up his ears at the mention of Branch's
name and now edged closer, exclaiming:

"Carumba! There's a hero for you. Meester Branch is the bravest
man I ever seen. Our people call him 'El Demonio'!"

O'Reilly jerked his head toward the Cuban. "You see? He's made the
hit of his life, and yet he resents it. The Cubans are beginning
to think he carries a rabbit's foot."

"No rabbit's foot about it," the captain asserted. "He's just so
blamed thin the Spaniards can't hit him; it's like shooting at the
edge of a playing-card. Annie Oakley is the only one who can do
that."

"Well, my nerves are frayed out. I've argued myself hoarse, but he
misconstrues everything I say. I wish you'd convince him that he
has a chance to get well; it might alter his disposition. If
SOMETHING doesn't alter it I'll be court-martialed for shooting a
man in his sleep--and I'll hit him, right in the middle, no matter
how slim he is." O'Reilly compressed his lips firmly.

The asistente, who had finished rolling his cigar, now lighted it
and repeated: "Yes, sir, Meester Branch is the bravest man I ever
seen. You remember that first battle, eh? Those Spaniards seen him
comin' and threw down their guns and beat it. Jesus Cristo! I
laugh to skill myself that day."

"Jacket" was at once the youngest and the most profane member of
Colonel Lopez's entire command. The most shocking oaths fell from
his beardless lips whenever he opened them to speak English, and
O'Reilly's efforts to break the boy of the habit proved quite
unavailing.

"Colonel Miguel," continued Jacket, "he say if he's got a hunnerd
sick men like El Demonio he'll march to Habana. By God! What you
think of that?"

Judson rolled in his hammock until his eyes rested upon the youth.
Then he said, "You're quite a man of arms yourself, for a half-
portion."

"Eh?" The object of this remark was not quite sure that he
understood.

"I mean you're a pretty good fighter, for a little fellow."

"Hell, yes!" agreed the youth. "I can fight."

"Better look out that some big Spaniard doesn't carry you off in
his pocket and eat you," O'Reilly warned; at which the boy grinned
and shook his head. He was just becoming accustomed to the
American habit of banter, and was beginning to like it.

"Jacket would make a bitter mouthful," Judson ventured.

The lad smiled gently and drew on his huge cigar. "You betcher
life. That----Spaniard would spit me out quick enough."

This Camagueyan boy was a character. He was perhaps sixteen, and
small for his age--a mere child, in fact. Nevertheless, he was a
seasoned veteran, and his American camp-mates had grown
exceedingly fond of him. He was a pretty, graceful youngster; his
eyes were large and soft and dark; his face was as sensitive and
mobile as that of a girl; and yet, despite his youth, he had won a
reputation for daring and ferocity quite as notable in its way as
was the renown of Leslie Branch.

There were many of these immature soldiers among the Insurrectos,
and most of them were in some way distinguished for valor. War, it
seems, fattens upon the tenderest of foods, and every army has its
boys--its wondrous, well-beloved infants, whom their older
comrades tease, torment, and idolize. Impetuous, drunk with youth,
and keeping no company with care, they form the very aristocracy
of fighting forces. They gaily undertake the maddest of
adventures; and by their examples they fire the courage of their
maturer comrades. All history is spiced with their exploits.

Jacket was one of these, and he was perhaps the truest patriot of
any soldier in Miguel Lopez's band; for liberty, to him, was not a
mere abstraction or a principle, but something real, tangible,
alive--something worthy of the highest sacrifice. In his person
all the wrongs of Cuba burned perpetually. It mattered not that he
himself had never suffered--his spirit was the spirit of his
country, pure, exalted, undefiled. He stood for what the others
fought for.

In order to expand his knowledge of English--of which, by the way,
he was inordinately proud--Jacket had volunteered to serve as
O'Reilly's striker, and the result had been a fast friendship. It
was O'Reilly who had given the boy his nickname--a name prompted
by a marked eccentricity, for although Jacket possessed the two
garments which constituted the ordinary Insurrecto uniform, he
made a practice of wearing only one. On chilly nights, or on
formal occasions, he wore both waistcoat and trousers, but at
other times he dispensed entirely with the latter, and his legs
went naked. They were naked now, as, with the modesty of complete
unconsciousness, he squatted in the shade, puffing thoughtfully at
his giant cheroot.

Once Jacket's mind was fastened upon any subject, it remained
there, and after a time he continued:

"Yes, I bet I don't taste good to no Spaniard. Did I told you
about that battle of Pino Bravo? Eh?" He turned his big brown eyes
upward to O'Reilly. "Cristo! I skill more'n a dozen men that day!"

"Oh, Jacket!" the Americans cried. "You monstrous little liar!"
commented O'Reilly.

"Si, senors," the boy went on, complacently. "That day I skill
more'n six men. It was this way; we came on them from behind and
they don't see us. Phui! We skill plenty, all right!"

"It was a hot scrimmage," Judson attested. "Some of Luque's
niggers, those tall, lean, hungry fellows from Santiago, managed
to hack their way through a wire fence and get behind a detachment
of the enemy who had made a stand under a hill. They charged, and
for a wonder they got close enough to use their machetes. It was
bloody work--the kind you read about--no quarter. Somehow Jacket
managed to be right in the middle of the butchery. He's a bravo
kid, all right. Muy malo!"

There was a moment's silence, then Judson continued: "Funny thing
happened afterward, though. Jacket had to do his turn at picket
duty that night, and he got scared of the dark. We heard him
squalling and screaming--"

Jacket started to his feet. "That's a dam' lie." he exclaimed,
resentfully. "I'm not scared of no dark."

"Didn't you holler till you woke the whole camp?"

"I ain't scared of no dark," the boy repeated; but his pride, his
complacency, had suddenly vanished. He dug his toes into the dirt;
in his eyes were tears of mortification. His cigar had evidently
become tasteless, for he removed it from his lips and gazed at it
indifferently.

"Did you cry?" O'Reilly smiled; and the lad nodded reluctantly.

"Did he cry?" Judson echoed. "Why, we thought we were attacked. He
put the whole camp in an uproar."

"What was the trouble, Jacket?"

"I--I was--" The boy's smooth brown cheeks paled, and his moist
eyes dilated at the memory. "I ain't scared of any-------Spaniard
when he's ALIVE, but--it's different when he's dead. I could see
dead ones everywhere!" He shuddered involuntarily. "They fetched
me to General Gomez and--Caramba! he's mad. But after I tell him
what I seen in the dark he say I don't have to go back there no
more. He let me go to sleep 'longside of his hammock, and bimeby I
quit cryin'. I ain't never stood no picket duty since that night.
I won't do it."

It was plain that discussion of this unhappy subject was deeply
distasteful to the youthful hero of Pino Bravo, for he edged away,
and a moment later disappeared. "Queer little youngster," Captain
Judson said, meditatively. "He idolizes you."

O'Reilly nodded. "Yes, poor little kid. I wonder what will become
of him after the war? After the war!" he mused. "I wonder if it
will ever end."

"Humph! If we had more generals like Gomez and Garcia and Maceo--"

"We've got three better generals than they."

"You mean---"

"Generals June, July, and August."

"Oh yes!" The artilleryman nodded his understanding. "There's no
end of yellow-jack among the Spaniards. Speaking of that, what do
you think of Miss Evans's work in the field hospitals?"

Judson shifted his weight so that his eyes could rest upon a white
tent which showed through the greenery at a distance; it was the
one tent in all the encampment, and it had been erected that very
morning to shelter Norine Evans, but just arrived from
headquarters in the Cubitas hills. The captain's lids were half
closed; his heavy, homely face was softened by a peculiar rapt
expression. He did not seem to expect an answer to his question.

"I don't think much of it," O'Reilly confessed.

"You don't!" Judson brought himself back to earth with a start.
"Humph! Well, I think it's perfectly wonderful. I think she's the
most wonderful woman, and--" His voice died out; he turned once
more in the direction of the tent.

O'Reilly smiled, understanding now the reason for his companion's
reckless, almost frenzied use of soap and water that morning, and
his cheerful stoicism in the hands of a volunteer barber more
accustomed to the uses of a machete than a razor.

Evidently Judson had fallen, too--along with Major Ramos, and
Colonel Lopez, and Leslie Branch, and all the rest. Well, it was
to be expected. Before he had been a week in Cuba O'Reilly had
noticed that Miss Evans was a mystery and a delight to nearly
every man she met.

"So YOU'VE got it, eh?" he inquired.

"Got what?" Judson did not turn his eyes.

"It."

"It? If you can't talk English, talk Spanish."

O'Reilly was not perturbed by this gruffness. "I think her
presence here is the silliest, the most scandalous thing I ever
heard of," said he. "The idea of a girl of her accomplishments,
her means, alone in Cuba! Why, it's criminal!"

Judson's gunny-sacking hammock bulged beneath him. It threatened
to give way as he sat up with a jerk and swung his bare legs over
the side. His face was dark; he was scowling; his chin was
pugnaciously outthrust and his voice rumbled as he exclaimed:

"The deuce it is! Say! I don't like the way you talk about that
girl."

"You don't, eh?" O'Reilly eyed him quizzically. "Would you care to
have your sister do what she's doing?"

"That's not the point. You can't compare her with ordinary women."

"Well, this isn't an ordinary environment for a woman, no matter
who she is. These Cubans are bound to talk about her."

"Are they?" Judson glared at the speaker. "I'd like to hear 'em.
I'd like to see somebody get fresh. Why, SAY!"--he clenched his
powerful hands--"I'd fill their hospitals until they bulged."
After a moment he continued: "I s'pose it's natural for you to
worry, since you're responsible for her being here, in a way, but-
-" His tone changed, he relaxed and lay back in his hammock. "Oh,
well, you're about the only man I can't hate."

"Jealous, are you? I didn't know you were in so deep."

The other shook his head. "Oh, I'm daffy. D'you think she'd have
me?"

"Not a chance."

"Hey? Why not? I'm a good big husky--I'll get a Government job
when the war is over and---"

"That's just the trouble. She'll fall for some poor, sickly
unfortunate, with one leg. She's the sort that always does. She's
the sort that has to have something to 'mother.' Lord, I'd give a
good deal to see her safely back in New York!"

Judson, it seemed, had a better understanding of artillery than of
women; he pondered O'Reilly's statement seriously, and his face
clouded.

"Some sickly fellow. Some fellow like Branch, eh?" After a moment
he continued, more hopefully: "Well, it won't be HIM; he'll soon
be dead. There's some consolation in that. I could almost--"

O'Reilly motioned for silence, for at that moment Branch himself
approached, his long face set in lines of discontent, even deeper
than usual. He had been wandering about the camp in one of his
restless fits, and now he began:

"Say, what do you think I've been doing?"

"I dun'no'," Captain Judson answered, morosely. "Cheering the sick
and wounded; shedding smiles and sunshine as usual, I suppose?"

"Hunh! You're a funny guy, aren't you?--about as comical as a
chloroform cone. You make me laugh, you do--just like a broken
leg. Well, I've been looking up some grub for Miss Evans, and I
can't find any."

"Can't find any?"

"Nothing fit for her to eat. You don't expect her to live on this
infernal, eternal, and internal beef stew." Branch shuddered and
gagged slightly. "I've eaten parts of animals that were never
intended to be eaten. This rebel grub is killing ME. What'll it do
to her?"

"Didn't Major Ramos bring anything along?" O'Reilly asked.

"He says there's a famine at Cubitas."

"We'd better look into this," Judson exclaimed, and, finding that
his clothes were dry, he hurriedly began to dress himself.

Together, the three men made an investigation of the camp's
resources, only to discover that Branch was right. There was,
indeed, but little food of any kind, and that little was of the
coarsest. Ordinarily, such a condition of affairs would have
occasioned them no surprise, for the men were becoming accustomed
to a more or less chronic scarcity of provisions; but the presence
of Norine Evans put quite a different complexion upon the matter.
They were still discussing the situation when Miss Evans, having
finished her afternoon nap, threw open the flaps of her tent and
stepped out.

When she had listened to the account apologetically submitted by
her three friends, she drew her brows together, saying,
plaintively: "Oh dear! We've been going short for a week, and
Major Ramos told me we'd fare better when we got here. I had my
mouth all set for a banquet. Couldn't you even find the poor dog a
bone?"

Norine was thinner and browner than when she had come to Cuba, but
she in no way showed the effect of any serious or continued lack
of nourishment. In fact, a simple diet and an outdoor life had
agreed with her amazingly.

"I'm afraid the cupboard is bare," O'Reilly acknowledged.

"They're getting ready to slaughter another guttapercha ox,"
Branch said, gloomily. "He's a veteran of the Ten Years' War. That
means STEW again! STEW! One puncture-proof, rubber ox and a bushel
of sweet-potatoes for four hundred men!"

"Do you know what I want for dinner?" Norine inquired. "Lamb chops
with green peas, some nice white bread, a salad, and coffee."

The three men looked at her anxiously. Judson stirred uneasily.

"That's what I want. I don't expect to get it."

With a sigh of relief the captain exclaimed, "I thought you were
giving your order."

"Goodness, no!" With a laugh the girl seated herself upon her one
camp-chair, inviting her callers to dispose themselves on the
ground about her. "If you can stand the food, I dare say I can.
Now then, tell me what you've been doing since you left Cubitas.
I've been frightened to death that some of you would be hurt.
That's one reason why I've been working night and day helping to
get the hospitals in shape. I can't bear to think of our boys
being wounded."

"Not much chance of OUR getting shot," O'Reilly told her. "But
Leslie--he needs a good talking to. He has gone into the hero
business."

Branch uttered a disdainful grunt. "Nothing of the sort. I'm a
sick man; if I'd rather get shot than suffer a slow death from
neglect, it's my own business, isn't it? Imagine feeding an
invalid on boiled bicycle tires! Gee! I'd like to have a meal of
nice nourishing ptomaines for a change. Hero? Humph!"

Norine eyed the complainant critically, then said: "The diet
agrees with you. You look better than you did."

Branch turned a somber glance upon her and gave vent to a bitter,
sneering laugh. It was plain that he believed she, too, was
attempting to pull the wool over his eyes. "I wish I could find
some poisonous toadstools. I'd eat 'em raw."

"Listen," Norine went on. "Let's play a game. We'll imagine this
is Delmonico's and we'll all take turns ordering the best things
to eat that we can think of. The one who orders best, wins. We'll
call the game--" She frowned thoughtfully.

"Call it 'Vittles,'" O'Reilly suggested.

"'Vittles' it is. Maybe it will give us an appetite for supper.
Leslie, you begin. Come now, hand your hat to the hat-boy, then
follow the head waiter. This way, sir. Table for one? Very good,
sir. Here's a cool one, in front of the electric fan. We have an
exceptional selection of cold dishes to-day, sir. Perhaps you
would like a nice halibut salad--"

"No halibut salad," Branch answered, striving valiantly to enter
into the spirit of Norine's pretending. "I had it for breakfast.
And say, turn off that fan; I'm just back from Cuba. Now then, you
may bring me some oysters--"

"Oysters are out of season," O'Reilly murmured, politely, "but our
clams are very fine."

"Some oysters," Branch insisted, stubbornly. "After that, a cup of
chicken broth, a grilled sweetbread, and toast Melba."

Joe Judson put an abrupt end to the invalid's meal by hurling a
clod at him, crying: "You're in Delmonico's, not in Battle Creek.
Let somebody order who knows how. We'll have steak and onions all
around."

"I want strawberries!" Norine cried. "They're ripe now.
Strawberries and cream--Oh-h! Think of it!"

There was a tense silence, which O'Reilly broke by saying, "I
guess 'Vittles' isn't a very good game, after all."

"It doesn't seem to fill MY wants," the girl acknowledged. "Let's
talk about something else."

Miss Evans did seem truly concerned for the welfare of her "boys,"
as she termed the little group of Americans whom she had met, and
she showed, by asking numerous questions, that her interest was
keen.

The men were glad to talk and she soon gained an insight into the
peculiar, aimless, unsatisfactory, and yet effective method of
warfare practised by the Insurrecto armies; they told her of the
endless marches and counter-marches, the occasional skirmishes,
the feints, the inconclusive engagements which were all a part of
the general strategy--operations which served to keep the enemy
constantly on guard, like a blind swordsman, and would, it was
hoped, eventually wear down his patience and endurance. In her
turn, Norine related something of what she was doing and how her
labor of mercy progressed.

"I'm nearly discouraged," she confessed, finally. "Everything is
so different to what I thought it would be, and I'm so weak and
ineffective. The medical supplies I brought are nearly all gone,
and I've learned what hard work it is fitting up hospitals when
there's nothing to fit them up with. I can't teach these people to
take care of themselves--they seem to consider precautions against
disease as a confession of cowardice. Summer, the yellow-fever
season, is here and--well, I'm getting disheartened. Disheartened
and hungry! They're new sensations to me." She sighed. "I imagined
I was going to work wonders--I thought I was going to be a
Florence Nightingale, and the men were going to idolize me."

"Don't they?" Judson demanded.

"No. That is--not in exactly the way I expected."

"They all want to marry her," O'Reilly explained.

"Insolent bunch!" growled the captain. Then he swallowed hard and
said, "But for that matter, so do I."

"Why, Joe!" Norine cast a startled glance at the big fellow.

"It's a fact," he asserted, doggedly. "I might as well declare
myself here and now. There's always a gang of eavesdroppers
hanging around you."

"He means you, Leslie," O'Reilly said. "Hadn't you better take a
walk?"

Branch rolled a hostile eye at the artilleryman, and his lip
curled. "I'll not move. When he gets through, I'll propose."

"How silly you boys can be!" Norine laughed. "I dare say the
others are joking too, but--"

"Joking?" O'Reilly grinned. "Not at all. I'm the only single man
in camp who isn't in love with you. When you arrived this morning
there was a general stampede for the river. I'll bet the fish in
this stream will taste of soap for years to come."

As if to point O'Reilly's words at the moment appeared Colonel
Lopez, shaved blood-raw and clad in a recently laundered uniform
which was still damp. The three Americans rose to salute him, but
discipline was lax and he waved them back to their seats. Other
eyes than his, too, had noted Miss Evans's reappearance after her
siesta, for Major Ramos, Norine's escort from headquarters, soon
joined the group, and he was followed by two Camagueyan
lieutenants.

These latter were youths of some family standing. Before the war
they had been dandies, and they still had an excellent opinion of
their physical charms, but, unfortunately, they spoke no English
and hence their attentions to Norine had been somewhat vague and
pointless. They possessed eloquent eyes, however, and now they
languished melting glances upon her, the meaning of which she had
no difficulty in translating.

"We've been talking about food," Leslie Branch advised his
commanding officer. "Miss Evans isn't a burning patriot like the
rest of us, and so of course she can't share our ravenous appetite
for beef cooked and eaten on the hoof."

"So?" Lopez's handsome face clouded. "You are hungry, then?"

Norine confessed that she was. "I'm starving!" said she. "I
haven't had a decent meal for a week."

"God be praised! I know where there is a goat, not two leagues
away!" said the colonel.

"But I don't want a goat," Norine complained. "I want--well,
pickles, and jam, and sardines, and--candy, and--tooth-powder!
Real boarding-school luxuries. I'd just like to rob a general
store."

Lopez furrowed his brows and lost himself in thought. Later, while
the others were talking, he drew Ramos aside and for a while they
kept their heads together; then they invited Judson to join their
council.

It was not until perhaps an hour later that O'Reilly had a chance
for a confidential talk with Norine, for in the mean time other
officers came to pay their respects. But when the last one had
reluctantly departed he said:

"I've been talking to Joe about you, and I don't think it's right
for you to be running around alone this way."

"You know how mad that sort of talk makes me," she warned him.

"Yes. Just the same, I'll never feel easy until you're safe home
again. And I'll never stop bothering you until--"

"In the first place, I'm not alone. I take a woman with me
everywhere, a Mrs. Ruiz."

"Bah! She's no more of a chaperon than I am."

Norine uttered an impatient exclamation. "Is this a time to
consider such things?"

"Oh, I dare say the nature of your work is unconventional and
excuses a good deal, but you don't understand the Latin mind as I
do. These Cubans have different standards than ours. They're very
apt to think--"

"I don't care what they think," the girl declared, "so long as _I_
think I'm doing right. That's final."

There was a brief pause. Then O'Reilly admitted: "I'm not
seriously concerned over that part of it, either, for you are the
best judge of what is right and proper. What does concern me,
however, is the effect all this may have upon you, yourself.
You're impractical, romantic"--Norine laughed shortly, but he went
on, stubbornly--"and just the sort of girl to be carried away by
some extravagant impulse."

"What makes you think I'm impractical and romantic?"

"You wouldn't be here, otherwise."

"Very well. What are you trying to get at? What do you mean by
'some extravagant impulse'?"

"I'm afraid"--O'Reilly hesitated, then voiced a fear which had
troubled him more than he cared to acknowledge--"I'm afraid of
some silly entanglement, some love affair--"

Norine's laughter rang out, spontaneous, unaffected. It served to
relieve the momentary tension which had sprung up between them.

"All these men are attracted to you, as it is quite natural they
should be," O'Reilly hurried on. "I'm worried to death for fear
you'll forget that you're too blamed good for any of them."

"What a conscientious duenna you are!" she told him, "but rest
easy; I'm thoroughly homesick, and ready to flunk it all at the
first good excuse. I'll make you a promise, Johnnie. If I decide
to fall in love with any of these ragged heroes I'll choose you.
Most of them think there is something between us, anyhow."

"I don't quite understand how I manage to resist you," O'Reilly
told her, "for I think you're perfectly splendid. Probably that's
why I'd hate to see you married to some one-legged veteran of this
amateur war."

"Women don't marry legs," she told him, lightly. Then, more
seriously, she asked, "What are you doing about Rosa?"

"I'm waiting to hear from Matanzas Province. When I joined the
army I had to go where I was sent, of course, but General Gomez
has started inquiries, and as soon as I learn something definite I
shall follow it up. I shall go where the trail leads."

"You still have hope?"

He nodded. "I refuse to let myself doubt."

When O'Reilly joined Judson for supper the latter met him with a
broad grin on his face. "Well," said he, "it seems you started
something with your game of 'Vittles.' You can get ready to saddle
up when the moon rises."

"What do you mean?"

"The colonel took Miss Evans at her word. We're going to raid San
Antonio de los Banos--two hundred of us--to get her some pickles,
and jam, and candy, and tooth-powder."




XIX

THAT SICK MAN FROM SAN ANTONIO


Certain histories of the Cuban War for Independence speak of "The
Battle of San Antonio de los Banos." They relate how one thousand
patriots captured the village after a gallant and sanguinary
resistance by its Spanish garrison; how they released the
prisoners in the local jail, replenished their own supplies, and
then retired in the face of enemy reinforcements. It is quite a
stirring story to read and it has but one fault, a fault, by the
way, not uncommon in histories--it is mainly untrue.

In the first place, the engagement was in no sense a battle, but
merely a raid. The number of troops engaged was, perhaps, one-
fifth of the generous total ascribed by the historians, and as a
military manoeuver it served no purpose whatsoever. That the
Cubans delivered a spirited attack there is no denying. As a
matter of fact, the engagement was characterized by an abandon, by
a lack of caution, truly sensational, the reason being that the
Insurrectos were half starved and stormed the town much as hungry
hoboes attack a lunch-counter. Nevertheless, since the affair had
a direct bearing upon the fortunes of several people connected
with this story, it is, perhaps, worth relating.

The Baths of St. Anthony consisted of a sulphur spring which for
many years had been held in high regard by gouty and rheumatic
Camagueyans; around this spring a village had arisen which boasted
rather better shops than the ordinary country town. It was this
fact which had induced the gallant and obliging Colonel Lopez to
attack it, for, as he explained to his American friends, if any
place outside of Habana was likely to contain pickles, jam,
sardines, candy, tooth-powder, and such other delicacies as
appeared necessary to the contentment of a visiting American lady,
San Antonio de los Banos was the one. Colonel Lopez did not
believe in half measures: once he had determined to prove his
devotion to Norine Evans, he would have sacrificed himself and the
flower of his command; he would have wasted his last precious
three-pound shell in breaching the walls of San Antonio de los
Banos rather than fail. But as a matter of fact the village had no
walls and it was defended only by a couple of blockhouses.
Therefore the colonel left his artillery behind.

Perhaps its name was the most impressive thing about San Antonio
de los Banos. Its streets were narrow and steep and stony, and its
flinty little plaza was flanked by stores of the customary sort,
the fronts of which were open so that mounted customers from the
country might ride in to make their purchases. Crowning two
commanding eminences just outside the village limits were the
loopholed fortinas, where for months past the Spanish garrison had
been dozing.

Lopez and his troop approached the town in the early morning. As
they deployed for the attack the colonel issued private
instructions to certain members of his command.

"O'Reilly, you and Senor Branch will enter one grocery-store after
another. You will purchase that jam, those sardines, and whatever
else you think Miss Evans would like. Captain Judson, you and
Major Ramos will go to the apothecary-shop--I understand there is
a very good one--and look for tooth-powder and candy and the like,
I shall see that the streets are cleared, then I shall endeavor to
discover some pickles; but as God is my judge, I doubt if there is
such a thing this side of Habana."

Leslie Branch, whose temper had not improved with the long night
ride, inquired, caustically: "Do you expect us to buy the
groceries? Well, I'm broke, and so is O'Reilly."

"Have you no money?" asked the colonel, vastly surprised.

"I haven't tipped my hat to a dollar since I quit newspaper work.
What's more, I want to do a little shopping for myself."

O'Reilly agreed: "If you don't give us some change, Colonel, we'll
have to open a charge account in your name."

"Carmaba!" muttered Lopez. "I intended to borrow from you
gentlemen. Well, never mind--we'll commandeer what we wish in the
name of the Republic."

Lopez's attack proved a complete surprise, both to the citizens
and to the garrison of the town. The rebel bugle gave the first
warning of what was afoot, and before the Castilian troops who
were loitering off duty could regain their quarters, before the
citizens could take cover or the shopkeepers close and bar their
heavy wooden shutters, two hundred ragged horsemen were yelling
down the streets.

There followed a typical Cuban engagement--ten shouts to one shot.
There was a mad charge on the heels of the scurrying populace, a
scattering pop-pop of rifles, cheers, cries, shrieks of defiance
and far-flung insults directed at the fortinas.

Bugles blew on the hilltops; the defenders armed themselves and
began to fire into the village. But since the Insurrectos were now
well sheltered by the houses and only a portion of certain streets
could be raked from the forts, the Spanish bullets did no harm.
Obedient to orders, a number of Lopez's men dismounted and took
positions whence they could guard against a sally, thus leaving
the rest of the command free to raid the stores. In the outskirts
of the town Mausers spoke, the dust leaped, and leaden messengers
whined through the air.

As locusts settle upon a standing crop, so did the army of
liberators descend upon the shops of San Antonio de los Banos. It
was great fun, great excitement, while it lasted, for the town was
distracted and its citizens had neither time nor inclination to
resist. Some of the shop-keepers, indeed, to prove their loyalty,
openly welcomed the invaders. Others, however, lacking time to
close up, fled incontinently, leaving their goods unguarded.

O'Reilly, with Branch and Jacket close at his heels, whirled his
horse into the first bodega he came to. The store was stocked with
general merchandise, but its owner, evidently a Spaniard, did not
tarry to set a price upon any of it. As the three horsemen came
clattering in at the front he went flying out at the rear, and,
although O'Reilly called reassuringly after him, his only answer
was the slamming of a back door, followed by swiftly diminishing
cries of fright. Plainly, that rush of ragged men, those shots,
those ferocious shouts from the plaza, were too much for the
peaceful shopkeeper and his family, and they had taken refuge in
some neighbor's garden.

There was no time to waste. Johnnie dismounted and, walking to the
shelves where some imported canned goods were displayed, he began
to select those delicacies for which he had been sent. The devoted
Jacket was at his side. The little Cuban exercised no restraint;
he seized whatever was most handy, meanwhile cursing ferociously,
as befitted a bloodthirsty bandit. Boys are natural robbers, and
at this opportunity for loot Jacket's soul flamed savagely and he
swept the shelves bare as he went.

"Hey, Leslie! Get something to carry this stuff in," O'Reilly
directed over his shoulder. Receiving only a muttered reply, he
turned to find that his fellow-countryman had cut down a string of
perhaps two dozen large straw sombreros and was attempting to
select one that fitted his head.

"Oh, look!" Branch murmured. "Forty dollars' worth of lids, but--
all too small. They must have been made on the head of a cane."

"Take the whole string, but get us something to wrap up this grub
in. Hurry!"

Spurred by O'Reilly's tone and by a lively rattle of rifle-shots
outside, Leslie disappeared into the living-quarters at the back
of the store. A moment later he emerged with a huge armful of
bedclothes, evidently snatched at random. Trailing behind him,
like a bridal veil, was a mosquito-net, which in his haste he had
torn from its fastenings.

"I guess this is poor!" he exulted. "Bedding! Pillows! Mosquito-
net! I'll sleep comfortable after this."

From somewhere came the faint smothered wailing of a baby--
eloquent testimony of the precipitate haste with which the
terrified storekeeper and his wife had fled. Dumping his burden of
sheets, blankets, and brilliantly colored cotton quilts upon the
floor, Branch selected two of the stoutest and began to knot the
corners together.

He had scarcely finished when Judson reined in at the door and
called to O'Reilly: "We've cleaned out the drugstore. Better get a
move on you, for we may have to run any minute. I've just heard
about some Cuban prisoners in the calaboose. Gimme a hand and
we'll let 'em out."

"Sure!" O'Reilly quickly remounted, meanwhile directing Jacket to
load the canned goods upon his horse and ride for the open
country. He looked back a few moments later, to see his asistente
emerge from the bodega perched between two queer-looking
improvised saddlebags bulging with plunder. The pony was
overloaded, but in obedience to the frantic urgings of its
barelegged rider it managed to break into a shambling trot. Branch
reappeared, too, looping the eight-foot string of straw hats to
his saddle-horn, and balancing before him the remainder of the
bedding, done up in a gaudy quilt.

Sharing in the general consternation at the attack, the jail
guards had disappeared, leaving Lopez's men free to break into the
prison. When O'Reilly joined them the work was well under way. The
municipal building of San Antonio was a thick-walled structure
with iron-barred windows and stout doors; but the latter soon gave
way, and the attackers poured in. Seizing whatever implements they
could find, Judson and O'Reilly went from cell to cell, battering,
prying, smashing, leaving their comrades to rescue the inmates.
This jail was a poor affair. It could scarcely be dignified by the
name of a prison; nevertheless, true prison conditions prevailed
in it and it was evidently conducted in typically Spanish fashion.
The corridors were dark and odorous, the cells unspeakably foul;
O'Reilly and Judson saw, heard, smelled enough to convince them
that no matter how guilty the prisoners might be they had been
amply punished for their crimes.

This, too, was swift work. The building echoed to rushing, yelling
men, while outside a fitful accompaniment of gun-shots urged the
rescuers to greater haste. While the Americans smashed lock after
lock, their comrades dragged the astonished inmates from their
kennels, hustled them into the street, and took them up behind
their saddles.

The raid was over, "retreat" was sounding, when Judson and
O'Reilly ran out of the prison, remounted, and joined their
comrades, who were streaming back toward the plaza.

"Whew!" Judson wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "No chance to ask
these fellows what they were in for."

"No need to ask them," said Johnnie. "A month in there would be
too much for a murderer."

"The druggist said most of 'em are just patriots, and every
holiday the Spaniards shoot one or two. There's no cock-fighting,
so it's the only Sunday amusement they have. Did you notice that
sick guy?"

"Yes."

"He looked to me like he was plain starved. Our fellows had to
carry him."

Colonel Lopez galloped up to inquire, anxiously, "Did you find
those eatables, eh?"

"Yes, sir, and a lot more."

"Good! But I failed. Pickles? Caramba! Nobody here ever heard of
one!"

"Did we lose any men?" Judson asked.

"Not one. But Ramos was badly cut."

"So? Then he got to close quarters with some Spaniard?"

"Oh no!" The colonel grinned. "He was in too great a hurry and
broke open a show-case with his fist."

The retreating Cubans still maintained their uproar, discharging
their rifles into the air, shrieking defiance at their invisible
foes, and voicing insulting invitations to combat. This ferocity,
however, served only to terrify further the civil population and
to close the shutters of San Antonio the tighter. Meanwhile, the
loyal troops remained safely in their blockhouses, pouring a
steady fire into the town. And despite this admirable display of
courage the visitors showed a deep respect for their enemies'
markmanship, taking advantage of whatever shelter there was.

Leslie Branch, of course, proved the solitary exception; as usual,
he exposed himself recklessly and rode the middle of the streets,
regardless of those sudden explosions of dust beneath his horse's
feet or those unexpected showers of plaster from above.

He had spent his time assiduously ransacking the deserted shops,
and in addition to his huge bundle of bedding and his long string
of straw hats he now possessed a miscellaneous assortment of
plunder, in which were a bolt of calico, a pair of shoes, a
collection of cooking-utensils, an umbrella, and--strangest of
all--a large gilt-framed mirror. The safety of these articles
seemed to concern him far more than his own. Spying O'Reilly, he
shouted:

"Say! What's the Spanish word for 'clothing-store'? I need a new
suit."

"Don't be an idiot!" Johnnie yelled at him. "Keep under cover."

But Branch only shook his head. "They couldn't hit anything," he
cried.

The next instant, as if to punctuate his remark, a spent bullet
smashed the mirror and sprinkled the speaker with particles of
glass. It was only by a miracle that he escaped injury. Branch
reined in his horse, examined the wreck, then with a petulant
exclamation cast the useless frame away.

"Come on, Johnnie," Judson growled. "The damn fool wants to get
shot."

The sick man's bravado roused in O'Reilly a feeling of mingled
resentment and apprehension, but further warning would obviously
be a waste of breath. Nevertheless, being a little too tender-
hearted to follow Judson's nonchalant example and ride on,
O'Reilly held in his horse, meanwhile keeping an anxious eye upon
his friend.

The latter was in no hurry; he jogged along leisurely, evidently
on the lookout for an opportunity to replenish his wardrobe. Truth
to say, this needed replenishing--Leslie resembled a scarecrow
clad in a suit of soiled pajamas. But by this time most of the
shops had their shutters up. When the last one had been left
behind O'Reilly spurred his horse into a gallop, relieved to know
that the worst was over.

The raiders had approached San Antonio de los Banos across the
fields at the rear, but Colonel Lopez led their retreat by way of
the camino real which followed the riverbank. This road for a
short distance was exposed to the fire from one fort; then it was
sheltered by a bit of rising ground.

O'Reilly, among the last to cross the zone of fire, was just
congratulating himself upon the fortunate outcome of the skirmish
when he saw Colonel Lopez ride to the crest of a knoll, rise in
his stirrups and, lifting his cupped hands to his lips, direct a
loud shout back toward the town. Lopez was followed by several of
his men, who likewise began to yell and to wave their arms
excitedly.

Johnnie turned to discover that Leslie Branch had lagged far
behind, and now, as if to cap his fantastic performances, had
dismounted and was descending the river-bank to a place where a
large washing had been spread upon the stones to dry. He was quite
exposed, and a spiteful crackle from the nearest blockhouse showed
that the Spaniards were determined to bring him down. Mauser
bullets ricocheted among the rocks--even from this distance their
sharp explosions were audible--others broke the surface of the
stream into little geysers, as if a school of fish were leaping.

While Johnnie looked on in breathless apprehension Branch
appropriated several suits that promised to fit him; then he
climbed up the bank, remounted his horse, and ambled slowly out of
range.

Now this was precisely the sort of harebrained exploit which
delights a Cuban audience. When Leslie rejoined his comrades,
therefore, he was greeted with shouts and cheers.

"Caramba! He would risk his life for a clean shirt. ... There's a
fellow for you! He enjoys the hum of these Spanish bees! ...
Bravo! Tell us what the bullets said to you," they cried, crowding
around him in an admiring circle.

O'Reilly, unable to contain himself, burst forth in a rage: "You
infernal fool! Do you want to be shot robbing a clothes-line?"

"Rats!" ejaculated Leslie, sourly. "I TOLD you I had to have some
clothes."

"Lopez ought to court-martial you. What are you going to do with
that junk, now that you have it? You can't take it with you on the
march."

"You wait and see," said the other. "I'm going to be comfortable,
if--" He paused, with a peculiar, startled expression on his face.
"Did you hear anything?" he queried after a moment. "No. What?"

"Oh, nothing." The two men rode on in silence for a time, then
Leslie said: "Queer thing happened back there while those Romeos
were popping at me. I heard a baby crying."

"A baby?"

"Sure. I suppose it was the washerwoman's kid. When we flushed her
she probably vamped out and left it in the grass. Anyhow, it let
up an awful holler."

Jacket and the other loot-laden soldiers had been sent on ahead,
together with those troopers who were sharing mounts with the
rescued prisoners; they were now waiting perhaps two miles from
town for their companions to overtake them. As the column came up
and halted, O'Reilly addressed a remark to Leslie Branch, but in
the middle of it the faint, unmistakable complaint of a child came
to his ears.

"Listen!" he exclaimed. "What on earth--"

"I've been hearing it right along," Branch said. "I--I thought I
had the willies."

The nearest riders abruptly ceased their chatter; they questioned
one another mutely, doubting their own ears. Again came that thin,
muffled wail, whereupon O'Reilly cried in astonishment:

"Leslie! Why, it--it's in YOUR BUNDLE!" He pointed to the formless
roll of bedding which hung from his friend's saddle-horn.

"G'wan! You're crazy!" Branch slipped to the ground, seized the
bundle in his arms, and bore it to the roadside. With shaking
hands he tugged at the knotted corners of the comforter. "Pure
imagination!" he muttered, testily. "There's nothing in here but
bedclothes. I just grabbed an armful--" The last word ended in a
yell. Leslie sprang into the air as if his exploring fingers had
encountered a coiled serpent. "Oh, my God!" He poised as if upon
the point of flight. "Johnnie! Look! It's ALIVE!"

"What's alive? What is it?"

With a sudden desperate courage Branch bent forward and spread out
the bedding. There, exposed to the bulging eyes of the onlookers,
was a very tiny, very brown baby. It was a young baby; it was
quite naked. Its eyes, exposed to the sudden glare of the morning
sun, closed tightly; one small hand all but lost itself in the
wide, toothless cavity that served as a mouth. Its ten ridiculous
toes curled and uncurled in a most amazing fashion.

"Oh, my God!" Branch repeated, aghast. "It's just b-born! Its eyes
aren't open."

The Cubans, who had momentarily been stricken dumb with amazement,
suddenly broke into voluble speech. The clamor served to attract
Colonel Lopez, who was riding past.

"What's the matter here?" he demanded, forcing his horse through
the ring which had formed about El Demonio and his bundle. One
startled look and the colonel flung himself out of his saddle.
"Whose baby is that?" he demanded.

"I--I--Why, it's mine. I mean, I--" Branch's eyes were glued upon
the child in horrified fascination. He choked and stammered and
waved his hands impotently.

"Come, come! Speak up! What does this mean?" Lopez's voice grew
stern.

"She must have be-been asleep. I just grabbed--You know. I--"
Branch's face became suddenly stricken. "Look out!" he shouted,
hoarsely. "She's going to cry, or something."

He was right; the baby showed every sign of a firm determination
to voice her indignation at the outrage she had suffered. Her hand
stole out of her mouth, her fists closed, her face puckered
ominously. Lopez stooped, wrapped her in a sheet, then took her
awkwardly in his arms. He bent a blazing glance upon the
kidnapper, but he had no chance to speak before the storm of
wailings broke.

News of Leslie's exploit was spreading. Men were shouting and
gesticulating to their comrades to come and see El Demonio's
spoils. There was a great chattering and crowding and no little
smothered laughter. Meanwhile, Colonel Lopez was using every
desperate device to soothe the infant, but without success. At
last he strode up to Leslie and extended his burden.

"Here," he said, harshly, "she's yours. I surrender her."

Leslie drew back. "No, you don't! I wouldn't touch her for a
thousand dollars!" he cried.

But Lopez was firm. He spoke in a tone of command: "Do as I tell
you. Take her. A fine outrage, to steal a baby! What are we going
to do with her? We can't send her back--the town is crazy. I've no
doubt I shall hear from this."

In spite of Leslie's choking protests, in spite of his feeble
resistance, Lopez pressed the noisy stranger into his arms, then
turned to his men and directed them to be off.

Branch remained motionless. He was stupefied; he held the baby
gingerly, not daring to put it down, dreading to keep it; his eyes
were rolling, he began to perspire freely. Stretching a timid,
detaining hand toward Lopez, he inquired, huskily, "What shall I
do with her?"

"God knows. I don't," snapped the officer. "I shall have to think,
but meanwhile I hold you responsible for her. Come now, we must be
going."

Leslie swallowed hard; his face became overspread with a sicklier
pallor. "What'll I do--when she gets HUNGRY?"

Lopez could not restrain a smile. 'You should have thought about
that, compadre. Well, I know where there is a milk cow not three
leagues from here. I'll send a man to borrow it from the owner and
drive it to our camp. Or perhaps"--his handsome face hardened
again--"perhaps you would prefer to take this child back where you
found it?"

"No--I--Oh, they'd tear me limb from limb!"

"Exactly."

Branch turned his head from side to side in desperation. He wet
his lips. "It's the youngest one I ever had anything to do with.
Maybe it isn't used to cow's milk," he ventured.

"Unfortunately that is the only kind I can offer it. Take care of
it until I find some way of notifying its people."

O'Reilly had looked on at his friend's embarrassment with
malicious enjoyment, but, realizing that Branch would undoubtedly
try to foist upon him the responsibility of caring for the baby,
he slipped away and rode over to where Captain Judson was engaged
in making a litter upon which to carry the sick prisoner they had
rescued from the jail. When he had apprised the artilleryman of
what Branch had found in his roll of purloined bedding the latter
smiled broadly.

"Serves him right," Judson chuckled. "We'll make him sit up nights
with it. Maybe it'll improve his disposition." More seriously he
explained: "This chap here is all in. I'm afraid we aren't going
to get him through."

Following Judson's glance, O'Reilly beheld an emaciated figure
lying in the shade of a near-by guava-bush. The man was clad in
filthy rags, his face was dirty and overgrown with a month's
beard; a pair of restless eyes stared unblinkingly at the brazen
sky. His lips were moving; from them issued a steady patter of
words, but otherwise he showed no sign of life.

"You said he was starving." Johnnie dismounted and lent Judson a
hand with his task.

"That's what I thought at first, but he's sick. I suppose it's
that damned dungeon fever."

"Then we'd better look after him ourselves. These Cubans are
mighty careless, you know. We can swing him between our horses,
and--"

Judson looked up to discover that Johnnie was poised rigidly, his
mouth open, his hands halted in midair. The sick man's voice had
risen, and O'Reilly, with a peculiar expression of amazement upon
his face, was straining his ears to hear what he said.

"Eh? What's the matter?" Judson inquired.

For a moment O'Reilly remained frozen in his attitude, then
without a word he strode to the sufferer. He bent forward, staring
into the vacant, upturned face. A cry burst from his throat, a cry
that was like a sob, and, kneeling, he gathered the frail, filthy
figure into his arms.

"ESTEBAN!" he cried. "ESTEBAN! This is O'Reilly. O'Rail-ye! Don't
you know me? O'Reilly, your friend, your brother! For God's sake,
tell me what they've done to you! Look at me, Esteban! Look at me!
LOOK AT ME! Oh, ESTEBAN!"

Such eagerness, such thankfulness, such passionate pity were in
his friend's hoarse voice that Judson drew closer. He noticed that
the faintest flame of reason flickered for an instant in the sick
man's hollow eyes; then they began to rove again, and the same
rustling whisper recommenced. Judson had heard something of
O'Reilly's story; he had heard mention of Esteban and Rosa Varona;
he stood, therefore, in silent wonderment, listening to the
incoherent words that poured from his friend's lips. O'Reilly held
the boy tenderly in his arms; tears rolled down his cheeks as he
implored Esteban to hear and to heed him.

"TRY to hear me! TRY!" There was fierce agony in the cry. "Where
is Rosa? ... Rosa? ... You're safe now; you can tell me. ...
You're safe with O'Reilly. ... I came back ... I came back for you
and Rosa. ... Where is she? ... Is she--dead?"

Other men were assembling now. The column was ready to move, but
Judson signaled to Colonel Lopez and made known the identity of
the sick stranger. The colonel came forward swiftly and laid a
hand upon O'Reilly's shoulder, saying:

"So! You were right, after all. Esteban Varona didn't die. God
must have sent us to San Antonio to deliver him."

"He's sick, SICK!" O'Reilly said, huskily. "Those Spaniards! Look
what they've done to him." His voice changed. He cried, fiercely:
"Well, I'm late again. I'm always just a little bit too late.
He'll die before he can tell me--"

"Wait! Take hold of yourself. We'll do all that can be done to
save him. Now come, we must be going, or all San Antonio will be
upon us."

O'Reilly roused. "Put him in my arms," he ordered. "I'll carry him
to camp myself."

But Lopez shook his head, saying, gently: "It's a long march, and
the litter would be better for him. Thank Heaven we have an angel
of mercy awaiting us, and she will know how to make him well."

When the troop resumed its retreat Esteban Varona lay suspended
upon a swinging bed between O'Reilly's and Judson's horses.
Although they carried him as carefully as they could throughout
that long hot journey, he never ceased his babbling and never
awoke to his surroundings.




XX

EL DEMONIO'S CHILD


During the next few days O'Reilly had reason to bless the happy
chance which had brought Norine Evans to Cuba. During the return
journey from San Antonio de los Banos he had discovered how really
ill Esteban Varona was, how weak his hold upon life. The young man
showed the marks of wasting illness and of cruel abuse;
starvation, neglect, and disease had all but done for him. After
listening to his ravings, O'Reilly began to fear that the poor
fellow's mind was permanently affected. It was an appalling
possibility, one to which he could not reconcile himself. To think
that somewhere in that fevered brain was perhaps locked the truth
about Rosa's fate, if not the secret of her whereabouts, and yet
to be unable to wring an intelligent answer to a single question,
was intolerable. The hours of that ride were among the longest
O'Reilly had ever passed.

But Norine Evans gave him new heart. She took complete charge of
the sick man upon his arrival in camp; then in her brisk, matter-
of-fact way she directed O'Reilly to go and get some much-needed
rest. Esteban was ill, very ill, she admitted; there was no
competent doctor near, and her own facilities for nursing were
primitive indeed; nevertheless, she expressed confidence that she
could cure him, and reminded O'Reilly that nature has a blessed
way of building up a resistance to environment. As a result of her
good cheer O'Reilly managed to enjoy a night's sleep.

Leslie Branch was later than the others in arriving, for the baby
proved to be a trial and a handicap. His comrades had refused him
any assistance on the homeward journey. They expressed a deep,
hoarse condemnation of his conduct, and pretended to consider that
he had sacrificed all claims to their friendship and regard.

Branch took this seriously, and he was in a state bordering upon
desperation when he reached camp. In the hope of unloading his
unwelcome burden upon Norine Evans he hurried directly to her
tent. But Norine had heard the story; Lopez had warned her;
therefore she waved him away.

"Don't ask me to mother your stolen child," she said.

"Oh, but you've GOT to," he declared in a panic. "You've just GOT
to."

"Well, I won't. In the first place, I have a sick man in my tent."

"But look! Listen! This baby dislikes me. I've nearly dropped it a
dozen times. I--I'm going to leave it, anyhow."

But Norine remained firm in her refusal. "You sha'n't leave your
foundling at MY door. If you intend to steal babies you should
make up your mind to take care of them." She was itching to seize
the hungry little mite, but she restrained the impulse. "Go ahead
and keep it amused until the cow arrives," she told him.

"Keep it AMUSED! Amuse a starving brat!" tragically cried the man.
"In Heaven's name, how?"

"Why, play with it, cuddle it, give it your watch--anything! But
don't allow it to cry--it may injure itself."

Branch glared resentfully; then he changed his tactics and began
to plead. "Oh, Norine!" he implored. "I--just can't do it. I'm all
fagged out now, and, besides, I've got the only watch in camp that
keeps time. I didn't sleep any last night, and it'll keep me awake
all to-night. It's a nice baby, really. It needs a woman---"

Norine parted the flaps of her tent and pointed inside, where
Esteban Varona lay upon her cot. His eyes were staring; his lips
were moving. "Mrs. Ruiz and I will have our hands full with that
poor chap. For all we know, he may have some contagious disease."

Branch was utterly shameless, utterly selfish and uncompassionate.
"I'm sick, too--sicker than he is. Have a heart! Remember, I
risked my life to get you something nice to eat---"

"Yes! The most ridiculous procedure I ever heard of. What ever
made you do such a crazy thing?" Norine was honestly indignant
now.

"I did it for you. It seems to me that the least you can do in
return---"

"The least, and the most, I can do is to try and save this poor
man's life," she firmly reasserted. "Now run along. I'd take the
baby if I could, but I simply can't."

"It'll die on me," Branch protested.

"Nonsense! It's the healthiest little thing I ever saw. Wait until
it has its supper. You'll see." She disappeared into her tent and
Branch reluctantly turned away.

Next he bore the infant to Judson and O'Reilly in turn; but both
gruffly refused to assume the least responsibility for it. In the
matter of advice concerning its welfare, however, they were more
obliging. They were willing to discuss the theory of child-rearing
with him as long as he would listen, but their advice merely
caused him to glare balefully and to curse them. Nor did he regard
it as a mark of friendship on their part when they collected an
audience that evening to watch him milk the cow--a procedure, by
the way, not devoid of excitement and hazard, inasmuch as Branch's
knowledge of cows was even more theoretical than his knowledge of
babies.

Leslie had begun by this time to realize that there existed a
general conspiracy against him; he met it with sullen resentment.
He deeply regretted his ignorance of the Spanish language,
however, for a thousand epithets and insults clamored for
translation.

Now there are cows which an amateur can milk, and there are other
kinds. This particular cow was shy, apprehensive, peevish;
Branch's unpractised fumbling irritated her. Being herself a nomad
of the savannas, she was accustomed to firm, masterful men,
therefore when Leslie attempted courteously, apologetically, to
separate her from her milk she turned and hooked him.

El Demonio's audience, who had been looking on with rapt
attention, applauded this show of spirit. Branch was unwontedly
meek. He acknowledged his total inexperience, and begged his
friends, almost politely, to call for a substitute.

Judson explained, gravely, "These Cubans don't know any more about
cows than you do."

O'Reilly agreed, "They're good bull-fighters, but they can't
milk."

Leslie eyed the speakers, white with rage; he was trembling. "You
think you're damned funny, don't you? You're having a jubilee with
me. Well, I'm game. I'll go through with it. If you'll hold her,
I'll milk her. I'll milk her till she hollers."

Obligingly, O'Reilly took the animal by the horns and Judson laid
hold of her tail.

"Stretch her tight," Leslie commanded. "Don't give her an inch of
slack, or I'll quit." When his friends had braced themselves he
moved toward the cow once more, but this time from the opposite
quarter. Noting the direction of his approach, the onlookers gave
vent to a low murmur of expectancy. They drew closer. Strangely
enough, the animal stood quiet for a time--lost in amazement,
perhaps--and Leslie managed to cover the bottom of his big tin cup
with milk. But at last the outrage proved too much for her; she
slowly lifted one hind foot and poised it jerkily. She seemed to
consider the next move for a moment; then she kicked forward and
sent Branch flying.

"Can you beat that?" O'Reilly exclaimed in apparent wonderment.
"Why, she walloped you with the back of her hand."

Judson, too, affected great amazement. "Most cows are left-
handed," he declared. "Try her on the other side."

Branch dried the milk from his face, then in a shaking voice
cried: "Have a good time with me. It's your last chance."

It seemed for a while that the enterprise was doomed to failure;
but at last a pint or more of milk was secured, and this Leslie
proceeded to dilute with warm water from a near-by camp-fire. Even
then, however, his difficulties were not over. He had supposed
that any baby knew enough to drink. It took him half an hour to
discover his mistake. Having long since given up the hope of any
active assistance from his audience, he doggedly set to work to
fashion a nursing-bottle. He succeeded in due time, after making
use of a flask, the stem of an unused cigarette-holder, and a
handkerchief.

When he finally took seat and began awkwardly coaxing the fretful
child to drink, the Cubans voiced their appreciation of the
picture. They were courteous, they did not laugh; nevertheless,
the sight of their eccentric, irascible, rebellious El Demonio
tamely nursing a child in the fire-light filled them with
luxurious, soul-satisfying enjoyment.

O'Reilly was up at daylight to offer his services in caring for
Esteban Varona, but Norine declined them.

"His fever is down a little and he has taken some nourishment,"
she reported. "That food you boys risked your silly lives for may
come in handy, after all."

"I dare say he won't be able to talk to me to-day?" O'Reilly
ventured.

"Not to-day, nor for many days, I'm afraid."

"If you don't mind, then, I'll hang around and listen to what he
says," he told her, wistfully. "He might drop a word about Rosa."

"To be sure. So far he's scarcely mentioned her. I can't
understand much that he says, of course, but Mrs. Ruiz tells me
it's all jumbled and quite unintelligible. How is Leslie's baby
this morning?"

"Oh, it passed a good night. It was awake and had ordered
breakfast when I got up. Leslie was making a fire to scald out its
bottle. He says he didn't close his eyes all night."

"Poor fellow! I'm going to help him," Norine declared.

"Please don't. Lopez wants to teach him a lesson, and this is the
best thing that could possibly have happened. We have told him
that there's no chance of returning the baby, and he thinks he's
elected to keep it indefinitely. As a matter of fact, Jacket is
going to take a letter to the comandante at San Antonio this
morning, advising him that the child is safe, and asking him to
send for it at once."

"Isn't that risky?" Norine inquired. "Won't the comandante attack
us if he learns where we are?"

"Lopez doesn't think so. Those Spaniards are usually pretty
scrupulous on points of honor. There was some difficulty in
getting a messenger, but Jacket volunteered. He volunteers for
anything, that boy. They wouldn't be likely to hurt a kid like
him. If they should, why, we have the baby, you see."

Although Norine had pretended to wash her hands of all
responsibility for Branch's little charge, she was by no means so
inhuman as she appeared. During the day she kept a jealous eye
upon it, and especially upon its diet.

Fortunately for all concerned, it was a good-natured child; so
long as its stomach was full it was contented. It slept a good
deal, and what time it was awake it sucked its fist and suffered
itself to be variously entertained by the men. There were, of
course, a number of fellows who could see no humor at all in El
Demonio's plight, nor any reason for adding to his embarrassments.
These came to his aid in numerous ways.

It was an idle day; there was nothing to do except play with the
baby; before night came the child had established itself as a
general favorite. Even Branch himself had become interested in it.

"Say, I've learned a lot about kids from this one," he confided to
O'Reilly at dinner-time. "I always thought young babies were just
damp, sour-smelling little animals, but this one has character.
She knows me already, and I'm getting so I can pick her up without
feeling that I'm going to puncture her. She's full of dimples,
too. Got 'em everywhere. What do you think we'd better name her?"

"She probably has a name. Do you expect to keep her permanently?"

Branch considered. "I wouldn't have thought of such a thing
yesterday, but how are we going to get rid of her? That's the
question. We can't just leave her with the first family we come
to. These country people have more kids than they know what to do
with."

"Thinking about taking her on the march with us?" O'Reilly looked
up, much amused.

"I don't see why it couldn't be done. The men wouldn't mind and
she'd make a dandy mascot."

O'Reilly shook his head. "This isn't a baseball team. What about
the baby's mother?"

"Bullets! Fine mother SHE was, to desert her child. I'll bet she's
glad to get rid of it. People like that don't have any more
affection than--cattle. They don't deserve to have children.
What's more, they don't know how to care for them. I'd like to
raise this kid according to my own ideas." Branch's face lightened
suddenly. "Say! I've just thought of a name for her!"

"What?"

"Bullets!"

"Are you swearing or naming her?"

"Wouldn't that be a good name? It's new, and it means something.
Raid, battle, rain of bullets! See? Bullets Branch--that doesn't
sound bad."

With deliberate malice O'Reilly said, gravely: "Of course, if you
adopt her, you can name her what you choose--but she's a mighty
brown baby! I have my suspicions that--she's a mulatto." Branch
was shocked, indignant. "That child's as white as you are," he
sputtered. Then noting the twinkle in O'Reilly's eyes he turned
away, muttering angrily.

Strangely enough, Leslie's fantastic suggestion found echo in more
than one quarter, and many of his camp-mates began to argue that
El Demonio's baby would certainly bring the troop good luck, if it
could keep her. Adoption of some sort was gravely discussed that
evening around more than one camp-fire.

After breakfast on the following morning the baby was bathed. This
was an event, and it had been advertised as such. An interested
and admiring group of swarthy cigarette-smokers looked on while
Branch officiated, Norine's offer to perform the service less
publicly having been refused. Leslie was just drying off the
chubby form when he was unexpectedly interrupted.

Jacket had made his round trip in safety, but instead of bringing
a squad of the enemy's soldiers with him he had brought the
child's parents, which was a much more sensible thing to do.

The storekeeper and his wife arrived unheralded; they gave no
warning of their coming, and they exchanged no amenities with the
ravagers of their home. Hearing the shrill, petulant voice of
their beloved, they made directly for it, as eagles swoop from the
sky at threat to their nest.

Branch looked up at the sound of some swift approach. He beheld an
entirely strange woman bearing down upon him. Her face was white,
frantic, terrible; her arms were outstretched; she gave utterance
to a peculiar, distressing cry. Snatching the baby from his lap
without so much as "by your leave," she clutched it to a billowing
brown bosom.

Leslie rose, protesting, just in time to receive the full
onslaught of the child's distracted father. He went down in a
swirl of arms and legs; he felt himself kicked, pounded, trampled,
beaten, scratched, until his friends came to the rescue and
dragged him to his feet. He rose to behold a small, fat,
disheveled Spaniard who had turned from assaulting him and now
appeared to be engaged in biting mouthfuls from such portions of
the baby's anatomy as were not hidden in its mother's embrace.

A clamor of voices breaking the Sabbath calm of the morning
brought Norine Evans running from her tent. One look, and its
cause was plain. Fifty men were talking loudly; fifty pairs of
arms were waving. In consequence of the torrent of words that beat
upon their ears it was some time before the merchant and his wife
could be made to fully understand the peculiar circumstances of
the kidnapping, and that no harm had been intended to their
darling. Slowly, bit by bit, they learned the truth, but even then
the mother could not look upon Leslie Branch without a menacing
dilation of the eyes and a peculiar expression of restrained
ferocity.

The father was more reasonable, however; once he was assured of
his daughter's safety, his thankfulness sought outlet. He began by
embracing every one within his reach. He kissed Norine, he kissed
O'Reilly, he kissed Judson, he made a rush at Leslie himself; but
the latter, suspicious of his intent, fled. Unmindful of the fact
that these were the men who had relieved him of a considerable
stock of goods and profaned his holy of holies, he recklessly
distributed among them what money he had upon his person and then
gave away the remaining contents of his pockets. He swore his
undying love for them all. Smiting his breast excitedly, he urged
them as a personal favor and a mark of his overflowing gratitude
to return to San Antonio de los Banos, make themselves masters of
all his worldly possessions, and then burn his store.

While this was going on, Jacket was proudly advertising his share
of the enterprise, not failing to give himself full credit.

"By----! I made a big hit with that comandante," he told his
American friends. "Those people in San Antonio say I'm the bravest
boy they ever seen, and they give me more'n a thousand cigars.
When I rode away I saluted the comandante; then I yelled, 'Vive
Cuba Libre!' and everybody laughed like hell. I guess those people
never seen nobody like me before."

That afternoon, when it came time for the merchant and his little
family to set out for home, a crowd of regretful Insurrectos
assembled to bid them farewell and to look for the last time upon
the baby. By now the mother's apprehensions had given way to pride
and she could bring herself to smile at the compliments showered
upon her offspring and to answer in kind those which were aimed at
herself. She even permitted El Demonio to kiss the child good-by.
Her husband, since his arrival in camp, had heard much about the
eccentric American, and now, after apologizing abjectly for his
unwarranted attack, he invited Branch to visit his store when this
hideous war was over and Cuba was free. Finally, in spite of
Leslie's frantic struggles, he embraced him and planted a moist
kiss upon either cheek.

Amid loud and repeated good wishes and a cheer for the baby the
visitors rode away.

Lopez linked his arm within O'Reilly's as they turned back into
the palm-grove. With a smile he said:

"Well, I hope this has taught your friend to steal no more
babies."

"I'm afraid he'll steal the very next one he sees. He fell in love
with that one and wanted to keep it."

"Oh, he wasn't alone in that. It's queer how sentimental soldiers
become. I've often noticed it. When I was in the Rubi Hills some
of my fellows adopted a goat. We had to eat it finally, but those
men wouldn't touch a piece of the flesh--and they were starving.
By the way, how is Varona doing?"

"About the same."

Lopez frowned. "I shall have to send him to Cubitas to-morrow, for
we must be under way."

"If he has to be moved, let me do it. I'd like to be with him when
he comes out of his fever, and learn what he knows about his
sister." O'Reilly's appeal was earnest.

The colonel readily yielded. "Go, by all means. Report to General
Gomez, and he no doubt will let you stay until the boy can talk.
He may have news from Matanzas by that time."

O'Reilly pressed his colonel's hand gratefully. "You're mighty
good," said he. "There's one thing more. Will you look out for
Branch while I'm gone, and--hold him down?"

Lopez laughed lightly. "Oh, he'll soon get over his recklessness.
This life agrees with him. Why, he's a different man already! When
he gets well and has something to live for he will want to live.
You'll see."




XXI

TREASURE


It was a balmy, languid morning about two weeks after O'Reilly's
return to the City among the Leaves. The Cubitas Mountains were
green and sparkling from a recent shower; wood fires smoldered in
front of the bark huts, sending up their wavering streamers of
blue; a pack-train from the lower country was unloading fresh
vegetables in the main street, and a group of ragged men were
disputing over them. Some children were playing baseball near by.

In a hammock swung between two trees Esteban Varona lay, listening
to the admonitions of his nurse.

Johnnie O'Reilly had just bade them both a hearty good morning and
now Norine was saying: "One hour, no more. You had a temperature
again last night, and it came from talking too much."

"Oh, I'm better this morning," Esteban declared. "I'm getting so
that I want to talk. I was too tired at first, but now--"

"NOW, you will do exactly as you are told. Remember, it takes me
just one hour to make my rounds, and if you are not through with
your tales of blood and battle when I get back you'll have to
finish them to-morrow." With a nod and a smile she left.

As Esteban looked after her his white teeth gleamed and his hollow
face lit up.

"She brings me new life," he told O'Reilly. "She is so strong, so
healthy, so full of life herself. She is wonderful! When I first
saw her bending over me I thought I was dreaming. Sometimes, even
yet, I think she cannot be real. But she is, eh?"

"She is quite substantial," O'Reilly smiled.

"I can tell when she is anywhere near, for my illness leaves me.
It's a fact! And her hands--Well, she lays them on my head, and it
no longer hurts; the fever disappears. There is some cool,
delicious magic in her touch; it makes a fellow want to live. You
have perhaps noticed it?"

"N-no! You see, she never lays her hands on my head. However, I
dare say you're right. All the sick fellows talk as you do."

Esteban looked up quickly; his face darkened. "She--er--nurses
OTHERS, eh? I'm not the only one?"

"Well, hardly."

There was a brief pause; then Esteban shifted his position and his
tone changed. "Tell me, have you heard any news?"

"Not yet, but we will hear some before long I'm sure."

"Your faith does as much for me as this lady's care. But when you
go away, when I'm alone, when I begin to think--"

"Don't think too much; don't permit yourself to doubt," O'Reilly
said, quickly. "Take my word for it, Rosa is alive and we'll find
her somewhere, somehow. You heard that she had fallen into Cobo's
hands when he sacked the Yumuri, but now we know that she and the
negroes were living in the Pan de Matanzas long after that. In the
same way Lopez assured me positively that you were dead. Well,
look at you! It shows how little faith we can put in any story.
No, Rosa is safe, and General Gomez will soon have word of her.
That's what I've been waiting for--that and what you might have to
tell me."

"You know all that I know now and everything that has happened to
me."

"I don't know how you came to be in a cell in San Antonio de los
Banos, two hundred miles from the place you were killed. That is
still a mystery."

"It is very simple, amigo. Let me see: I had finished telling you
about the fight at La Joya. I was telling you how I fainted."

"Exactly. Norine bound and gagged you at that point in the story."

"Some good people found me a few hours after I lost consciousness.
They supposed I had been attacked by guerrillas and left for dead.
Finding that I still had life in me, they took me home with them.
They were old friends from Matanzas by the name of Valdes--
cultured people who had fled the city and were hiding in the
manigua like the rest of us."

"Not Valdes, the notary?"

"The very same. Alberto Valdes and his four daughters. Heaven
guided them to me. Alberto was an old man; he had hard work to
provide food for his girls. Nevertheless, he refused to abandon
me. The girls had become brown and ragged and as shy as deer. They
nursed me for weeks, for my wounds became infected. God! It seems
to me that I lay there sick and helpless for years. When my brain
would clear I would think of Rosa, and then the fever would rise
again and I would go out of my head. Oh, they were faithful,
patient people! You see, I had walked east instead of west, and
now I was miles away from home, and the country between was
swarming with Spaniards who were burning, destroying, killing. You
wouldn't know Matanzas, O'Reilly. It is a desert.

"I finally became able to drag myself around the hut. But I had no
means of sending word to Rosa, and the uncertainty nearly made me
crazy. My clothes had rotted from me; my bones were just under the
skin. I must have been a shocking sight. Then one day there came a
fellow traveling east with messages for Gomez. He was one of
Lopez's men, and he told me that Lopez had gone to the Rubi Hills
with Maceo, and that there were none of our men left in the
province. He told me other things, too. It was from him that I
learned--" Estban Varona's thin hands clutched the edges of his
hammock and he rolled his head weakly from side to side. "It was
he who told me about Rosa. He said that Cobo had ravaged the
Yumuri and that my sister--was gone. Christ!"

"There, there! We know better now," O'Reilly said, soothingly.

"It was a hideous story, a story of rape, murder. I wonder that I
didn't go mad. It never occurred to me to doubt, and as a matter
of fact the fellow was honest enough; he really believed what he
told me. Well, I was sorry I hadn't died that night in the sunken
road. All the hope, all the desire to live, went out of me. You
see, I had been more than half expecting something of the kind.
Every time I had left Rosa it had been with the sickening fear
that I might never see here again. After the man had finished I
felt the desire to get away from all I had known and loved, to
leave Matanzas for new fields and give what was left of me to the
cause.

"I presume Alberto and the girls were relieved to get rid of me,
for it meant more food for them. Anyhow, between us we prevailed
upon the messenger to take me along. I was free to enlist, since I
couldn't reach Lopez, and I came to join our forces in the Orient.

"That is how you found me in this province. Lopez's man never
delivered those despatches, for we were taken crossing the trocha-
-at least _I_ was taken, for Pablo was killed. They'd have made an
end of me, too, I dare say, only I was so weak. It seems a century
since that night. My memory doesn't serve me very well from that
point, for they jailed me, and I grew worse. I was out of my head
a good deal. I seem to remember a stockade somewhere and other
prisoners, some of whom nursed me. You say you found me in a cell
in San Antonio de los Banos. Well, I don't know how I got there,
and I never heard of the place."

"It will probably all come back to you in time," said O'Reilly.

"No doubt."

The two men fell silent for a while. Esteban lay with closed eyes,
exhausted. O'Reilly gave himself up to frowning thought. His
thoughts were not pleasant; he could not, for the life of him,
believe in Rosa's safety so implicitly as he had led Esteban to
suppose; his efforts to cheer the other had sapped his own supply
of hope, leaving him a prey to black misgivings. He was glad when
Norine Evans's return put an end to his speculations.

Esteban was right; the girl did have an unusual ability to banish
shadows, a splendid power to rout devils both of the spirit and of
the flesh; she was a sort of antibody, destroying every noxious or
unhealthy thing mental or physical with which she came in contact.
This blessed capability was quite distinct from her skill with
medicines--it was a gift, and as much a part of her as the healing
magic which dwells in the sunshine.

Certainly her knack of lending health and strength from her own
abundant store had never been better shown than in Esteban's case,
for with almost no medical assistance she had brought him back
from the very voids. It was quite natural, therefore, that she
should take a pride in her work and regard him with a certain
jealous proprietary interest; it was equally natural that he
should claim the greater share of her attention.

"Have you harrowed this poor man's feelings sufficiently for
once?" she inquired of O'Reilly.

"I have. I'll agree to talk about nothing unpleasant hereafter."

Esteban turned to his nurse, inquiring, abruptly, "Do you think
Rosa is alive?"

"Why, of course I do! Aren't you alive and--almost well?"

Now, as an argument, there was no particular force in this
suggestion; nevertheless, both men felt reassured. Esteban heaved
a grateful sigh. After a moment he said,

"There is something I want to tell you both."

"Wait until to-morrow," Norine advised.

But he persisted: "No! I must tell it now. First, however, did
either of you discover an old coin in any of my pockets--an old
Spanish doubloon?"

"That doubloon again!" Norine lifted her hands protestingly, and
cast a meaning look at O'Reilly. "You talked about nothing else
for a whole week. Let me feel your pulse."

Esteban surrendered his hand with suspicious readiness.

"You were flat broke when we got you," O'Reilly declared.

"Probably. I seem to remember that somebody stole it."

"Doubloons! Pieces of eight! Golden guineas!" exclaimed Norine.
"Why those are pirate coins! They remind me of Treasure Island; of
Long John Silver and his wooden leg; of Ben Gunn and all the
rest." With a voice made hoarse, doubtless to imitate the old nut-
brown seaman with the saber-scar and the tarry pig-tail, who sat
sipping his rum and water in the Admiral Benbow Inn, she began to
chant:

  "Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--
       Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle  of rum!
   Drink and the Devil had done for the rest--
       Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

Esteban smiled uncomprehendingly. "Yes? Well, this has to do with
treasure. That doubloon was a part of the lost treasure of the
Varonas."

"Lost treasure!" Norine's gray eyes widened. "What are you talking
about?"

"There is a mysterious fortune in our family. My father buried it.
He was very rich, you know, and he was afraid of the Spaniards.
O'Reilly knows the story."

Johnnie assented with a grunt. "Sure! I know all about it."

Esteban raised himself to his elbow. "You think it's a myth, a
joke. Well, it's not. I know where it is. I found it!"

Norine gasped; Johnnie spoke soothingly:

"Don't get excited, old man; you've talked too much to-day."

"Ha!" Esteban fell back upon his pillow. "I haven't any fever. I'm
as sane as ever I was. That treasure exists, and that doubloon
gave me the clue to its whereabouts. Pancho Cueto knew my father,
and HE believed the story. He believed in it so strongly that--
well--that's why he denounced my sister and me as traitors. He dug
up our entire premises, but he didn't find it." Esteban chuckled.
"Don Esteban, my father, was cunning: he could hide things better
than a magpie. It remained for me to discover his trick."

Norine Evans spoke breathlessly. "Oh, glory! Treasure! REAL
treasure! How perfectly exciting! Tell me how you found it, quick!
Johnnie, you remember he raved about a doubloon--"

"He is raving now," O'Reilly declared, with a sharp stare at his
friend.

The girl turned loyally to her patient. "I'll believe you, Mr.
Varona. I always believe everything about buried treasure. The
bigger the treasure the more implicitly I believe in it. I simply
adore pirates and such things; if I were a man I'd be one. Do you
know, I've always been tempted to bury my money and then go look
for it."

"You're making fun of me. What?" Esteban eyed the pair doubtfully.

"No, no!" Norine was indignant. "Johnnie doesn't believe in
pirates or treasure, or--anything. He doesn't even believe in
fairies, and he's Irish, too. But I do. I revel in such things. If
you don't go on, I'll blow up."

"There is no doubt that my father had a great deal of money at one
time," Esteban began; "he was the richest man in the richest city
of Cuba and ..."

O'Reilly shook his head dubiously and braced his back against a
tree-trunk; there was a look of mild disapprobation on his face as
he listened to the familiar story of Don Esteban and the slave,
Sebastian.

Young Esteban told the tale well. His own faith in it lent a
certain convincingness to his words and Norine Evans hung upon
them entranced. She was horrified at the account of Don Esteban's
death; her eyes grew dark as Esteban told of his and Rosa's
childhood with their avaricious stepmother. That part of the
narrative which had to do with the death of Dona Isabel and the
finding of the gold coin was new to O'Reilly and he found himself
considerably impressed by it. When Esteban had finished, Norine
drew a deep breath.

"Oh! That lays over any story I ever heard. To think that the
deeds and the jewels and everything are in the well AT THIS
MINUTE! How COULD you go away and leave them?"

"I didn't think it out at the time. I didn't evolve my theory
until after I had fled. Naturally, I wasn't able to get back."

"But suppose somebody finds it?" Norine was aghast at the thought.

"Not much chance of that. The treasure has lain there for a
generation, and the story itself is almost forgotten." Esteban
turned triumphantly to O'Reilly, saying, "Now then, do you think
I'm so crazy?"

O'Reilly didn't have it in his heart to say exactly what he really
thought. The circumstances of the discovery of the coin were odd
enough, certainly, but it seemed to him that they were capable of
several explanations. If, indeed, there had ever been a doubloon
and if Esteban had found it in the dead hand of his stepmother,
that, in O'Reilly's opinion, by no means proved the existence of
the mythical Varona hoard, nor did it solve the secret of its
whereabouts. What he more than half suspected was that some
favored fancy had formed lodgment in Esteban's brain.

"It's an interesting theory," he admitted. "Anyhow, there is no
danger of the treasure being uncovered very soon. Cueto had a good
look and made himself ridiculous. You'll have ample chance to do
likewise when the war is over."

"You must help me find it," said Esteban. "We shall all share the
fortune equally, you two, Rosa and I."

"WE? Why should WE share in it?" Norine asked.

"I owe it to you. Didn't O'Reilly rescue me from a dungeon?
Haven't you nursed me back to health? Don't I owe my life to you
both?"

"Nonsense! I, for one, sha'n't take a dollar of it," the girl
declared. "All I want to do is help dig. If you'll just promise to
let me do that--"

"I promise. And you shall have one-fourth of everything."

"No! No!"

"Oh, but you MUST. I insist. Nursing is a poorly paid profession.
Wouldn't you like to be rich?"

"Profession! Poorly paid?" Norine sputtered, angrily. "As if I'd
take pay!"

"As if I would accept a great service and forget it, like some
miserable beggar!" Esteban replied, stiffly.

O'Reilly laughed out. "Don't let's quarrel over the spoil until we
get it," said he. "That's the way with all treasure-hunters. They
invariably fall out and go to fighting. To avoid bloodshed, I'll
agree to sell my interest cheap, for cash. Come! What will you
bid? Start it low. Do I hear a dollar bid? A dollar! A dollar! A
dollar! My share of the famous Varona fortune going for a dollar!"

"There! He doesn't believe a word of it," Esteban said.

Norine gave an impatient shrug. "Some people wouldn't believe they
were alive unless they saw their breath on a looking-glass.
Goodness! How I hate a sneering skeptic, a wet blanket."

O'Reilly rose with one arm shielding his face. "In the interest of
friendship, I withdraw. A curse on these buried treasures, anyhow.
We shall yet come to blows."

As he walked away he heard Norine say: "Don't pay any attention to
him. We'll go and dig it up ourselves, and we won't wait until the
war is over."

An hour later Esteban and his nurse still had their heads
together. They were still talking of golden ingots and pearls from
the Caribbean the size of plums when they looked up to see
O'Reilly running toward them. He was visibly excited; he waved and
shouted at them. He was panting when he arrived.

"News! From Matanzas!" he cried. "Gomez's man has arrived."

Esteban struggled to rise, but Norine restrained him. "Rosa? What
does he say? Quick!"

"Good news! She left the Pan de Matanzas with the two negroes. She
went into the city before Cobo's raid."

Esteban collapsed limply. He closed his eyes, his face was very
white. He crossed himself weakly.

"The letter is definite. It seems they were starving. They obeyed
Weyler's bando. They're in Matanzas now."

"Do you hear, Esteban?" Norine shook her patient by the shoulder.
"She's alive. Oh, can't you see that it always pays to believe the
best?"

"Alive! Safe!" Esteban whispered. His eyes, when he opened them,
were swimming; he clutched Norine's hand tightly; his other hand
he extended to O'Reilly. The latter was choking; his cheeks, too,
were wet. "A reconcentrado! In Matanzas! Well, that's good. We
have friends there--they'll not let her starve. This makes a new
man of me. See! I'm strong again. I'll go to her."

"YOU'LL go?" quickly cried Miss Evans. "YOU'LL go! You're not
strong enough. It would be suicide. You, with a price upon your
head! Everybody knows you there. Matanzas is virtually a walled
city. There's sickness, too--yellow fever, typhus--"

"Exactly. And hunger, also. Suppose no one has taken Rosa in?
Those concentration camps aren't nice places for a girl."

"But wait! I have friends in Washington. They're influential. They
will cable the American consul to look after her. Anyhow, you
mustn't think of returning to Matanzas," Norine faltered; her
voice caught unexpectedly and she turned her face away.

O'Reilly nodded shortly. "You're a sick man," he agreed. "There's
no need for both of us to go."

Esteban looked up. "Then you--"

"I leave at once. The Old Man has given me a commission to General
Betancourt, and I'll be on my way in an hour. The moon is young; I
must cross the trocha before--"

"That trocha!" Esteban was up on his elbow again. "Be careful
there, O'Reilly. They keep a sharp lookout, and it's guarded with
barbed wire. Be sure you cut every strand. Yes, and muffle your
horse's hoofs, too, in crossing the railroad track. That's how we
were detected. Pablo's horse struck a rail, and they fired at the
sound. He fell at the first volley, riddled. Oh, I know that
trocha!"

"Damn the trocha!" O'Reilly exclaimed. "At last I've got a chance
to DO something. GOD! How long I've waited."

Esteban drew O'Reilly's tense form down and embraced his friend,
after the fashion of his people. "She has been waiting, too," he
said, huskily. "We Varonas are good waiters, O'Reilly. Rosa will
never cease waiting until you come. Tell her, for me--"

Norine withdrew softly out of earshot. There were a lump in her
throat and a pain in her breast. She had acquired a peculiar and
affectionate interest in this unhappy girl whom she had never
seen, and she had learned to respect O'Reilly's love. The yearning
that had pulsed in his voice a moment before had stirred her
deeply; it awoke a throb in her own bosom, for O'Reilly was dear
to her. She wanted him to go, yet she knew the hazards that lay in
his way. If, indeed, the girl were in Matanzas, how, Norine asked
herself, was it possible for him to reach her? That O'Reilly had
some mad design was evident; that he would utterly disregard his
own safety she felt sure. But that he would meet with failure,
perhaps worse, seemed equally certain. Matanzas was a beleagured
city, and strangers could not enter or leave it at will. If Rosa
had not put herself behind prison walls, if she were still in
hiding somewhere on the island, it would be a simple matter to
seek her out. But Matanzas, of all places!

Then, too, the pacificos, according to all reports, were dying
like flies in the prison camps. Norine wondered if there might not
be a terrible heartache at the end of O'Reilly's quest? Her face
was grave and worried when, hearing him speak to her, she turned
to take his outstretched hand.

"You will be careful, won't you?" she implored. "And you'll be
stout of heart, no matter what occurs?"

He nodded. "It's a long way back here to Cubitas. You may not see
or hear from me again."

"I understand." She choked miserably. "You mean you may not come
back. Oh, Johnnie!"

"Tut, tut! We O'Reillys have more lives than a litter of cats. I
mean I may not see you until the war is over and we meet in New
York. Well, we've been good pals, and--I'm glad you came to Cuba."
His grasp upon her two hands was painful.

"You must go, I know, and I wouldn't try to keep you, but--"
Norine faltered, then impulsively she drew him down and kissed him
full upon the lips. "For Rosa!" she whispered. Her eyes were
shining as she watched him pass swiftly out of sight.




XXII

THE TROCHA


Of all the military measures employed by the Spaniards in their
wars against Cuban independence, perhaps the most unique was the
trocha--trench or traverse. Martinez Campos during the Ten Years'
War built the first trocha just west of the Cubitas Mountains
where the waist of the island is narrowest. It was Campos's hope,
by means of this artificial barrier, to confine the operations of
the insurgents to the eastern end of Cuba, but in that he failed,
as likewise he failed in the results gained by his efforts to
concentrate the rural population in the cities. Not until Weyler's
time were these two methods of pacification, the trocha and the
concentration camp, developed to their fullest extent. Under the
rule of the Butcher several trochas were constructed at selected
points, and he carried to its logical conclusion the policy of
concentration, with results sufficiently frightful to shock the
world and to satisfy even Weyler's monstrous appetite for cruelty.
Although his trochas hindered the free movement of Cuban troops
and his prison camps decimated the peaceful population of several
provinces, the Spanish cause gained little. Both trenches and
prison camps became Spanish graveyards.

Weyler's intrenchments cost millions and were elaborately
constructed, belted with barbed wire, bristling with blockhouses
and forts. In both the digging and the manning, however, they cost
uncounted lives. Spanish spades turned up fevers with the soil,
and, so long as raw Spanish troops were compelled to toil in the
steaming morasses or to lie inactive under the sun and the rain,
those traitor generals--June, July, and August--continued to pile
up the bodies in rotting heaps and to timber the trenches with
their bones. So long as the cities were overcrowded with pacificos
and their streets were putrid with disease, so long did the
Spanish garrisons sicken and die, as flies perish upon poisoned
carrion.

Out on the cool, clean hills and the windy savannas where the
Insurrectos dwelt there was health. Poorly armed, ragged, gaunt,
these Insurrectos were kept moving by hunger, always moving like
cattle on a barren range. But they were healthy, for disease,
which is soft-footed and tender-bellied, could not keep up.

At the time Johnnie O'Reilly set out for Matanzas the war--a war
without battle, without victory, without defeat--had settled into
a grim contest of endurance. In the east, where the Insurrectos
were practically supreme, there was food of a sort, but beyond the
Jucaro-Moron trocha--the old one of Campos's building--the country
was sick. Immediately west of it, in that district which the
Cubans called Las Villas, the land lay dying, while the entire
provinces of Matanzas, Habana, and Pinar del Rio were practically
dead. These three were skeletons, picked bare of flesh by Weyler's
beak.

The Jucaro-Moron trocha had been greatly strengthened since
Campos's day. It followed the line of the transinsular railway.
Dotted at every quarter of a mile along the grade were little
forts connected by telephone and telegraph lines. Between these
fortinas were sentry stations of logs or railroad ties. The jungle
on either side of the right-of-way had been cleared, and from the
remaining stumps and posts and fallen tree-trunks hung a maze of
barbed wire through which a man could scarcely crawl, even in
daylight. Eyes were keen, rifles were ready, challenges were
sharp, and countersigns were quickly given on the Jucaro-Moron
trocha.

In O'Reilly's party there were three men besides himself--the
ever-faithful Jacket, a wrinkled old Camagueyan who knew the
bridle trails of his province as a fox knows the tracks to its
lair, and a silent guajiro from farther west, detailed to
accompany the expedition because of his wide acquaintance with the
devastated districts. Both guides, having crossed the trocha more
than once, affected to scorn its terrors, and their easy
confidence reassured O'Reilly in spite of Esteban's parting
admonition.

The American had not dreamed of taking Jacket along, but when he
came to announce his departure the boy had flatly refused to be
left behind. Jacket, in fact, had taken the matter entirely into
his own hands and had appealed directly to General Gomez. To his
general the boy had explained tearfully that patriotism was a rare
and an admirable quality, but that his love of country was not
half so strong or so sacred as his affection for Johnnie O'Reilly.
Having attached himself to the American for better or for worse,
no human power could serve to detach him, so he asserted. He
threatened, moreover, that if he were compelled to suffer his
benefactor to go alone into the west he would lay down his arms
and permit General Gomez to free Cuba as best he could. Cuba could
go to Hades, so far as Jacket was concerned--he would not lift a
finger to save it. Strangely enough, Jacket's threat of defection
had not appalled General Gomez. In fact, with a dyspeptic
gruffness characteristic of him Gomez had ordered the boy off,
under penalty of a sound spanking. But Jacket had a will of his
own, likewise a temper. He greeted this unfeeling refusal with a
noisy outburst of mingled rage, grief, and defiance. Stamping his
bare feet, sobbing, and screaming, the boy finally flung himself
upon the ground and smote it with his fists, while tears streamed
from his eyes. Nor could he be silenced. He maintained such a
hideous and surprising uproar, answering Gomez's stern commands to
be silent with such maniacal howls, that the old soldier was
finally glad to yield his consent, incidentally consigning the
rebellious youth to that perdition with which he had threatened
Cuba.

Having won his point, Jacket regained his composure with
suspicious suddenness and raced away to triumph over his beloved
O'Reilly.

Fifty miles of hard riding brought the party to the trocha; they
neared it on the second morning after leaving Cubitas, and sought
a secluded camping-spot. Later in the day Hilario, the old
Camagueyan, slipped away to reconnoiter. He returned at twilight,
but volunteered no report of what he had discovered. After an
insistent cross-examination O'Reilly wrung from him the reluctant
admission that everything seemed favorable for a crossing some
time that night, and that he had selected a promising point.
Beyond that the old man would say nothing. Johnnie asked himself
uneasily if this reticence was not really due to apprehension
rather than to sullenness. Whatever the cause, it was not
particularly reassuring, and as evening came on Johnnie found
himself growing decidedly nervous.

Supper, a simple meal, was quickly disposed of. Then followed a
long, dispiriting wait, for a gibbous moon rode high in the sky
and the guides refused to stir so long as it remained there. It
was a still night; in the jungle no air was stirring, and darkness
brought forth a torment of mosquitoes. As day died, the woods
awoke to sounds of bird and insect life; strange, raucous calls
pealed forth, some familiar, others strange and unaccustomed.
There were thin whistlings, hoarse grunts and harsh cacklings,
high-pitched elfin laughter. Moving bodies disturbed the leaves
overhead; from all sides came the rustle and stir of unseen
creatures; sudden disputations were followed by startled silences.
Sitting there in the dark, bedeviled by a pest of insects, mocked
at by these mysterious voices, and looking forward to a hazardous
enterprise, O'Reilly began to curse his vivid imagination and to
envy the impassiveness of his companions. Even Jacket, he noted,
endured the strain better; the boy was cheerful, philosophical,
quite unimpressed by his surroundings. When the mosquitoes became
unbearable he put on his trousers, with some reluctance and much
ceremony.

It seemed to O'Reilly that the moon floated motionless in the sky,
and more than once he was upon the point of ordering a start, but
he reflected that its radiance out in the open must be far greater
than it seemed here under the dense tropical foliage. After a time
he began to wonder if his guides were as loyal as they should be,
if Hilario's strange reticence was caused by sullenness, by
apprehension, or by something altogether different. Both of the
men were strangers to him; of their fidelity he had no guarantee.
Now that his mind had become engaged with thoughts of treachery, a
determined effort was necessary to keep himself in hand and
O'Reilly fell back finally upon his elemental trust in the Cuban
character--scant consolation under the circumstances.

Midnight brought a moist, warm breeze and a few formless clouds
which served at times to dimly obscure the moon. Watching the
clouds, O'Reilly hoped that they might prove to be the heralds of
a storm. None came. When the moon had finally crept down into the
tree-tops old Hilario stepped upon his cigarette, then began
silently to saddle up. The others followed with alacrity, and fell
in behind him as he led the way into the forest. They no longer
ventured to speak aloud; nothing but the occasional sound of a
hoof striking upon root or stone, the creak of leather, or the
rustle of branches against passing bodies gave evidence that
mounted men were en route.

When they had covered a couple of miles Hilario reined in and the
others crowded close. Ahead, dimly discernible against the night
sky, there appeared to be a thinning of the woods. After listening
for a moment or two, Hilario dismounted and slipped away; the
three riders sat their saddles with ears strained. Once more the
myriad voices of the night became audible--the chirping of
crickets, the strident call of tree-toads, the whining undertone
of the mosquitoes.

Hilario returned with word that all was well, and each man
dismounted to muffle the feet of his horse with rags and strips of
gunny-sack provided for the purpose. Then, one by one, they moved
forward to the edge of the clearing. The trocha lay before them.

After the cavernous obscurity of the jungle the night seemed
suddenly to lighten and O'Reilly found himself looking out over a
level waste of stumps and tree-trunks perhaps a quarter of a mile
wide, extending right and left as far as he could see. Against the
luminous western horizon opposite the inky forest stood like a
wall. Midway of the clearing there was a railroad grade with a
telephone-pole or two limned against the sky. The clearing was
silent and to all appearances deserted; nothing stirred, no sign
of life appeared anywhere. And yet, as the American studied the
place, he had a queer, uncomfortable sensation that it was thickly
peopled and that eyes were peering out at him from the gloom.
Blurred forms took shape, phantom figures moved along the
embankment, stumps stirred.

O'Reilly felt a pair of reins thrust into his hand and found
Hilario examining a large pair of tinner's shears.

"Do you wish me to go with you?" he inquired of the guide.

The latter shook his head. "Antonio will go; he will keep watch
while I clear a path. If you hear or see anything--"

Jacket interrupted with a sibilant: "Psst! Look! Yonder!"

A lantern-like illumination had leaped out of the blackness and
now approached swiftly down the railroad grade.

O'Reilly laid a heavy hand upon the old Camagueyan and inquired in
sharp suspicion, "What does that mean--an alarm?"

There was a breathless moment during which the four men followed
the erratic course of the spark. Then Antonio chuckled. "Alabaos!
A light-bug," said he. "Don't you know a cucullo when you see
one?" He cautiously tested the ejector of his carbine and
tightened the cord that served as his belt.

O'Reilly drew a deep breath of relief. He had never become wholly
accustomed to the giant light-beetles of the tropics, although he
had carried one often on sentry duty to see the face of his watch,
and not infrequently had seen Cuban women wearing them in their
hair as ornaments.

"Jove!" he muttered. "It gave me a fright."

Hilario resumed his instructions: "If anything goes wrong, wait
here. Don't ride away until we have time--"

"Never fear. I won't desert you," the American reassured him.

The two white-clad figures slipped away, became indistinct, and
then disappeared. The night was hot, the mosquitoes hummed
dismally and settled in clouds upon the waiting pair, maddening
them with their poison. After a time a horse snorted and Jacket
cursed nervously.

"I'd like to see where we are," the boy muttered.

"Do you know these men?" O'Reilly asked him.

"No. God deliver me from such unpleasant fellows."

"I hope they're honest."

"Humph! I trust nobody." There was a pause. "Never mind," Jacket
assured his companion. "I will make short work of them if they
prove to be traitors."

A half-hour passed, then the two ghostly figures materialized once
more.

"Dios!" grumbled Hilario. "There are many strings to this Spanish
guitar. What a row when they discover that I have played a Cuban
danzon upon it." The old man seemed less surly than before, and
O'Reilly felt ashamed of his recent suspicions.

"Is the way clear?" he inquired.

"As far as the railroad, yes. We heard voices there, and came
back. We will have to cut our way forward after we cross the
track. Now then, follow me without a sound."

Leading his horse by the bit ring, Hilario moved out into the
clearing, followed once more by his three companions. Concealment
was out of the question now, for their only covering was the
darkness. O'Reilly had the uncomfortable feeling that the
cavalcade bulked monstrous big and must be visible at a great
distance; he experienced much the sensations of a man crossing a
sheet of thin ice with nerves painfully strained, awaiting the
first menacing crack. In spite of all precautions the animals made
a tremendous racket, or so it seemed, and, despite Hilario's
twistings and turnings, it was impossible to avoid an occasional
loop of barbed wire, therefore flesh and clothing suffered
grievously. But at length the party brought up under the railroad
embankment and paused. Out of the voids to their right came a
faint murmur of voices. As carefully as might be the four men
ascended the slope, crossed the rails, and descended into the
ditch on the other side. Another moment and they encountered a
taut strand of barbed wire. The metallic snip of Hilario's shears
sounded like a pistol-shot to O'Reilly. Into the maze of strands
they penetrated, yard by yard, clipping and carefully laying back
the wire as they went. Progress was slow; they had to feel their
way; the sharp barbs brought blood and muttered profanity at every
step.

None of the four ever knew what gave the alarm. Their first
intimation of discovery came with a startling "Quien vive?" hurled
at them from somewhere at their backs.

An instant and the challenge was followed by a Mauser shot. Other
reports rang out as the sentry emptied his rifle in their
direction.

"So! They are shooting-bats," Hilario grunted.

Antonio swung about and cocked his Remington, but the other spoke
sharply. "Fool! If you shoot they will see the fire and riddle us.
A curse on the spider that spun this web!"

It was a test of courage to crouch among the charred stumps,
enmeshed in that cruel tangle of wire, while the night was stabbed
by daggers of fire and while the trocha awoke to the wild alarm.
From somewhere in the distance came a shouted command and the
sound of running feet, suddenly putting an end to further
inaction. Antonio began to hack viciously with his machete, in an
effort to aid Hilario's labors. The sound of his sturdy blows
betrayed the party's whereabouts so clearly that finally the older
man could restrain himself no longer.

"Give it to them, compadres; it is a game that we can play."

O'Reilly had been gripping his rifle tensely, his heart in his
throat, his pulses pounding. As near a panic as he had ever been,
he found, oddly enough, that the mere act of throwing his weapon
to his shoulder and firing it calmed him. The kick of the gun
subdued his excitement and cleared his brain. He surprised himself
by directing Jacket in a cool, authoritative voice, to shoot low.
When he had emptied the magazine he led two of the horses forward.
Then, grasping his own machete, he joined in clearing a pathway.

It seemed an interminable time ere they extricated themselves from
the trap, but finally they succeeded and gained the welcome
shelter of the woods, pausing inside its shelter to cut the
muffles from their horses' feet. By this time the defenders of the
trocha were pouring volley after volley at random into the night.

Hilario sucked the cuts in his horny palms and spat forth the
blood.

"If Gomez had the ammunition these fools are wasting he would free
Cuba in no time."

Now that the skirmish was over, Jacket began to boast of his part
in it.

"Ha! Perhaps they'll know better than to show themselves the next
time I come this way," said he. "You saw me, didn't you? Well, I
made a few Spanish widows to-night."

"Not many, I'm afraid," O'Reilly laughed.

"Oh, believe me, I'm an old hand at this sort of thing. I shoot
just as well at night as I do in the daytime." This was literally
true, and when no one disputed his assertion Jacket proceeded
further in praise of himself, only to break off with a wordless
cry of dismay.

"What's the matter?" Johnnie inquired.

"Look! Behold me!" wailed the hero. "I have left the half of my
beautiful trousers on that barbed wire!"

Antonio swung a leg over his saddle, saying: "Come along, amigos;
we have fifty leagues ahead of us. The war will be over while we
stand here gossiping."




XXIII

INTO THE CITY OF DEATH


O'Reilly's adventures on his swift ride through Las Villas have no
part in this story. It is only necessary to say that they were
numerous and varied, that O'Reilly experienced excitement aplenty,
and that upon more than one occasion he was forced to think and to
act quickly in order to avoid a clash with some roving guerrilla
band. He had found it imperative at all times to avoid the larger
towns, for they, and in fact most of the hamlets, were unsafe;
hence the little party was forced to follow back roads and obscure
bridle trails. But the two guides were never at a loss; they were
resourceful, courageous, and at no time did the American have
reason to doubt their faithfulness.

Evidences of the war increased as the journey lengthened. The
potreros were lush with grass, but no herds grazed upon them;
villages were deserted and guano huts were falling into decay,
charred fields growing up to weeds and the ruins of vast centrales
showing where the Insurrectos had been at work. This was the sugar
country, the heart of Cuba, whence Spain had long drawn her life
blood, and from the first it had been the policy of the rebel
leaders to destroy the large estates, leaving undamaged only the
holdings of those little farmers whose loyalty to the cause of
freedom was unquestioned.

Food became a problem immediately after the travelers had crossed
the trocha. Such apprehensive families as still lurked in the
woods were liberal enough--Antonio, by the way, knew all of them--
but they had little to give and, in consequence, O'Reilly's party
learned the taste of wild fruits, berries, and palmetto hearts.
Once they managed to kill a small pig, the sole survivor of some
obscure country tragedy, but the rest of the time their meat, when
there was any, consisted of iguanas--those big, repulsive lizards-
-and jutias, the Cuban field-rats.

Neither the lizards nor the rats were quite as bad as they looked
or sounded; the meat of the former was tender and white, while the
latter, although strong, was not unpalatable. To hungry men both
were muy sabrosa, as Jacket put it. This was not the boy's first
experience with such a diet; having campaigned before in the west,
he was accustomed to the taste of juita, and he told O'Reilly how
his troop had once lived so long upon these rats that it became
impossible to surprise a Spanish enemy, except by approaching up
the wind, as a hunter stalks his game. Jacket gravely assured his
friend that the Spaniards could smell him and his brother patriots
from a distance of five kilometers--a statement, by the way, which
the American by this time was ready to believe.

Fortunately there was no shortage of food for the horses, and so,
despite the necessity of numerous detours, the party made good
time. They crossed into Matanzas, pushed on over rolling hills,
through sweeping savannas, past empty clearings and deserted
villages, to their journey's end. A fortunate encounter with a
rebel partida from General Betancourt's army enabled them to reach
headquarters without loss of time, and one afternoon, worn, ragged
and hungry, they dismounted in front of that gallant officer's
hut.

General Betancourt read the letter which O'Reilly handed him, then
looked up with a smile.

"So! You are one of Gomez's Americans, eh? Well, I would never
have known it, to look at you; the sun and the wind have made you
into a very good Cuban. And your clothes--One might almost mistake
you for a Cuban cabinet officer."

O'Reilly joined in the laughter evoked by this remark. He was
quite as tattered as the poorest of Betancourt's common soldiers;
his shoes were broken and disreputable; his cotton trousers,
snagged by barbed wire and brambles, and soiled by days in the
saddle and nights in the grass, were in desperate need of
attention. His beard had grown, too, and his skin, where it was
exposed, was burnt to a mahogany brown. Certainly there was
nothing about his appearance to bespeak his nationality.

The general continued: "I am directed in this letter to help you
in some enterprise. Command me, sir."

As briefly as possible Johnnie made known the object of his
journey. The officer nodded his comprehension, but as he did so a
puzzled expression crossed his face.

"Yes, I reported that Miss Varona had gone into the city--I took
some pains to find out. Do you have reason to doubt--"

"Not the least, sir."

"Then--why have you come all this way?"

"I came to find her and to fetch her to her brother."

"But--you don't understand. She is actually inside the lines, in
Matanzas--a prisoner."

"Exactly. I intend to go into Matanzas and bring her out."

General Betancourt drew back, astonished. "My dear man!" he
exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

O'Reilly smiled faintly. "Quite probably. All lovers are mildly
mad, I believe."

"Ah! Lovers! I begin to see. But--how do you mean to go about
this--this--impossible undertaking?"

"You told me just now that I could pass for a Cuban. Well, I am
going to put it to the test. If I once get into the city I shall
manage somehow to get out again, and bring her with me."

"Um-m!" The general appraised O'Reilly speculatively. "No doubt
you can get in--it is not so difficult to enter, I believe, and
especially to one who speaks the language like a native. But the
return--I fear you will find that another matter. Matanzas is a
place of pestilence, hunger, despair. No one goes there from
choice any more, and no one ever comes out."

"So I should imagine." The speaker's careless tone added to
General Betancourt's astonishment. "Bless me!" he exclaimed. "What
an extraordinary young man! Is it possible that you do not
comprehend the terrible conditions?" A sudden thought struck him
and he inquired, quickly: "Tell me, you are not by any chance that
hero they call El Demonio? I have heard that he is indeed a demon.
No? Very well! You say you wish to visit Matanzas, and I am
instructed to help you. How can I do so?"

O'Reilly hesitated an instant. "For one thing, I need money. I--I
haven't a single peseta."

"You are welcome to the few dollars I possess."

Johnnie expressed his gratitude for this ready assistance. "One
thing more," said he. "Will you give my boy, Jacket, a new pair of
trousers and send him back to the Orient at the first
opportunity?"

"Of course. It is done." The general laid a friendly hand upon
O'Reilly's shoulder, saying, gravely: "It would relieve me
intensely to send you back with him, for I have fears for the
success of your venture. Matanzas is a hell; it has swallowed up
thousands of our good countrymen; thousands have died there. I'm
afraid you do not realize what risks you are taking."

O'Reilly did not allow this well-meant warning to influence him,
nor did he listen to the admonitions of those other Cubans who
tried to argue him out of his purpose, once it became generally
known. On the contrary, he proceeded with his preparations and
spent that afternoon in satisfying himself that Rosa had indeed
left the Pan de Matanzas before Cobo's raid.

Among Betancourt's troops was a man who had been living in the
hills at the time Asensio and his family had abandoned their
struggle for existence, and to him O'Reilly went. This fellow, it
seemed, had remained with his family in the mountains some time
after Asensio's departure. It was from him that O'Reilly heard his
first authentic report of the atrocities perpetrated by Cobo's
Volunteers. This man had lost his wife, his little son, and all
the scanty belongings he possessed. With shaking hands upstretched
to heaven, the fellow cursed the author of his misfortunes.

"I live for one thing!" he cried, shrilly. "To meet that monster,
and to butcher him, as he butchers women and children."

O'Reilly purposely left his most unpleasant task to the last. When
his arrangements had been completed and he had acquainted himself
as far as possible with the hazards he was likely to encounter, he
took Jacket aside and broke the news to him that on the following
morning they must part. As he had expected, the boy refused to
listen to him. O'Reilly remained firm and Jacket adopted those
tactics which had proved so potent with General Gomez. He began to
weep copiously. He worked himself up to a hysterical crescendo
which threatened to arouse the entire encampment. But O'Reilly was
unmoved.

"Be quiet," he told the boy. "I won't let you go with me, and that
ends it."

"You dassent leave me," sobbed the youngster. "I got no friend but
you."

"It will be hard enough for one man to slip through; two would be
sure to fail."

"Those Spaniards will skill you!" Jacket wailed.

"So much the more reason for you to stay here."

At this the boy uttered a louder cry. He stamped his bare feet in
a frenzy of disappointment. "You dassent leave me--you dassent!"

"Listen, people are starving in Matanzas; they are sick; they are
dying in the streets."

"I don't eat much."

When Johnnie shook his head stubbornly Jacket launched himself
into a torrent of profanity the violence of which dried his tears.
His vocabulary was surprising. He reviled the Spaniards, O'Reilly,
himself, everybody and everything; he leveled anathemas at that
woman who had come between him and his beloved benefactor. The
latter listened good-naturedly.

"You're a tough kid," he laughed, when Jacket's first rage had
worn itself out. "I like you, and I'd take you if I could. But
this isn't an enterprise for a boy, and it won't get you anything
to keep up this racket."

Jacket next tried the power of argument. He attempted to prove
that in a hazardous undertaking of this sort his assistance would
be invaluable. He was, so he declared, the one person in all Cuba
in every respect qualified to share O'Reilly's perils. To begin
with, he was not afraid of Spaniards, or anything else, for that
matter--he dismissed the subject of personal courage with a
contemptuous shrug. As for cunning, sagacity, prudence, resource,
all-around worth, he was, without doubt, unequaled in any country.
He was a veritable Spartan, too, when it came to hardship--
privation and suffering were almost to his liking. He was
discreet--discretion was something he had inherited; he was a
diplomat--diplomacy being one of his most unique accomplishments.
As for this talk about hunger, O'Reilly need not concern himself
in the least on that score, for Jacket was a small eater and could
grow fat on a diet of dead leaves. Disease? Bah! It made him
laugh. His experience with sickness was wider than most fisicos,
and he was a better nurse than Miss Evans would ever be. Jacket
did not wish to appear in the least boastful. On the contrary, he
was actually too modest, as his friends could attest, but truth
compelled him to admit that he was just the man for O'Reilly. He
found it impossible to recommend himself too highly; to save his
soul, he could think of no qualification in which he was lacking
and could see no reason why his benefactor would not greatly
profit by the free use of his amazing talents. The enterprise was
difficult; it would certainly fail without him.

Johnnie remained carefully attentive during this adjuration. He
felt no desire even to smile, for the boy's earnestness was
touching and it caused the elder man's throat to tighten
uncomfortably. Johnnie had not realized before how fond he had
become of this quaint youngster. And so, when the little fellow
paused hopefully, O'Reilly put an arm around him.

"I'm sure you are everything you say you are, Jacket, and more,
too, but you can't go!"

With that Jacket flung off the embrace and, stalking away, seated
himself. He took a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of his shirt
and lit it, scowling the while at his friend. More than once
during the evening O'Reilly detected his sullen, angry eyes upon
him.

General Betancourt and several members of his staff were up early
the following morning to bid their visitor good-by. In spite of
their efforts to make the parting cheerful it was plain that they
had little hope of ever again seeing this foolhardy American.

Johnnie's spirits were not in the least affected by this ill-
concealed pessimism, for, as he told himself, he had money in his
pockets and Matanzas was not many miles away. But when he came to
part from Jacket he experienced a genuine disappointment. The boy,
strangely enough, was almost indifferent to his leaving; he merely
extended a limp and dirty hand, and replied to O'Reilly's parting
words with a careless "Adios!"

In hurt surprise the former inquired, "Don't we part good
friends?"

"Sure!" Jacket shrugged, then turned away.

Jacket was a likable youngster; his devotion was thoroughly
unselfish; it had not been easy to wound him. With keener regrets
than he cared to acknowledge O'Reilly set out upon his journey,
following the guide whom General Betancourt had provided.

It was a lovely morning, sufficiently warm to promise a hot
midday; the air was moist and fresh from a recent shower. This
being the rainy season, the trails were soft, and where the rich
red Cuban soil was exposed the travelers sank into it as into wet
putty.

Crossing a rocky ridge, O'Reilly and his guide at last emerged
upon an open slope, knee-high in grass and grown up to bottle-
palms, those queer, distorted trees whose trunks are swollen into
the likeness of earthen water-jars. Scattered here and there over
the meadows were the dead or fallen trunks of another variety, the
cabbage-palm, the green heart of which had long formed a staple
article of diet for the Insurrectos. Spanish axes had been at work
here and not a single tree remained alive. The green floor of the
valley farther down was dotted with the other, the royal kind,
that monarch of tropic vegetation which lends to the Cuban
landscape its peculiar and distinctive beauty.

"Yonder is the camino," said the countryman, pointing into the
valley; "it will lead you to the main road; and there"--he turned
to the northward--"is Matanzas. Go with God, and don't drink the
well water, which is polluted from the rains." With a smile and a
wave of the hand the man turned back and plunged into the jungle.

As O'Reilly descended the slope he realized keenly that he was
alone and in hostile territory. The hills and the woods from Pinar
del Rio to Oriente were Cuban, or, at most, they were disputed
ground. But here in the plains and valleys near the cities Spain
was supreme. From this moment on O'Reilly knew he must rely
entirely upon himself. The success of his enterprise--his very
life--hinged upon his caution, his powers of dissimulation, his
ability to pass as a harmless, helpless pacifico. It gave him an
unaccustomed thrill, by no means pleasant.

The road, when he came to it, proved to be a deep gutter winding
between red-clay banks cut by the high wheels of clumsy cane-
carts. Inasmuch as no crops whatever had been moved over the road
during the past season, it was now little more than an oozy,
sticky rut. Not a roof, not a chimney, was in sight; the valley
was deserted. Here was a fertile farming country--and yet no
living thing, no sound of bells, no voices, no crowing cocks, no
lowing cattle. It was depressing to O'Reilly, and more, for there
was something menacing and threatening about it all.

Toward noon the breeze lessened and it became insufferably hot. A
bank of clouds in the east promised a cooling shower, so Johnnie
sought the nearest shade to wait for it, and took advantage of the
delay to eat his slender lunch. He was meditatively munching a
sweet-potato when a sound at his back caused him to leap to his
feet in alarm. He whirled, then uttered an exclamation of
amazement. Seated not fifty feet away was a bare-legged boy,
similarly engaged in eating a sweet-potato. It was Jacket. His
brown cheeks were distended, his bright, inquisitive eyes were
fixed upon O'Reilly from beneath a defiant scowl.

"Jacket!" cried the man. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"You goin' to let me come along?" challenged the intruder.

"So! You followed me, after I said I didn't want you?" O'Reilly
spoke reproachfully; but reproaches had no effect upon the lad.
With a mild expletive, Jacket signified his contempt for such a
weak form of persuasion.

"See here now." O'Reilly stepped closer. "Let's be sensible about
this."

But Jacket scrambled to his feet and retreated warily, stuffing
the uneaten portion of the sweet-potato into his mouth. It was
plain that he had no confidence in O'Reilly's intentions.
Muttering something in a muffled voice, he armed himself with a
stout stick.

"Come here," commanded the American.

Jacket shook his head. He made a painful attempt to swallow, and
when his utterance became more distinct he consigned his idol to a
warmer place than Cuba.

"I'm a tough kid," he declared. "Don't get gay on me."

The two parleyed briefly; then, when satisfied that no violence
was intended him, the boy sat down to listen. But, as before,
neither argument nor appeal had the slightest effect upon him. He
denied that he had followed his benefactor; he declared that he
was a free agent and at liberty to go where he willed. If it so
chanced that his fancy took him to the city of Matanzas at the
same time O'Reilly happened to be traveling thither, the
circumstance might be put down to the long arm of coincidence. If
his company were distasteful to the elder man, O'Reilly was free
to wait and follow later; it was a matter of complete indifference
to Jacket. He had business in Matanzas and he proposed to attend
to it. The boy lied gravely, unblushingly. Nevertheless, he kept a
watchful eye upon his hearer.

"Very well," O'Reilly told him, finally. "I give in."

Jacket's face instantly lit up. He radiated good humor; he hitched
his body closer.

"By----! I get my own way, don't I?" he laughed.

"Indeed you do." O'Reilly laid a hand fondly upon his loyal
follower. "And I don't mind telling you that I'm more than half
glad of it. I--I was getting lonesome. I didn't know how much I
could miss you. But now we must make some plans, we must have an
understanding and decide who we are. Let me see--your real name is
Narciso--"

"Narciso Villar."

"Well, then, I shall be Juan Villar, your brother. Henceforth we
shall speak nothing but Spanish. Tell me now, what was our
father's name, where was our home, and what are we doing
together?"

During the breathless interval before the shower the two sat with
their heads together, talking earnestly. As the wind came and the
cooling rain began to rattle on the leaves overhead they took up
their bundles and set out. The big drops drenched them quickly.
Their thin garments clung to them and water streamed down their
bodies; overhead the sky was black and rent by vivid streaks of
fire, but they plodded onward cheerfully.

Jacket was himself again; he bent his weight against the tempest
and lengthened his short strides to O'Reilly's. He tried to
whistle, but his teeth chattered and the wind interfered, so he
hummed a song, to drive the chill out of his bones and to hearten
his benefactor. Now that he was at last accepted as a full partner
in this enterprise, it became his duty not only to share its
perils, but to lessen its hardships and to yield diversion.

The rain was cold, the briers beside the overgrown path were
sharp, and they scratched the boy's bare legs cruelly; his stomach
clamored for a companion to that solitary sweet-potato, too, but
in his breast glowed ardor and pride. Jacket considered himself a
fortunate person--a very fortunate person, indeed. Had he not
found a brother, and did not that brother love him? There was no
doubt about the latter, for O'Reilly's eyes, when he looked down,
were kind and smiling, his voice was friendly and intimate. Here
was a man to die for.

The downpour lasted but a short time, then the sun came out and
dried the men's clothes; on the whole, it had been refreshing.
When evening came the Villar brothers sought refuge in an old
sugar-mill, or rather in a part of it still standing. They were on
the main calzada, now, the paved road which links the two main
cities of the island, and by the following noon their destination
was in sight.

O'Reilly felt a sudden excitement when Matanzas came into view.
From this distance the city looked quite as it did when he had
left it, except that the blue harbor was almost empty of shipping,
while the familiar range of hills that hid the Yumuri--that valley
of delight so closely linked in his thoughts with Rosa Varona--
seemed to smile at him like an old friend. For the thousandth time
he asked himself if he had come in time to find her, or if fate's
maddening delays had proved his own and the girl's undoing.

O'Reilly knew that although Matanzas was a prison and a pesthole,
a girl like Rosa would suffer therein perils infinitely worse than
imprisonment or disease. It was a thought he could not bear to
dwell upon.

Signs of life began to appear now, the travelers passed small
garden-patches and occasional cultivated fields; they encountered
loaded carts bound into the city, and once they hid themselves
while a column of mounted troops went by.

O'Reilly stopped to pass the time of day with a wrinkled cartman
whose dejected oxen were resting.

"Going into the city, are you?" the fellow inquired. "Starved out,
I suppose. Well, it's as pleasant to starve in one place as
another."

Jacket helped himself to a stalk of cane from the load and began
to strip it with his teeth.

"Will the soldiers allow us to enter?" Johnnie inquired.

"Of course. Why not?" The old man laughed mirthlessly; then his
voice changed. "Go back," he said, "go back and die in the fields.
Matanzas stinks of rotting corpses. Go back where the air is
clean." He swung his long lash over the oxen, they leaned against
the load, and the cart creaked dismally on its way.

It is never difficult to enter a trap, and Matanzas was precisely
that. There were soldiers everywhere, but beyond an indifferent
challenge at the outer blockhouse, a perfunctory question or two,
Narciso and Juan Villar experienced no trouble whatever in passing
the lines. Discipline, never strict at best, was extremely lax at
the brick fortinas along the roads, and, since these two refugees
were too poor to warrant search, they were waved onward by the
sentries. They obeyed silently; in aimless bewilderment they
shuffled along toward the heart of the city. Almost before they
realized it they had run the gauntlet and had joined that army of
misery, fifteen thousand strong. The hand of Spain had closed over
them.




XXIV

ROSA


"Look!" Jacket clutched at O'Reilly and pointed a shaking finger.
"More beggars! Cristo! And those little children!" The boy tried
to laugh, but his voice cracked nervously. "Are they children, or
gourds with legs under them?"

O'Reilly looked, then turned his eyes away. He and Jacket had
reached the heart of Matanzas and were facing the public square,
the Plaza de la Libertad it was called. O'Reilly knew the place
well; every building that flanked it was familiar to him, from the
vast, rambling Governor's Palace to the ornate Casino Espanol and
the Grand Hotel, and time was when he had been a welcome visitor
at all of them. But things were different now. Gone were the
customary crowds of well-dressed, well-fed citizens; gone the rows
of carriages which at this hour of the day were wont to circle the
Plaza laden with the aristocracy of the city; gone was that air of
cheerfulness and substance which had lent distinction to the
place. Matanzas appeared poor and squalid, depressingly wretched;
its streets were foul and the Plaza de la Libertad--grim mockery
of a name--was crowded with a throng such as it had never held in
O'Reilly's time, a throng of people who were, without exception,
gaunt, listless, ragged. There was no afternoon parade of finery,
no laughter, no noise; the benches were full, but their occupants
were silent, too sick or too weak to move. Nor were there any
romping children. There were, to be sure, vast numbers of
undersized figures in the square, but one needed to look twice to
realize that they were not pygmies or wizened little old folks. It
was not strange that Jacket had compared them to gourds with legs,
for all were naked, and most of them had bodies swollen into the
likeness of pods or calabashes. They looked peculiarly grotesque
with their spidery legs and thin faces.

O'Reilly passed a damp hand across his eyes. "God!" he breathed.
"She--she's one of these!"

He had not penetrated even thus far into the city without
receiving a hint of what conditions must be, for in the outlying
streets he had seen sights and smelled odors that had sickened
him; but now that he was face to face with the worst, now that he
breathed the very breath of misery, he could scarcely credit what
he saw. A stench, indescribably nauseating, assailed him and
Jacket as they mingled with the crowd, for as yet their nostrils
were unused to poverty and filth. It was the rancid odor that
arises from unwashed, unhealthy bodies, and it testified
eloquently to the living-conditions of the prisoners. Hollow eyes
and hopeless faces followed the two new-comers as they picked
their way slowly along.

The reconcentrados overran Matanzas in an unclean swarm; streets
and plazas were congested with them, for no attempt was made to
confine them to their quarters. Morning brought them streaming
down from the suburban slopes where they lived, evening sent them
winding back; their days were spent in an aimless search for food.
They snatched at crumbs and combed the gutters for crusts. How
they managed to exist, whence came the food that kept life in
their miserable bodies, was a mystery, even to the citizens of the
city; no organized effort had been made to care for them and there
was insufficient surplus food for half their number. Yet somehow
they lived and lingered on.

Of course the city was not entirely peopled by the starving--as a
matter of fact they formed scarcely one-fifth of the normal civil
population--and the life of the city was going on a good deal as
usual. Stores were open, at least there was a daily train from
Habana, and the barracks were full of Spanish troops. It was from
off the wastage of this normal population that these fifteen
thousand prisoners were forced to live. Even this wastage was
woefully inadequate, merely serving to prolong suffering by making
starvation slower.

At the time of O'Reilly's arrival the sight presented by these
innocent victims of war was appalling; it roused in him a dull red
rage at the power which had wrought this crime and at the men who
permitted it to continue. Spain was a Christian nation, he
reflected; she had set up more crosses than any other, and yet
beneath them she had butchered more people than all the nations of
the earth combined. This monstrous, coldly calculating effort to
destroy the entire Cuban people seemed to him the blackest infamy
of all, and he wondered if it would be allowed to succeed.

Fortunately for the two friends, General Betancourt's generosity
served to relieve them from any immediate danger of starvation.
After making a few purchases and eating with the utmost frugality,
they began their search. Later, they stretched themselves out to
sleep on the stones beneath the portales of the railroad station.

They spent a horrid, harrowing night, for now the general distress
was brought home to them more poignantly than ever. At dawn they
learned that these people were actually dying of neglect. The
faint light betrayed the presence of new corpses lying upon the
station flagstones. From those still living, groans, sighs, sick
mutterings rose until O'Reilly finally dragged his youthful
companion out of the place.

"I can't stand that," he confessed. "I can't sleep when people are
starving to death alongside of me. This money burns my pocket. I--
I--"

Jacket read his purpose and laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"It will save OUR lives, too," he said, simply.

"Bah! We are men. There are women and children yonder--"

But Jacket's sensibilities were calloused, it seemed. "Of what use
would your few pesetas be among so many?" he inquired. "God has
willed this, and He knows what He is doing. Besides, your 'pretty
one' is probably as hungry as are these people. No doubt we shall
find that she, too, is starving."

O'Reilly slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. "Yes! It's
Rosa's money. But--come; I can't endure this."

He led the way back to the Plaza of Liberty and there on an iron
bench they waited for the full day. They were very tired, but
further sleep was impossible, for the death-wagons rumbled by on
their way to collect the bodies of those who had died during the
night.

Neither the man nor the boy ever wholly lost the nightmare memory
of the next few days, for their search took them into every part
of the reconcentrado districts. What they beheld aged them. Day
after day, from dawn till dark, they wandered, peering into huts,
staring into faces, asking questions until they were faint from
fatigue and sick with disappointment.

As time passed and they failed to find Rosa Varona a terrible
apprehension began to weigh O'Reilly down; his face grew old and
drawn, his shoulders sagged, his limbs began to drag. It was all
that Jacket could do to keep him going. The boy, now that there
was actual need of him, proved a perfect jewel; his optimism never
failed, his faith never faltered, and O'Reilly began to feel a
dumb gratitude at having the youngster by his side.

Jacket, too, became thin and gray about the lips. But he
complained not at all and he laughed a great deal. To him the
morrow was always another day of brilliant promise toward which he
looked with never-failing eagerness; and not for a single moment
did he question the ultimate success of their endeavor. Such an
example did much for the older man. Together they practised the
strictest, harshest economy, living on a few cents a day, while
they methodically searched the city from limit to limit.

At first O'Reilly concerned himself more than a little with the
problem of escape, but as time wore on he thought less and less
about that. Nor did he have occasion to waste further concern
regarding his disguise. That it was perfect he proved when several
of his former acquaintances passed him by and when, upon one
occasion, he came face to face with old Don Mario de Castano. Don
Mario had changed; he was older, his flesh had softened, and it
hung loosely upon his form. He appeared worried, harassed, and
O'Reilly recalled rumors that the war had ruined him. The man's
air of dejection seemed to bear out the story.

They had been enemies, nevertheless O'Reilly felt a sudden impulse
to make himself known to the Spaniard and to appeal directly for
news of Rosa's fate. But Don Mario, he remembered in time, had a
reputation for vindictiveness, so he smothered the desire. One
other encounter O'Reilly had reason to remember.

It so chanced that one day he and Jacket found themselves in the
miserable rabble which assembled at the railroad station to
implore alms from the incoming passengers of the Habana train. Few
people were traveling these days, and they were, for the most
part, Spanish officers to whom the sight of starving country
people was no novelty. Now and then, however, there did arrive
visitors from whom the spectacle of so much wretchedness wrung a
contribution, hence there was always an expectant throng at the
depot. On this occasion O'Reilly was surprised to hear the piteous
whines for charity in the name of God turn suddenly into a subdued
but vicious mutter of rage. Hisses were intermingled with
vituperations, then the crowd fell strangely silent, parting to
allow the passage of a great, thick-set man in the uniform of a
Colonel of Volunteers. The fellow was unusually swarthy and he
wore a black scowl upon his face, while a long puckering scar the
full length of one cheek lifted his mouth into a crooked sneer and
left exposed a glimpse of wolfish teeth.

O'Reilly was at a loss to fathom this sudden alteration of
attitude, the whistle of indrawn breaths and the whispered curses,
until he heard some one mutter the name, "Cobo." Then indeed he
started and stiffened in his tracks. He fixed a fascinated stare
upon the fellow.

Colonel Cobo seemed no little pleased by the reception he created.
With his chest arched and his black eyes gleaming malevolently he
swaggered through the press, clicking his heels noisily upon the
stone flags. When he had gone Jacket voiced a vicious oath.

"So that is the butcher of babies!" exclaimed the boy. "Well, now,
I should enjoy cutting his heart out."

O'Reilly's emotions were not entirely unlike those of his small
companion. His lips became dry and white as he tried to speak.

"What a brute! That face--Ugh!"

He found himself shaking weakly, and discovered that a new and
wholly unaccountable feeling of discouragement had settled upon
him. He tried manfully to shake it off, but somehow failed, for
the sight of Rosa's arch-enemy and the man's overbearing
personality had affected him queerly. Cobo's air of confidence and
authority seemed to emphasize O'Reilly's impotence and bring it
forcibly home to him. To think of his lustful persecution of Rosa
Varona, moreover, terrified him. The next day he resumed his hut-
to-hut search, but with a listlessness that came from a firm
conviction that once again he was too late.

That afternoon found the two friends among the miserable hovels
which encircled the foot of La Cumbre, about the only quarter they
had not explored. Below lay San Severino, the execution-place;
above was the site of the old Verona home. More than once on his
way about the city O'Reilly had lifted his eyes in the direction
of the latter, feeling a great hunger to revisit the scene of his
last farewell to Rosa, but through fear of the melancholy effect
it would have upon him he had thus far resisted the impulse. To-
day, however, he could no longer fight the morbid desire and so,
in spite of Jacket's protest at the useless expenditure of effort,
he set out to climb the hill. Of course the boy would not let him
go alone.

Little was said during the ascent. The La Cumbre road seemed very
long and very steep. How different the last time O'Reilly had
swung up it! The climb had never before tired him as it did now,
and he reasoned that hunger must have weakened him even more than
he realized. Jacket felt the exertion, too; he was short of breath
and he rested frequently. O'Reilly saw that the boy's bare, brown
legs had grown bony since he had last noticed them, and he felt a
sudden pang at having brought the little fellow into such a plight
as this.

"Well, hombre," he said when they paused to rest, "I'm afraid we
came too late. I'm afraid we're licked."

Jacket nodded listlessly; his optimism, too, was gone. "They must
all be dead or we would have found them before this," said he.
When O'Reilly made no answer he continued, "It is time we thought
of getting away from here, eh?"

Johnnie was sitting with his face in his hands. Without lifting
his head he inquired: "How are we going to get away? It is easy
enough to get into Matanzas, but--" He shrugged hopelessly.

From where the two sat they could see on the opposite hillside a
section of the ditch and the high barbed-wire fence which girdled
the city and made of it a huge corral. Spaced at regular intervals
along the intrenchments were slow-moving, diminutive figures,
sentries on their well-worn paths.

Jacket brightened at the thought of escape. "Ho! I'll bet we can
find a hole somewhere," said he. "We're not like these others.
They haven't the spirit to try." There was a moment of silence,
and then: "Caramba! You remember those jutias we ate? They were
strong, but I would enjoy the smell of one now. Eh? Another week
of this and we shall be living on garbage like the rest of these
poor people."

Leaving Jacket to take his time, Johnnie completed the climb
alone, meditating upon the boy's words. "The spirit to try!" Where
had his spirit gone, he wondered. Perhaps it had been crushed
beneath the weight of misery he had beheld; surely he had seen
enough. Hourly contact with sickness and misfortune on such a
gigantic scale was enough to chill any one's hopes, and although
his sensibilities had been dulled, his apprehensions had been
quickened hour by hour. Now that he looked the matter squarely in
the face, it seemed absurd to believe that a tender girl like Rosa
Varona could long have withstood the hardships of this hideous
place; stronger people than she had succumbed, by the hundreds.
Even now the hospitals were full, the sick lay untended in their
hovels. No one, so far as O'Reilly knew, had undertaken to
estimate how fast they were dying or the number of dead which had
already ridden out of Matanzas in those rumbling wagons, but there
were many. What chance was there that Rosa had not been among the
latter? Better by far had she remained among the empty fields and
the barren slopes of the Pan de Matanzas, for there at least the
soil held roots and the trees bore fruits or berries, while here
was nothing but gaunt famine and grinning disease.

As he breasted the summit of La Cumbre, O'Reilly beheld at some
distance a bent figure of want. It was a negro woman, grubbing in
the earth with a sharpened stick. After a suspicious scrutiny of
him she resumed her digging.

Nothing but a heap of stones and plaster remained of the Varona
home. The grounds, once beautiful even when neglected as in Dona
Isabel's time, were now a scene of total desolation. A few orange-
trees, to be sure, remained standing, and although they were cool
and green to look at, they carried no fruit and the odor of their
blooms was a trial and a mockery to the hungry visitor. The
evidences of Cueto's vandalism affected O'Reilly deeply; they
brought him memories more painful than he had anticipated.
Although the place was well-nigh unrecognizable, nevertheless it
cried aloud of Rosa, and the unhappy lover could barely control
the emotions it awakened. It was indeed a morbid impulse which had
brought him thither, but now that he was here he could not leave.
Unconsciously his feet turned toward the ancient quarry which had
formed the sunken garden--his and Rosa's trysting-place.

O'Reilly desired above all things to be alone at this moment, and
so he was annoyed to discover that another person was before him--
a woman, evidently some miserable pacifico like himself. She, too,
appeared to be looking for roots, and he almost stumbled over her
as he brushed through the guava-bushes fringing the depression.

His sudden appearance alarmed the creature and she struggled,
panic-stricken, out of his path. Her rags could not conceal the
fact that she was deformed, that her back was crooked, so he
muttered a reassuring word to her.

This place was more as he had left it--there was the stone bench
where he had said good-by to Rosa; yonder was the well--

"Senor!" Johnnie heard himself addressed by the hunch-backed
woman. Her voice was thin, tremulous, eager, but his thoughts were
busy and he paid no heed. "Senor! Do you look for something--some
one--"

"N-no. Yes--" he answered, abstractedly. "Yes, I am looking for
something--some one."

"Something you have lost?"

"Something I have lost!" The question came to him faintly, but it
was so in tune with his unhappy mood that it affected him
strangely. He found that his eyes were blurring and that an aching
lump had risen into his throat. This was the breaking-point.

O'Reilly's hearing, too, was going wrong, for he imagined that
some one whispered his name. God! This place was not dead--it was
alive--terribly alive with memories, voices, a presence unseen yet
real. He laid hold of the nearest bush to steady himself, he
closed his eyes, only to hear his name spoken louder:

"O'Rail-ye!"

Johnnie brushed the tears from his lashes. He turned, he listened,
but there was no one to be seen, no one, that is, except the dusky
cripple who had straightened herself and was facing him, poised
uncertainly. He looked at her a second time, then the world began
to spin dizzily and he groped his way toward her. He peered again,
closer, for everything before his eyes was swimming.

The woman was thin--little more than a skeleton--and so frail that
the wind appeared to sway her, but her face, uplifted to the sun,
was glorified. O'Reilly stood rooted, staring at her until she
opened her eyes, then he voiced a great cry:

"ROSA!" What more he said he never knew ...

He took the misshapen figure into his arms, he rained kisses upon
the pinched, discolored face. But Rosa did not respond; her puny
strength had flown and she lay inert in his embrace, scarcely
breathing. Tears stole down her cheeks and very faintly her
fingers fluttered over his bearded cheeks.

Dazed, doubting, astounded, it was some time before Johnnie could
convince himself of the reality of this moment, and even then
words did not come to him, for his mind was in turmoil. Joy,
thanksgiving, compassion--a thousand emotions--mingled in a sort
of delirium, too wild for coherent thought or speech.

Fear finally brought him to his senses, for he became aware that
Rosa had collapsed and that his endearments left her unthrilled.
Quickly he bore her to the bench and laid her upon it. After a
time she smiled up into his eyes and her words were scarcely more
than a murmur:

"God heard my prayers and sent you to me."

"Rosa! You are ill, you are weak--"

Her eyelids fluttered. "I am dying, O'Rail-ye. I only waited to
see you."

"No, no!" In agony he gathered her once more into his arms.

"Oh yes!" Her bloodless fingers touched his face again, then his
thin, worn rags. "You, too, have suffered. How came you to be so
poor and hungry, O'Rail-ye?"

"I'm not poor, I'm rich. See!" He jingled the coins in his pocket.
"That's money; money for you, sweet-heart. It will buy you food
and medicine, it will make you well and strong again. Rosa, dear,
I have looked for you so long, so long--" His voice broke
wretchedly and he bowed his head. "I--I was afraid--"

"I waited as long as I had strength to wait," she told him. "It is
too bad you came so late."

Once again she lapsed into the lethargy of utter weakness,
whereupon he fell to stroking her hands, calling upon her to come
back to him. He was beside himself now; a terrible feeling of
impotence and despair overcame him.

Hearing some one speak, he raised his eyes and discovered at his
side that figure of want which he had seen digging on the slope
below. It was Evangelina. The negress was little more than skin
and bones, her eyes were bleared and yellow and sunken, her face
had grown ape-like, but he recognized her and she him.

"You are the American," she declared. "You are Rosa's man."

"Yes. But what is wrong with her? Look! She is ill--"

"She is often like that. It is the hunger. We have nothing to eat,
senor. I, too, am ill--dying; and Asensio--Oh, you don't know how
they have made us suffer."

"We must get Rosa home. Where do you live?"

Evangelina turned her death's head toward the city. "Down yonder.
But what's the use? There is no food in our house and Rosa is
afraid of those wagons. You know--the ones with the corpses. She
made me bring her here to die."

The girl was not wholly unconscious, it seemed, for she stirred
and murmured, faintly: "Those wagons! Don't let them put me in
there with the other dead. They pile the bodies high--" A weak
shudder convulsed her.

O'Reilly bent lower, and in a strong, determined voice cried: "You
are not going to die. I have money for food. Rouse yourself, Rosa,
rouse yourself."

"She prayed for you every night," the negress volunteered. "Such
faith! Such trust! She never doubted that you would come and find
her. Sometimes she cried, but that was because of her brother.
Esteban, you know, is dead. Yes, dead, like all the rest."

"Esteban is NOT dead," O'Reilly asserted. "He is alive. Rosa, do
you hear that? Esteban is alive and well. I left him with Gomez in
the Orient. I have come to take you to him."

"Esteban alive? Ha! You are fooling us." Evangelina wagged her
head wisely. "We know better than that."

"I tell you he IS alive," O'Reilly insisted. He heard. Jacket
calling to him at that moment, so he hallooed to the boy; then
when the latter had arrived he explained briefly, without allowing
Jacket time in which to express his amazement:

"Our search is over; we have found them. But they won't believe
that Esteban is alive. Tell them the truth."

"Yes, he is alive. We found him rotting in a prison and we rescued
him," Jacket corroborated. He stared curiously at the recumbent
figure on the bench, then at O'Reilly. He puckered his lips and
gave vent to a low whistle of amazement. "So. This is your pretty
one, eh? I--She--Well, I don't think much of her. But then, you
are not so handsome yourself, are you?"

Evangelina seemed to be stupid, a trifle touched, perhaps, from
suffering, for she laid a skinny claw upon O'Reilly's shoulder and
warned him earnestly: "Look out for Cobo. You have heard about
him, eh? Well, he is the cause of all our misery. He hunted us
from place to place, and it was for him that I put that hump on
her back. Understand me, she is straight--straight and pretty
enough for any American. Her skin is like milk, too, and her hair-
-she used to put flowers in it for you, and then we would play
games. But you never came. You will make allowances for her looks,
will you not?"

"Poor Rosa! You two poor creatures!" O'Reilly choked; he hid his
face upon his sweetheart's breast.

Rosa responded; her fingers caressed him and she sighed
contentedly.

O'Reilly's ascent of the hill had been slow, but his descent was
infinitely slower, for Rosa was so feeble that she could help
herself but little and he lacked the strength to carry her far at
a time. Finally, however, they reached the wretched hovel where
Asensio lay, then leaving her there, Johnnie sped on alone into
the city. He returned soon with several small bundles concealed
about his person, and with Evangelina's help he set about
preparing food.

Neither Rosa nor the two negroes had any appetite--their hunger
had long since passed the point at which they were conscious of
it--and O'Reilly was compelled to force them to eat. When he had
given them all that he dared he offered what food was left to
Jacket.

The boy moistened his lips and his fingers twitched, but he shook
his head.

"Oh, I'm not so hungry," he declared, indifferently. "I have a
friend in the market-place; I will go down there and steal a fish
from him."

O'Reilly patted him on the shoulder, saying: "You are a good kid,
and you understand, don't you? These sick people will need more
food than we can buy for them, so we will have to draw our belts
tight."

"Of course. Eating is a habit, anyhow, and we men know how to get
along without it. I will manage to find something for you and me,
for I'm a prodigious thief. I can steal the hair from a man's head
when I try." With a nod he set off to find his benefactor's
supper.

Jacket whistled heroically until he was out of O'Reilly's hearing,
then his bearing changed. His mouth drew down, and moisture came
into his eyes. He rubbed a grimy hand over his stomach, murmuring,
faintly: "Cristo! It is hard to be a man when you smell things
cooking!"




XXV

THE HAUNTED GARDEN


Rosa Varona did not die. On the contrary, under her lover's care
she made so amazingly swift a recovery that improvement was
visible from hour to hour; she rallied like a wilted flower under
a refreshing rain. It was O'Reilly's presence as much as the
nourishing diet provided by his money which effected this marvel,
although the certainty that Esteban was alive and safe put added
force into her determination to live. Rosa found hope springing up
in her breast, and one day she caught herself laughing. The marvel
of it was unbelievable. O'Reilly was sitting beside her bed of
leaves at the time; impulsively she pressed his hand to her lips,
repeating a question she had asked him many times:

"Do you love me?"

For answer he bent and kissed her. What he said was of no
consequence.

Rosa held his hand against her cheek, at a loss for words with
which to voice her gladness.

"Such happiness as mine belongs in heaven," she managed to tell
him. "Sometimes it frightens me. With you by my side this prison
is a paradise and I want for nothing. War, suffering, distress--I
can't imagine they longer exist."

"Nevertheless, they do, and Matanzas is anything but a paradise,"
said he. "It is--hell, and we must set about quickly to get out of
it."

"Escape, do you mean? But that is impossible. Asensio can tell you
all about that. The Spaniards used to issue passes for the men to
go outside the lines in search of food. It was just a trick. They
never came back--all of them were killed. Every one knows better
than to try, now."

"Nevertheless, we can't stay here much longer." In answer to the
girl's puzzled inquiry he explained: "My money is gone--all but a
few cents. This is the last of our food and there is no chance of
getting more. Jacket has some mysterious source of supply and he
manages to bring in something every now and then, but there are
five of us to feed, and he can't furnish more than enough for
himself. No, we must make a move at once, while we have the
strength."

Rosa had not asked the source whence came the blessed food which
was bringing the life blood back into her body, and although that
food was not much--a little meal, a plantain, an occasional scrap
of meat or fish--it had never occurred to her that the supply
might be limited. She met the problem bravely, however.

"I have been close to death so long that it means little to me,"
she confessed. "I have you, and--well, with you at my side I can
face the worst."

"Oh, we won't give up until we have to," he assured her. "If I had
money it would be a simple proposition to bribe some guard to pass
us through the lines, but I have spent all that General Betancourt
gave me." He smoothed back Rosa's dark hair and smiled
reassuringly at her. "Well, I'll manage somehow; so don't worry
your pretty head. I'll find the price, if I have to waylay old Don
Mario and rob him. Don't you think I look like a bandit? The very
sight of me would terrify that fat rascal."

"To me you are beautiful," breathed the girl. Then she lowered her
eyes. "La, la! How I spoil you! I have quite forgotten how to be
ladylike. Isabel was right when she called me a bold and forward
hussy. Now, then, please turn your face aside, for I wish to
think, and so long as you look at me I cannot--I make love to you
brazenly. See! Now, then, that is much better. I shall hold your
hand, so. When I kiss it you may look at me again, for a moment."
Drawing herself closer to O'Reilly, Rosa began thoughtfully:
"Before you came I more than once was on the point of appealing to
some of my former friends, but they are all Spaniards and we are
no longer--simpatico, you understand?"

Rosa paused for his answer.

"Perfectly; I'm in the same fix. Of all the people I used to know
there isn't one but would denounce me if I made myself known. Now
that I've been fighting with the Insurrectos, I daren't even go to
the American consul for help--if there is an American consul."

Rosa nodded, then continued, hesitatingly: "I had a vivid dream
last night. Perhaps it was a portent. Who knows? It was about that
stepmother of mine. You remember how she met her death? I wrote
you--"

"Yes, and Esteban also told me."

"It was he who recovered her body from the well. One day, while we
were in hiding, away up yonder in the Yumuri, he showed me an old
coin--"

"I know," O'Reilly said, quickly. "He told me the whole story. He
thinks that doubloon is a clue to your father's fortune, but--I
can't put much faith in it. In fact, I didn't believe until this
moment that there was a doubloon at all."

"Oh, indeed there was! I saw it."

"Then it wasn't merely a sick fancy of your brother's?"

"Indeed no, it--" Rosa broke off to exclaim, "O'Reilly, you are
looking at me!"

"But you gave me the signal to look," he protested.

"Nothing of the sort; you placed your fingers upon my lips." There
was a moment of silence during which the lovers were oblivious to
all but each other, then Rosa murmured: "How strange! Sometimes
your eyes are blue and sometimes gray. Does that mean that your
love, too, can change?"

"Certainly not. But come, what about Esteban and that doubloon?"

With an effort the girl brought herself back to earth. "Well, it
occurred to me, in the light of that dream last night, that
Esteban may have been right. Of course nobody outside of our
family credits the old story, and yet my father was considered a
very rich man at one time. Pancho Cueto believed in the existence
of the treasure, and he was in a position to know."

"True! Perhaps, after all--" O'Reilly frowned meditatively.

Rosa lifted herself upon her elbow, her eyes sparkling. "Wouldn't
it be wonderful if it were true? Just think, O'Reilly, cases of
Spanish gold, silver coins in casks, packages of gems. Oh, I've
heard Isabel talk about it often enough!"

"Don't forget those pearls from the Caribbean, as large as plums,"
Johnny smiled. "I could never quite swallow that. A pearl the size
of a currant would buy our freedom right now." After a moment he
went on, more seriously: "I've a notion to look into that old well
this very afternoon. I--I dare say I'm foolish, but--somehow the
story doesn't sound so improbable as it did. Perhaps it is worth
investigating--" He made up his mind swiftly. "I--I'm off this
very instant."

When O'Reilly emerged from the hut he found Jacket industriously
at work over a fragment of grindstone which he had somewhere
unearthed. The boy looked up at his friend's approach and held out
for inspection a long, thin file, which he was slowly shaping into
a knife-blade.

"What do you think of that?" he queried, proudly. "It may come in
handy when we are ready to clear out of this pesthole."

"Where did you get it?"

"Oh, I stole it. I steal everything I can lay my hands on
nowadays. One can never tell when he may have a throat to cut, and
a file has good steel in it."

"Since you are such an accomplished thief, do you think you could
steal something for me?" O'Reilly inquired. "A piece of rope?"

"Rope?" Jacket was puzzled. "Rope is only good for hanging
Spaniards. My friend in the fish-market has a volandra, and--
perhaps I can rob him of a halyard." Laying aside his task, Jacket
arose and made off in the direction of the water-front. He was
back within an hour, and under his shirt he carried a coil of
worn, but serviceable, rope. Without waiting to explain his need
for this unusual article, O'Reilly linked arms with the boy and
set out to climb La Cumbre. When at last they stood in the unused
quarry and Johnnie made known his intention to explore the old
well Jacket regarded him with undisguised amazement.

"What do you expect to find down there?" the latter inquired.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really expect to find anything,"
the man confessed. "Now that I'm here, I'm beginning to feel
silly; nevertheless, I'm going to have a look for the hidden
treasure of the Varonas."

"Hidden treasure!" From Jacket's expression it was plain that he
feared his friend was mildly mad. Even after O'Reilly had told him
something about old Don Esteban's missing riches, he scouted the
story. He peeped inquisitively into the dark opening of the well,
then he shook his head. "Caramba! What an idea! Was this old man
crazy, to throw his money away?"

"He--he had more than he knew what to do with, and he wished to
save it from the Spaniards, "O'Reilly explained, lamely.

"Humph! Nobody ever had more money than he wanted." The boy's
disgust at such credulity was plain. "This well looks just like
any other, only deeper; you'd better look out that you don't break
your neck like that foolish old woman, that Dona What's-Her-Name."

O'Reilly did indeed feel that he was making himself ridiculous,
nevertheless he made the rope fast and swung himself down out of
the sunlight, leaving Jacket to stand guard over him. Perhaps
fifteen minutes later he reappeared, panting from his exertions.
He was wet, slimy; his clothes were streaked and stained with mud.
Jacket began to laugh shrilly at his appearance.

"Ha! What a big lizard is this? Your beautiful garments are
spoiled. And the treasure? Where is it?" The lad was delighted. He
bent double with mirth; he slapped his bare legs and stamped his
feet in glee.

O'Reilly grinned good-naturedly, and replaced the planks which had
covered the orifice, then hid the rope in some near-by bushes. On
their way back he endured his young friend's banter absent-
mindedly, but as they neared Asensio's house he startled Jacket by
saying, "Can you manage to find a pick-ax or a crowbar?"

Jacket's eyes opened; he stopped in the middle of the dusty road.
"What did you see down there, compadre? Tell me."

"Nothing much. Just enough to make me want to see more. Do you
think you can steal some sort of a tool for me?"

"I can try."

"Please do. And remember, say nothing before Asensio or his wife."

Rosa met O'Reilly just inside the door, and at sight of her he
uttered an exclamation of surprise, for during his absence she had
removed the stain from her face and discarded that disfigurement
which Evangelina had fitted to her back prior to their departure
from the Pan de Matanzas. She stood before him now, straight and
slim and graceful--the Rosa of his dreams, only very thin, very
fragile. Her poor tatters only enhanced her prettiness, so he
thought.

"Rosa dear! Do you think this is quite safe?" he ventured,
doubtfully.

Evangelina, who was bending over her husband, straightened herself
and came forward with a smile upon her black face.

"She is beautiful, eh? Too beautiful to look at? What did I tell
you?"

Rosa was in delightful confusion at O'Reilly's evident surprise
and admiration. "Then I'm not so altogether changed?" she asked.

"Why, you haven't changed at all, except to grow more beautiful.
Evangelina is right; you are too beautiful to look at. But wait!"
He drew her aside and whispered, "I've been down in the well."
Some tremor in his voice, some glint in his eyes, caused the girl
to seize him eagerly, fiercely. "I may be wrong," he said,
hurriedly; "there may be nothing in it--and yet I saw something."

"What?"

"Wooden beams, timbers of some sort, behind the stone curbing." It
was plain Rosa did not comprehend, so he hurried on. "At first I
noticed nothing unusual, except that the bottom of the well is
nearly dry--filled up, you know, with debris and stuff that has
fallen in from the curbing above, then I saw that although the
well is dug through rock, nevertheless it is entirely curbed up
with stones laid in mortar. That struck me as queer."

"Yes?"

"I noticed, too, in one place that there was wood behind--as if
timbers had been placed there to cover the entrance to a cave. You
know this Cuban rock is full of caverns."

Rosa clasped her hands, she began to tremble. "You have found it,
O'Reilly. You HAVE!" she whispered.

"No, no, I've found nothing yet. But I've sent Jacket for a pick
or a bar and to-night I'm going to pull down those stones and see
what is behind them."

"To-night? You must let me go, too. I want to help."

"Very well. But meanwhile you mustn't let your hopes rise too
high, for there is every chance that you will be disappointed. And
don't mention it to Evangelina. Now then, I've a few pennies left
and I'm going to buy some candles."

Rosa embraced her lover impulsively. "Something tells me it is
true! Something tells me you are going to save us all."

Evangelina in the far corner of the hut muttered to her husband:
"Such love-birds! They are like parrakeets, forever kissing and
cooing!"

Jacket returned at dusk and with him he brought a rusty three-foot
iron bar, evidently part of a window grating. The boy was tired,
disgusted, and in a vile temper. "A pick-ax! A crowbar!" He cursed
eloquently. "One might as well try to steal a cannon out of San
Severino. I'm ready to do anything within reason, but--"

"Why, this will do nicely; it is just what I want," O'Reilly told
him.

"Humph! I'm glad to hear it, for that rod was nearly the death of
me. I broke my back wrenching at it and the villain who owned the
house--may a bad lightning split him!--he ran after me until I
nearly expired. If my new knife had been sharp I would have turned
and sent him home with it between his ribs. To-morrow I shall put
an edge on it. Believe me, I ran until my lungs burst."

Little food remained in the hut, barely enough for Asensio and the
women, and inasmuch as O'Reilly had spent his last centavo for
candles he and Jacket were forced to go hungry again. Late that
evening, after the wretched prison quarters had grown quiet, the
three treasure-hunters stole out of their hovel and wound up the
hill. In spite of their excitement they went slowly, for none of
them had the strength to hurry. Fortunately, there were few
prowlers within the lines, hunger having robbed the reconcentrados
of the spirit to venture forth, and in consequence Spanish
vigilance had relaxed; it was now confined to the far-flung girdle
of intrenchments which encircled the city. The trio encountered no
one.

Leaving Jacket on guard at the crest of the hill, O'Reilly
stationed Rosa at the mouth of the well, then lowered himself once
more into it. Lighting his candle, he made a careful examination
of the place, with the result that Esteban's theory of the missing
riches seemed even less improbable than it had earlier in the day.
The masonry-work, he discovered, had been done with a painstaking
thoroughness which spoke of the abundance of slave labor, and time
had barely begun to affect it. Here and there a piece of the
mortar had loosened and come away, but for the most part it stood
as solid as the stones between which it was laid. Shoulder-high to
O'Reilly there appeared to be a section of the curbing less
smoothly fitted than the rest, and through an interstice in this
he detected what seemed to be a damp wooden beam. At this point he
brought his iron bar into play.

It was not long before he discovered that his work was cut out for
him. The cement was like flint and his blunt makeshift implement
was almost useless against it. Ankle-deep in the muddy water, he
patiently pecked and pounded and chipped, endeavoring to enlarge
the crevice so as to use his bar as a lever. The sweat streamed
from him and he became dismayed at his own weakness. He was forced
to rest frequently.

Rosa hung over the orifice above, encouraging him, inquiring
eagerly as to his progress. During his frequent breathing-spells
he could discern her white face dimly illumined by the candle-
light from below.

After he had worked for an hour or two, he made a report: "It
begins to look as if there really was a bulkhead or a door in
there."

The girl clapped her hands and laughed with delight. "Do hurry,
dear; I'm dying of suspense."

O'Reilly groaned: "That fellow, Sebastian, knew his business. This
cement is like steel, and I'm afraid of breaking my crowbar."

Rosa found a leaf, folded a kiss into it, and dropped it to him.
"That will give you strength," she declared.

O'Reilly lost all count of time after a while and he was
incredulous when Jacket came to warn him that daylight was less
than an hour away. "Why, I haven't started!" he protested. He
discovered, much to his surprise, that he was ready to drop from
fatigue and that his hands were torn and blistered; when he had
climbed the rope to the upper air he fell exhausted in the deep
grass. "I--I'm not myself at all," he apologized; "nothing to eat,
you know. But the work will go faster now, for I've made a
beginning."

"Do you still think--" Rosa hesitated to voice the question which
trembled on her lips.

"I'll know for sure to-night." He directed Jacket to replace the
planks over the well; then the three of them stole away.

O'Reilly spent most of that day in a profound stupor of
exhaustion, while Rosa watched anxiously over him. Jacket, it
seemed, had peacefully slumbered on picket duty, so he occupied
himself by grinding away at his knife. The last scraps of food
disappeared that evening.

When night fell and it came time to return to the top of La
Cumbre, O'Reilly asked himself if his strength would prove
sufficient for the task in hand. He was spiritless, sore, weak; he
ached in every bone and muscle, and it required all his
determination to propel himself up the hill. He wondered if he
were wise thus to sacrifice his waning energies on a hope so
forlorn as this, but by now he had begun to more than half believe
in the existence of the Varona treasure and he felt an almost
irresistible curiosity to learn what secret, if any, was concealed
behind those water-soaked timbers at the bottom of the well. He
realized, of course, that every hour he remained here, now that
food and money were gone, lessened the chances of escape; but, on
the other hand, he reasoned, with equal force, that if he had
indeed stumbled upon the missing hoard salvation for all of them
was assured. The stake, it seemed to him, was worth the hazard.

Given tempered tools to work with, it would have been no great
undertaking to tear down that cemented wall of stones, but, armed
with nothing except his bare hands and that soft iron bar,
O'Reilly spent nearly the whole night at his task. Long before the
last rock had yielded, however, he beheld that which caused him to
turn a strained face upward to Rosa.

"There's a little door, as sure as you live," he told her.

The girl was beside herself with excitement. "Yes? What else? What
more do you see?"

"Nothing. It appears to be made of solid timbers, and has two huge
hand-wrought locks."

"Locks! Then we HAVE found it." Rosa closed her eyes; she swayed
momentarily. "Esteban was right. Locks, indeed! That means
something to hide. Oh, if I could only help you."

"God! If I only had something--ANYTHING to work with!" muttered
the American as he fell to with redoubled energy. He no longer
tried to conserve his strength, for the treasure-seeker's lust
beset him. Rosa looked on, wringing her hands and urging him to
greater haste.

But the low, thick door was built of some hard, native wood: it
was wet and tough and slippery. O'Reilly's blows made no
impression upon it, nor upon the heavy hasps and staples with
which it was secured in place. The latter were deeply rusted, to
be sure, but they withstood his efforts, and he was finally forced
to rest, baffled, enraged, half hysterical from weakness and
fatigue.

Daylight was at hand once more, but he refused to give up, and
worked on stubbornly, furiously, until Rosa, in an agony, besought
him to desist.

Johnnie again collapsed on the grass and lay panting while the
other two replaced the planks.

"Another hour and I'd have been into it," he declared, huskily.

"You will skill yourself," Jacket told him.

Rosa bent over him with shining eyes and parted lips. "Yes," said
she. "Be patient. We will come back, O'Reilly, and to-night we
shall be rich."

 Colonel Cobo lit a black cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and
exhaled two fierce jets of smoke through his nostrils. For a full
moment he scowled forbiddingly at the sergeant who had asked to
see him.

"What's this you are telling me?" he inquired, finally.

The sergeant, a mean-faced, low-browed man, stirred uneasily.

"It is God's truth. There are spirits on La Cumbre, and I wish to
see the priest about it."

"Spirits? What kind of spirits?"

The fellow shrugged. "Evil spirits--spirits from hell. The men are
buying charms."

"Bah! I took you to be a sensible person."

"You don't believe me? Well, I didn't believe them, when they told
me about it. But I saw with my own eyes."

Cobo leaned forward, mildly astonished. Of all his villainous
troop, this man was the last one he had credited with imagination
of this sort. "What did you see?"

"A ghost, my Colonel, nothing else. La Cumbre is no place for an
honest Christian."

The colonel burst into a mocking laugh. "An honest Christian! YOU!
Of all my vile ruffians, you are the vilest. Why, you're a thief,
a liar, and an assassin! You are lying to me now. Come--the truth
for once, before I give you the componte."

"As God is my judge, I'm telling you the truth," protested the
soldier. "Flog me if you will--rather the componte than another
night in those trenches. You know that old quinta?"

"Where Pancho Cueto made a goat of himself? Perfectly. Do you mean
to say that you saw old Esteban Varona walking with his head in
his hands?"

"No, but I saw that she-devil who fell in the well and broke her
neck."

"Eh? When did you behold this--this marvel?"

"Two nights ago. She was there beside the well and her face shone
through the night like a lantern. Christ! There was fire upon it.
She came and went, like a moth in the lamplight. I tell you I
repented of my sins. Some of the men laughed at me when I told
them, as they had laughed at the others. But last night two of the
doubters went up there."

"Exactly. And they saw nothing."

"Your pardon, my Colonel. They came back in a cold sweat, and they
spent the night on their knees. The woman was there again. You
have seen the salt sea at night? Well, her face was aglow, like
that, so they said. They heard the clanking of chains, too, and
the sound of hammers, coming from the very bowels of the earth. It
is all plain enough, when you know the story. But it is
terrifying."

"This is indeed amazing," Cobo acknowledged, "but of course there
is some simple explanation. Spirits, if indeed there are such
things, are made of nothing--they are like thin air. How, then,
could they rattle chains? You probably saw some wretched pacificos
in search of food and imagined the rest."

"Indeed! Then what did I hear with these very ears? Whispers,
murmurs, groans, and the clinkety-clink of old Sebastian's chisel.
For his sins that old slave is chained in some cavern of the
mountain. Soundless! I'm no baby! I know when I'm asleep, and I
know when I'm awake. That place is accursed, and I want no more of
it."

Cobo fell into frowning meditation, allowing his cigarette to
smolder down until it burned his thick fingers. He was not a
superstitious man and he put no faith in the supernatural,
nevertheless he was convinced that his sergeant was not lying, and
reference to Pancho Cueto had set his mind to working along
strange channels. He had known Cueto well, and the latter's
stubborn belief in the existence of that Varona treasure had more
than once impressed him. He wondered now if others shared that
faith, or if by chance they had discovered a clue to the
whereabouts of the money and were conducting a secret search. It
was a fantastic idea, nevertheless Cobo told himself that if
people were prying about those deserted premises it was with some
object, and their actions would warrant observation. The presence
of the woman--a woman--with the glow of phosphorus upon her face
was puzzling, but the whole affair was puzzling. He determined to
investigate. After a time he murmured, "I should like to see this
spirit."

The sergeant shrugged. It was plain from his expression that he
could not account for such a desire. "Another night is coming,"
said he.

"Good! I shall visit the place, and if I see anything unusual I--
well, I shall believe what you have told me. Meanwhile, go see
your priest by all means. It will do you no harm."




XXVI

HOW COBO STOOD ON HIS HEAD


All that day, or during most of it, at least, Rosa and O'Reilly
sat hand in hand, oblivious of hunger and fatigue, impatient for
the coming of night, keyed to the highest tension. Now they would
rejoice hysterically, assuring each other of their good fortune,
again they would grow sick with the fear of disappointment. Time
after time they stepped out of the hut and stared apprehensively
up the slopes of La Cumbre to assure themselves that this was not
all a part of some fantastic illusion; over and over, in minutest
detail, Johnnie described what he had seen at the bottom of the
well. He tried more than once during the afternoon to sleep, but
he could not, for the moment he closed his eyes he found himself
back there in that pit upon the ridge's crest, straining at those
stubborn rocks and slippery timbers. This inaction was maddening,
his fatigue rendered him feverish and irritable.

Jacket, too, felt the strain, and after several fruitless attempts
to sleep he rose and went out into the sunshine, where he fell to
whetting his knife. He finished putting a double edge upon the
blade, fitted a handle to it, and then a cord with which to
suspend it round his neck. He showed it to O'Reilly, and after
receiving a word of praise he crept out-doors again and tried to
forget how sick he was. Black spots were dancing before Jacket's
eyes; he experienced spells of dizziness and nausea during which
he dared not attempt to walk. He knew this must be the result of
starvation, and yet, strangely enough, the thought of food was
distasteful to him. He devoutly wished it were not necessary to
climb that hill again, for he feared he would not have the
strength to descend it.

Luckily for the sake of the secret, Evangelina spent most of the
day searching for food, while Asensio lay babbling upon his bed,
too ill to notice the peculiar actions of his companions.

It was with a strange, nightmare feeling of unreality that the
trio dragged themselves upward to the ruined quinta when darkness
finally came. They no longer talked, for conversation was a drain
upon their powers, and the reaction from the day's excitement had
set in. O'Reilly lurched as he walked, his limbs were heavy, and
his liveliest sensation was one of dread at the hard work in store
for him. The forcing of that door assumed the proportions of a
Herculean task.

But once he was at the bottom of the well and beheld the handiwork
of Sebastian, the slave, just as he had left it, his sense of
reality returned and with it a certain measure of determination.
Inasmuch as he had made no visible impression upon the bulkhead by
his direct attack, he changed his tactics now and undertook to
loosen one of the jambs where it was wedged into the rock at top
and bottom. After a desperate struggle he succeeded in loosening
the entire structure so that he could pry it out far enough to
squeeze his body through.

"I have it!" he cried to Rosa. Seizing the candle, he thrust it
into the opening. He beheld what he had expected to find, a small
cavern or grotto which had evidently been pierced during the
digging of the well. He could appreciate now how simple had been
the task of sealing it up so as to baffle discovery. Rosa, poised
above him, scarcely breathed until he straightened himself and
turned his face upward once more.

He tried to speak, but voiced nothing more than a hoarse croak;
the candle in his hand described erratic figures.

"What do you see?" the girl cried in an agony of suspense.

"I--It's here! B-boxes, chests, casks--everything!"

"God be praised! My father's fortune at last!"

Rosa forgot her surroundings; she beat her hands together, calling
upon O'Reilly to make haste and determine beyond all question that
the missing hoard was indeed theirs. She drew perilously close to
the well and knelt over it like some priestess at her devotions;
her eyes were brimming with tears and there was a roaring in her
ears. It was not strange that she failed to see or to hear the
approach of a great blurred figure which materialized out of the
night and took station scarcely an arm's-length behind her.

"He intended it for his children," she sobbed, "and Providence
saved it from our wicked enemies. It was the hand of God that led
us here, O'Reilly. Tell me, what do you see now?"

Johnnie had wormed his way into the damp chamber and a slim
rectangle of light was projected against the opposite side of the
well. Rosa could hear him talking and moving about.

Don Esteban Varona's subterranean hiding-place was large enough to
store a treasure far greater than his; it was perhaps ten feet in
length, with a roof high enough to accommodate a tall man. At the
farther end were ranged several small wooden chests bound with
iron and fitted with hasps and staples, along one side was a row
of diminutive casks, the sort used to contain choice wines or
liquors; over all was a thick covering of slime and mold. The iron
was deeply rusted and the place itself smelled abominably stale.

O'Reilly surveyed this Aladdin's cave in a daze. He set his candle
down, for his fingers were numb and unsteady. Cautiously, as if
fearful of breaking some spell, he stooped and tried to move one
of the casks, but found that it resisted him as if cemented to the
rock. He noted that its head was bulged upward, as if by the
dampness, so he took his iron bar and aimed a sharp blow at the
chine. A hoop gave way; another blow enabled him to pry out the
head of the cask. He stood blinking at the sight exposed, for the
little barrel was full of coins--yellow coins, large and small.
O'Reilly seized a handful and held them close to the candle-flame;
among the number he noted a Spanish doubloon, such as young
Esteban had found.

He tested the weight of the other casks and found them equally
heavy. Knowing little about gold, he did not attempt to estimate
the value of their contents, but he judged they must represent a
fortune. With throbbing pulses he next lifted the lid of the
nearest chest. Within, he discovered several compartments, each
stored with neatly wrapped and labeled packages of varying shapes
and sizes. The writing upon the tags was almost illegible, but the
first article which O'Reilly unwrapped proved to be a goblet of
most beautiful workmanship. Time had long since blackened it to
the appearance of pewter or some base metal, but he saw that it
was of solid silver. Evidently he had uncovered a store of old
Spanish plate.

In one corner of the chest he saw a metal box of the sort in which
valuable papers are kept, and after some effort he managed to
break it open. Turning back the lid, he found first a bundle of
documents bearing imposing scrolls and heavy seals. Despite the
dampness, they were in fairly good condition, and there was enough
left of the writing to identify them beyond all question as the
missing deeds of patent to the Varona lands--those crown grants
for which Dona Isabel had searched so fruitlessly. But this was
not all that the smaller box contained. Beneath the papers there
were numerous leather bags. These had rotted; they came apart
easily in O'Reilly's fingers, displaying a miscellaneous
assortment of unset gems--some of them at first sight looked like
drops of blood, others like drops of purest water. They were the
rubies and the diamonds which had brought Isabel to her death.

O'Reilly waited to see no more. Candle in hand, he crept out into
the well to apprise Rosa of the truth.

"We've got it! There's gold by the barrel and the deeds to your
land. Yes, and the jewels, too--a quart of them, I guess. I--I
can't believe my eyes." He showed her a handful of coins. "Look at
that! Doubloons, eagles! There appear to be thousands of them.
Why, you're the richest girl in Cuba. Rubies, diamonds--yes, and
pearls, too, I dare say--" He choked and began to laugh weakly,
hysterically.

"I've heard about those pearls," Rosa cried, shrilly. "Pearls from
the Caribbean, as large as plums. Isabel used to babble about them
in her sleep."

"I found those deeds the first thing. The plantations are yours
now, beyond any question."

Rosa drew back from her precarious position, for she had grown
limp from weakness and her head was whirling. As she rose to her
feet she brushed something, somebody, some flesh-and-blood form
which was standing almost over her. Involuntarily she recoiled,
toppling upon the very brink of the pit, whereupon a heavy hand
reached forth and seized her. She found herself staring upward
into a face she had grown to know in her nightmares, a face the
mere memory of which was enough to freeze her blood. It was a
hideous visage, thick-lipped, fiat-featured, black; it was
disfigured by a scar from lip to temple and out of it gleamed a
pair of eyes distended and ringed with white, like the eyes of a
man insane.

For an instant Rosa made no sound and no effort to escape. The
apparition robbed her of breath, it paralyzed her in both mind and
body. Her first thought was that she had gone stark mad, but she
had felt Cobo's hands upon her once before and after her first
frozen moment of amazement she realized that she was in her
fullest senses. A shriek sprang to her lips, she tried to fight
the man off, but her weak struggle was like the fluttering of a
bird. Cobo crushed her down, strangling the half-uttered cry.

Terror may be so intense, so appalling as to be unendurable. In
Rosa's case a merciful oblivion overtook her. She felt the world
grow black, fall away; felt herself swing dizzily through space.

O'Reilly looked upward, inquiring, sharply, "What's the matter?"
He heard a scuffling of feet above him, but received no answer.
"Rosa! What frightened you? ROSA?" There was a moment of sickening
suspense, then he put his shoulder to the timbers he had displaced
and, with a violent shove, succeeded in swinging them back into
place. Laying hold of the rope, he began to hoist himself upward.
He had gone but a little way, however, when, without warning, his
support gave way and he fell backward; the rope came pouring down
upon him. "ROSA!" he called again in a voice thick from fright.
Followed an instant of silence; then he flattened himself against
the side of the well and the breath stuck in his throat.

Into the dim circle of radiance above a head was thrust--a head, a
pair of wide shoulders, and then two arms. The figure bent closer,
and O'Reilly recognized the swarthy features of that man he had
seen at the Matanzas railroad station. There could be no doubt of
it--it was Cobo.

The men stared at each other silently, and of the two Cobo
appeared to be the more intensely agitated. After a moment his
gaze fixed itself upon the opening into the treasure-chamber and
remained there. As if to make entirely sure of what he had
overheard, he stretched his body farther, supporting it by his
out-flung arms, then moved his head from side to side for a better
view. He seemed to rock over the mouth of the well like a huge,
fat, black spider. He was the first to speak.

"Am I dreaming? Or--have you really discovered that treasure?" he
queried.

O'Reilly's upturned face was ghastly. He wet his lips. He managed
to whisper Rosa's name.

"The riches of the Varonas! Christ! What a find!" Cobo's teeth
shone white in the grin of avarice. "Yes, I see now--a cavern in
the rock. Well, well! And you are the spirit of Sebastian, chained
in the bowels of La Cumbre. Ha! These are the ghosts--" He began
to chuckle, but the sound of his malevolent merriment was like the
hiccoughing of a drunken man.

"Rosa! What have you done--"

Cobo ran on unheeding: "It must be a great treasure, indeed, from
all accounts--the ransom of a dozen kings. That's what Cueto said,
'The ransom of a dozen kings!' Those were his very words."

The fellow continued to sway himself back and forth, peering as if
his eyes were about to leave his head. For a long moment or two he
utterly disregarded O'Reilly, but finally as he gained more self-
control his gaze shifted and his expression altered. He changed
his weight to his left arm and with his right hand he drew his
revolver.

"What are you doing?" O'Reilly cried, hoarsely.

The colonel seemed vaguely surprised at this question. "Fool! Do
you expect me to share it with you?" he inquired. "Wait! There's
enough--for all of us," O'Reilly feebly protested; then, as he
heard the click of the cocked weapon: "Let me out. I'll pay you
well--make you rich." In desperation he raised his shaking hand to
dash out the candle, but even as he did so the colonel spoke, at
the same time carefully lowering the revolver hammer.

"You are right. What am I thinking about? There must be no noise.
Caramba! A pretty business that would be, wouldn't it? With my men
running up here to see what it was all about. No, no! No gunshots,
no disturbance of any kind. You understand what I mean, eh?"

His face twisted into a grin as he tossed the revolver aside, then
undertook to detach a stone from the crumbling curb. "No noise!"
he chuckled. "No noise whatever."

O'Reilly, stupefied by the sudden appearance of this monstrous
creature, stunned by the certainty of a catastrophe to Rosa, awoke
to the fact that this man intended to brain him where he stood. In
a panic he cast his eyes about him, thinking to take shelter in
the treasure-cave, but that retreat was closed to him, for he had
wedged the wooden timbers together at the first alarm. He was like
a rat in a pit, utterly at the mercy of this maniac. And Cobo was
a maniac at the moment; he had so far lost control of himself as
to allow the stone to slip out of his grasp. It fell with a thud
at O'Reilly's feet, causing the assassin to laugh once more.

"Ho, ho!" he hiccoughed. "My fingers are clumsy, eh? But there is
no need for haste." He stretched out his arm again, laid hold of
another missile, and strained to loosen it from its bed. "Jewels!
Pearls the size of plums! And I a poor man! I can't believe it
yet." He could not detach the stone, so he fumbled farther along
the curbing. "Pearls, indeed! I would send a dozen men to hell for
one--"

O'Reilly had been standing petrified, his body forced tightly
against the rough surface behind him, following with strained
fascination the deliberate movements of the man above him; now he
saw Cobo, without the least apparent reason, twist and shudder,
saw him stiffen rigidly as if seized with a sudden cramp, saw his
eyes dilate and heard him heave a deep, whistling sigh. O'Reilly
could not imagine what ailed the fellow. For an eternity, so it
seemed, Cobo remained leaning upon his outspread arms, fixed in
that same attitude of paralysis--it looked almost as if he had
been startled by some sound close by. But manifestly that was not
the cause of his hesitation, for his face became convulsed and an
expression of blank and utter astonishment was stamped upon it.
The men stared fixedly at each other, O'Reilly with his head
thrown back, Cobo with his body propped rigidly upon wooden arms
and that peculiar shocked inquiry in his glaring eyes. But slowly
this expression changed; the colonel bent as if beneath a great
weight, his head rose and turned back upon his neck, he filled his
lungs with another wheezing sigh. "Christ! O Christ--" he
whispered.

His teeth ground together, his head began to wag upon his
shoulders; it dropped lower and lower; one hand slipped from its
hold and he lurched forward. An instant he hung suspended from the
waist; then he appeared to let go limply as all resistance went
out of his big body. There came a warning rattle of dirt and
mortar and pebbles; the next instant he slipped into the well and
plunged headlong down upon O'Reilly, an avalanche of lifeless
flesh.

Johnnie shielded himself with his up-flung arms, but he was driven
to his knees, and when he scrambled to his feet, half stunned, it
was to find himself in utter darkness. There was a heavy weight
against his legs. With a strength born of horror and revulsion he
freed himself; then hearing no sound and feeling no movement, he
fumbled for the candle and with clumsy fingers managed to relight
it. Even after the flame had leaped out and he saw what shared the
pit with him he could barely credit his senses. The nature of his
deliverance was uncanny, supernatural--it left him dazed. He had
beheld death stamped upon Cobo's writhing face even while the
fellow braced himself to keep from falling, but what force had
effected the phenomenon, what unseen hand had stricken him,
Johnnie was at a loss to comprehend. It seemed a miracle, indeed,
until he looked closer. Then he understood. Cobo lay in a
formless, boneless heap; he seemed to be all arms and legs; his
face was hidden, but between his shoulders there protruded the
crude wooden handle of a home-made knife to which a loop of cord
was tied.

O'Reilly stared stupidly at the weapon; then he raised his eyes.
Peering down at him out of the night was another face, an
impertinent, beardless, youthful face.

He uttered Jacket's name, and the boy answered with a smile.
"Bring my knife with you when you come," the latter directed.

"YOU!" The American's voice was weak and shaky. "I thought--" He
set the candle down and covered his eyes momentarily.

"That's a good knife, all right, and sharp, too. The fellow died
in a hurry, eh? Who does he happen to be?"

"Don't you know? It--it's Cobo."

"COBO! Coby, the baby-killer!" Jacket breathed an oath. "Oh, that
blessed knife!" The boy craned his small body forward until he was
in danger of following his victim. "Now this IS good luck indeed!
And to think that he died just like any other man."

"Rosa! Where is she?" O'Reilly inquired in a new agony of
apprehension.

"Oh, she is here," Jacket assured him, carelessly. "I think she
has fainted. Caramba! Isn't that like a woman--to miss all the
fun? But, compadre--that was a blow for Cuba Libre; what? People
will talk about me when I'm as dead as that pig. 'Narciso Villar,
the slayer of Cobo'--that's what they'll call me." Jacket giggled
hysterically. "I--I thought he would jump up and run after me, so
I fled, but he tried to bury himself, didn't he? His flesh was
like butter, O'Reilly."

"Help me out, quick! Here, catch this rope." Johnnie managed to
fling the coil within reach of his little friend and a moment
later he had hoisted himself from that pit of tragedy.




XXVII

MORIN, THE FISHERMAN


When Rosa Varona regained consciousness sufficiently to understand
what had happened she proved herself a person of no little self-
control. She went to pieces for a moment, as was only natural, but
O'Reilly soon succeeded in calming her. Nor did he have to remind
her twice that this was no time for weakness or hysteria; it was
she, in fact, who first voiced the fear that Cobo dead was
scarcely less of a menace than Cobo alive.

"What are we going to do with him?" she inquired.

Jacket, too, appreciated the dangers of the situation. "We must
get rid of him quickly," said he, "for his men are close by; he
will be missed and there will be a search." "I don't intend to
make him a present of that treasure," O'Reilly said, grimly. "It
is our only salvation."

"But how are we going to hide him?" Jacket inquired. "One might as
well try to conceal a church; oxen couldn't hoist him out of that
hole."

"Precisely! He has made our work easy for us. We can't take more
than a small part of the money with us, anyhow; the rest will have
to lie here until the war is over. Well! We shall leave Cobo on
guard over what remains!"

Jacket was immensely pleased with this idea, once he had grasped
it. "What could be better?" he cried. "The man's spirit is evil
enough to frighten people away and we will drop stones upon him,
so that he can learn the taste of his own medicine. It suits me
exactly to think of Colonel Cobo standing on his head in a hole in
the ground for the rest of eternity!"

O'Reilly was by this time suffering the full reaction from the
events of the past half-hour and he was nearer exhaustion than he
dreamed, but, conquering his repugnance for his unescapable task,
he lowered himself once more into the well. His arms were weak,
however, and his fingers numb, so he fell rather than slid the
length of the rope. He managed to open the door of the treasure-
chamber, then entered and loaded his pockets with gold. He sent up
the jewel-box at the end of the rope, dragged the body of Cobo
into the cave, then wedged the barricade back into place. It
required the combined strength of Rosa and Jacket to help him the
last few feet of his climb.

"Now fetch stones, rubbish, anything--and throw it in there," he
gasped.

The boy and the girl fell to with a will, and after a time Johnnie
joined them. Slowly, laboriously, the three of them carried debris
from the edge of the quarry and bricks from the ruined house; they
scraped up armfuls of leaves and trash--anything, in fact, which
would serve to raise the bottom of the shaft and conceal the
entrance to their enemy's resting-place. It was slavish work, but
O'Reilly kept them at it until they were ready to drop. Daylight
overtook them at their task.

They were weak, sick, deadly tired; they could barely shuffle a
few yards at a time when they finally reached Asensio's hut;
nevertheless there was hope in their hearts, for O'Reilly's ragged
clothes sagged with the weight of gold pieces and the little metal
box he carried was heavy. Nor were they greatly concerned about
the safety of the treasure they had left behind, for the entrance
to the cavern lay deeply buried, and Cobo, the guerrilla, stood
guard over the chests of plate and the casks of coin.

Evangelina, vastly bewildered at the sight of the coin which was
forced into her palm, went for food and spent most of the day in
cooking it. The treasure-hunters alternately slept and ate. It was
not until well along toward evening that Rosa and O'Reilly felt
any desire to take stock of the contents of that jewel-box, but
finally, with heads together and with backs to the door of the
bohio, they made a furtive examination. It was a task that held
them spellbound, for there were loose gems of many varieties, some
well, some badly cut; there were pieces of antique Spanish
jewelry, valuable mainly by virtue of their antiquity, clumsy
settings of silver and gold containing dead, uninteresting stones;
others of the finest and most delicate workmanship. Some of the
pieces were like glittering cobwebs enmeshing sparks of fire and
drops of blood. They found emeralds and sapphires the value of
which they did not attempt to estimate; and, besides these, a
miscellaneous assortment of semiprecious stones. There was a fine
collection of opals of every size and color, among which were a
number of huge flat black ones, indescribably gorgeous with their
ever-changing peacock hues. But finest of all the lot were the
pearls. Where old Don Esteban had secured these latter was a
mystery, for he had not been a widely traveled man. They were
splendid, unrivaled in size and luster. Some had the iridescence
of soap-bubbles, others ranged from pink to deepest chocolate in
color. To touch them was like sacrilege.

O'Reilly realized vaguely that he held in his lap a fortune
greater than his wildest dreams had ever compassed. These were the
jewels of a rajah. It seemed incredible that this ragged girl
beside him was a regal heiress, the possessor of a treasure such
as kings might envy. After a time he realized that the mere
possession of these gems constituted a new and overwhelming
menace.

All that evening he and Rosa cowered in the darkness, whispering
furtively, their nerves on edge, their senses strained. It seemed
to them that new and unsuspected perils stalked abroad through the
night.

Morning found all hands more nearly rational and feeling the first
gnawings of a healthy hunger. Even Asensio confessed to a quite
miraculous improvement. While Evangelina prepared breakfast the
lovers agreed upon a story to explain the origin of that
mysterious gold piece, and later Johnnie warned Jacket for a
second time to keep his tongue between his teeth.

"We will have to be doubly careful now," he told the boy. "An
unguarded word or an incautious move would be the end of us."

Jacket nodded his complete comprehension. "Sure! All Spaniards are
robbers and they'd kill us for a peso. Yes, and the pacificos are
no better. I tell you we need to get out of this place."

"I intend to arrange it at once, but--the sight of those jewels
has frightened me. If we are searched--if we are even suspected--"

"Oh, Rosa wouldn't have any more use for her pretty trinkets.
She'd be in heaven before you could scratch your nose."

O'Reilly frowned. "She isn't at all strong yet. I'm wondering if
she can endure the hardships we'll encounter when, or if, we get
away."

"Exactly what I was thinking. I've been considering another plan."

"Indeed?" O'Reilly scanned the face of his young friend with
interest. He was beginning to have a high regard for Jacket's
capabilities, and the boy's exploit of the night before certainly
entitled him to be heard upon any subject.

"I told you about my friend at the market," the latter continued.
"Well, he is a miserable Spaniard, but he has a son in the
manigua."

"One of us?" Johnnie was surprised.

"Yes. The old fellow owns a volandra in which he brings charcoal
from the eastward twice a month."

There was a moment of silence; then O'Reilly said, slowly, as if
hesitating even to voice such a suggestion, "You mean--he might
take us out of here--on his schooner?"

"Who knows? He's not a bad old fellow and he likes me. But there
would be no place for women."

"How well does he like you?"

"Oh, we are like two thieves."

After another period of thought O'Reilly said, "Take me to him,
and remember I'm your brother Juan."

The Matanzas market did not present a scene of great activity when
the two friends slunk into it. It was midday, and what food had
earlier been offered for sale had for the most part long since
disappeared. All but a few of the stalls were empty, and a number
of emaciated reconcentrados were searching listlessly among them
for neglected scraps, or imploring aid from such marketmen as
still lingered about. Like most Spanish markets, the building was
far from clean and housed odors unpleasant even to starving
people. In the smelliest section, at one of the fish-stalls,
Jacket accosted a villainous old brigand in a rough Gallego cap,
baggy blouse and trousers, and straw sandals.

"Good day, my Captain," he cried, cheerily.

The Spaniard raised his head, scowled ferociously, then waved a
long, thin-bladed knife in menacing fashion.

"Aha! So there you are, robber! Be off now before I slit your
greedy little belly!" He spoke in an angry, husky voice. When
Jacket stood his ground he reached for him with a hand upon which
blood and fish-scales had dried. "Didn't I promise to give you to
the soldiers if you came back to bother me?"

Jacket was unabashed by this hostile reception. He grinned broadly
and with an impudent eye he scanned the empty premises. "Where is
my little fish?" he demanded. "As I live, I believe you have sold
it! God! What a miser! For the sake of another centavo you would
see me starve? There's a heart for you!"

"YOUR little fish!" roared the brigand, clashing his blade on the
filthy counter. "No shark ever stole so many fish as you. Come, I
shall make an end of you, and have some peace. Starve? YOU? Bah!
Your body is like a gourd."

"Yes, and quite as hollow. I starve because you possess a heart of
stone. One little fish, no longer than your finger. Just one?"

"Not so much as a fin!" cried the man. "Can I feed all the rebels
in Matanzas?"

"One little fish," Jacket wheedled, "for the sake of Miguelito,
who is bravely fighting in the manigua, to the shame of his
miserly old father, fattening on the groans of good patriots like
me! Must I remind you again that Miguelito was my brother? That I
have robbed my own belly in order to give him food?"

"Liar!"

"It is true."

"You never saw him."

"Miguel Morin? With a scar on his neck? The bravest boy in all the
Orient? Ask him about Narciso Villar. Come, give me my fish! Or
must I lie down and die before your very eyes to prove my hunger?"

"What a nuisance!" grumbled the marketman. He reached into a
basket and flung a mackerel upon the table. "There! I saved it for
you, and sent the good women of Matanzas away empty-handed. But it
is the very last. Annoy me again and I shall open you with my
knife and put salt on you."

"Ah! You ARE my good captain!" Jacket cried in triumph, possessing
himself of the prize. "Where would I have been but for you?"
Turning to O'Reilly, who had looked on from a distance at this
artificial quarrel, he said, "Captain Morin, this is that brother
Juan of whom I have told you."

Morin smiled at Johnnie and extended his dirty palm. "The little
fellow can speak the truth when he wishes, it seems. I began to
doubt that he had a brother. What a boy, eh?" Leaning closer, he
whispered, hoarsely: "It is cheaper to give him a fish than to
have him steal a whole basketful. But he is a great liar. Even yet
I'm not sure that he knows my Miguelito."

"You have a son with the Insurrectos?"

"Yes." The fisherman cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. "He
is a traitor of the worst sort, and I don't approve of him, but
he's a brave boy and he loves fighting. Sometimes I get hungry to
see him."

"Why don't you go and fight by his side?" Jacket demanded.

"God forbid!" Morin flung up his hands. "I'm a loyal subject."

"Well, we are going back to fight. We are going to escape and join
Gomez once more!" Jacket made the announcement calmly.

"'S-SH! What talk!" Morin was in a nervous panic lest they be
overheard. "As if anybody could escape from Matanzas! What made
you come here if you are so eager to fight?"

"I'll tell you." O'Reilly assumed direction of the conversation.
"There are three of us brothers, we two and Esteban, a pretty
little fellow. He was captured by Cobo's men and driven in, and we
came to find him."

"You came HERE--here to Matanzas?" Old Morin was incredulous. He
muttered an oath. "That was a very nice thing to do. And did you
find him?"

"Oh yes! That was easy enough, for the lad is deformed."

"Tse! Tse! What a pity!"

"But he is sick--dying--"

"Of course. They're all dying--the poor people! It is terrible."

"We--" O'Reilly faltered slightly, so much hung upon the manner in
which Morin would take what he was about to say. "We want to get
him out of here--we MUST do so, or we'll lose him."

Sensing some hidden significance, some obscure purpose behind this
confession, the Spaniard looked sharply at the speaker. His
leathery countenance darkened.

"Why are you telling me this?" he inquired. "What makes you think
I won't betray you?"

"Something tells me you won't. You have a good heart, and you have
kept Narciso from starving, for the sake of your own boy."

"Well?"

"Will you help us?"

"_I_? In Heaven's name, how?"

"By taking us away in your charcoal-schooner."

"You're mad!" Morin cast another apprehensive look over his
shoulder. "I'm a poor man. All I have is my two boats, the vivero,
which brings fish, and the volandra, which sails with charcoal. Do
you think I'd forfeit them and my life for strangers?"

"There wouldn't be much risk."

"Indeed? Perhaps I know something about that."

O'Reilly leaned closer. "You say you're a poor man, I will pay
you well."

Morin eyed the ragged speaker scornfully; it was plain that he put
no faith in such a promise, and so O'Reilly took a piece of gold
from his pocket, at sight of which the fisherman started.

"What kind of pacificos are you?" Morin queried. His mouth had
fallen open, his eyes protruded.

"I, too, am a poor man, but I'm willing to buy freedom for my
little brothers and myself."

"How many coins like that have you?"

"Um--m--more than one; enough to pay you for several cargoes of
coal."

"And I have given you fish to eat!" Morin rolled his eyes at
Jacket. He pondered the marvel of what he had seen, he muttered
something to himself.

"For the sake of Miguelito," Jacket urged. "CARAMBA! What a hard-
hearted father begot that boy!"

"Hush!" The fisherman was scowling. To O'Reilly he said, "You do
wrong to tempt a poor man."

"My brother Esteban is sick. He is a frail little lad with a
crooked back. God will reward you."

"Perhaps! But how much will YOU pay?"

"Ten Spanish sovereigns like this--all that I have."

"No! It is not enough."

O'Reilly took Jacket's hand and turned away. "I'm sorry," said he.
"I wish I might offer you more." He had taken several steps before
Morin hailed him.

"Come back to-morrow," the fisherman cried, crossly. "We will try
to talk like sensible people."

The brothers Villar were back at Morin's fish-stand on the
following afternoon and they returned daily thereafter until they
at last prevailed over the Spaniard's fears and won his promise of
assistance. That much accomplished, they made several cautious
purchases, a coat here, a shirt there, a pair of trousers in
another place, until they had assembled a complete boy's outfit of
clothing.

At first Rosa refused absolutely to desert her two faithful negro
friends, and O'Reilly won her consent to consider his plan of
escape only after he had put the matter squarely up to Asensio and
his wife and after both had refused to enter into it. Asensio
declared that he was too sick to be moved, and asserted that he
would infinitely prefer to remain where he was, provided he was
supplied with sufficient money to cover his needs. Evangelina
agreed with him.

Then, and not until then, did Rosa begin her preparations. First
she made Evangelina cut her hair, a sacrilege that wrung sighs and
tears and loud lamentations from the black woman, after which she
altered the suit of boy's clothing to fit her figure, or rather to
conceal it.

When at last she put it on for O'Reilly's approval she was very
shy, very self-conscious, and so altogether unboylike that he
shook his head positively.

"My dear, you'll never do," he told her. "You are altogether too
pretty."

"But wait until I put that hideous hump upon my back and stain my
face, then you will see how ugly I can look."

"Perhaps," he said, doubtfully. A moment, then his frown
lightened. "You give me a thought," said he. "You shall wear the
jewels."

"Wear them? How?"

"On your back, in that very hump. It will be the safest possible
way to conceal them."

Rosa clapped her hands in delight. "Why, of course! It is the very
thing. Wait until I show you."

Profiting by her first moment alone--Evangelina and her husband
being still in ignorance of the contents of the treasure-box--Rosa
made a bundle out of the jewels and trinkets and fastened it
securely inside her coat. After a few experiments she adjusted it
to her liking, then called O'Reilly once more. This time he was
better satisfied; he was, in truth, surprised at the effect of the
disfigurement, and, after putting Rosa through several rehearsals
in masculine deportment, he pronounced the disguise as nearly
perfect as could be hoped for. An application of Evangelina's
stain to darken her face, a few tatters and a liberal application
of dirt to the suit, and he declared that Rosa would pass anywhere
as a boy.

There came a night when the three of them bade good-by to their
black companions and slipped away across the city to that section
known as Pueblo Nuevo, then followed the road along the water-
front until they found shelter within the shadows of a rickety
structure which had once served as a bath-house. The building
stood partially upon piles and under it they crept, knee-deep in
the lapping waves. To their left was the illumination of Matanzas;
to their right, the lights of the Penas Alias fort; ahead of them,
empty and dark save for the riding-lights of a few small coasting-
vessels, lay the harbor.

The refugees waited a long time; they were beginning 'to fear that
old Morin's nerve had weakened at the eleventh hour, when they
beheld a skiff approaching the shore. It glided closer, entered
the shade of the bathhouse, then a voice cried:

"Pset! You are there?" It was Morin himself.

Hastily the three piled aboard. Morin bent to his oars and the
skiff shot out. "You were not observed?" he inquired.

"No."

Morin rowed in silence for a time, then confessed: "This business
is not to my liking. There is too much risk. Think of me putting
my neck in peril--"

"Ho!" Jacket chuckled. "It is just the sort of thing that I enjoy.
If Miguelito was captain of his father's boat we'd been in
Cardenas by daybreak."

"When do you sail?" O'Reilly asked.

"At dawn, God permitting. You will have to remain hidden and you
mustn't even breathe. I have told my men that you are members of
my wife's family--good Spaniards, but I doubt if they will believe
it."

"Then you are to be my uncle?" Jacket inquired from his seat in
the bow. "Caramba! That's more than I can stand! To be considered
a Spaniard is bad enough, but to be known as the nephew of an old
miser who smells of fish! It is too much!"

Badinage of this sort did not displease the fisherman. "It is not
often they board us nowadays," he said, more hopefully, "but of
course one never can tell. Perhaps we will sail out under their
very noses."

He brought the skiff alongside a battered old schooner and his
passengers clambered aboard. There was a tiny cabin aft and on it,
sheltered from the night dew by a loose fold of the mainsail, were
two sleeping men. The new-comers followed Morin down into the evil
little cabin, where he warned them in a stertorous whisper:

"Not a sound, mind you. If any one comes aboard, you must shift
for yourselves. Creep into the hold and hide. Of course, if we are
searched--" He muttered something, then groped his way out on
deck, and closed the hatch behind him.

It was inky dark in the cabin; the occupants dared not move about
for fear of waking the sailors overhead. Time passed slowly. After
a while Jacket yawned and sighed and grumbled under his breath.
Finally he stretched himself out upon a narrow board bench and
fell asleep. O'Reilly drew Rosa to him and she snuggled
comfortably into his embrace, resting her head upon his shoulder.
It was their first real moment alone.

Now that they had actually embarked upon this enterprise and the
girl had given herself entirely into his hands, now that an
imminent peril encompassed them both, Johnnie felt that Rosa
belonged to him more absolutely, more completely, than at any time
heretofore, so he held her close. He caressed her gently, he
voiced those tender, intimate, foolish thoughts which he had never
dared express. This velvet darkness, this utter isolation, seemed
to unite them; to feel the girl's heart beating against his own
and her breath warm upon his cheek was intensely thrilling. An
exquisite ardor inflamed him, and Rosa responded to it. They
resisted briefly, prolonging the delights of this moment, then her
arms crept about him, her lips met his in absolute surrender.

They began to whisper, cautiously, so as not to disturb the
sleeping boy; they became unconscious of the flight of time. Rosa
lay relaxed against her lover's shoulder and in halting murmurs,
interrupted many times by caresses, she told O'Reilly of her need
for him, and her utter happiness. It was the fullest hour of their
lives.

Sometimes he thought she must be dozing, but he was never sure,
for she answered to his lightest touch and awoke to the faintest
pressure of his lips. The night wore swiftly on, and it was not
long enough for either of them.

With daylight, Morin routed out his men. There was a sleepy
muttering, the patter of bare feet upon the deck above, then the
creak of blocks as the sails were raised. From forward came the
sound of some one splitting wood to kindle the charcoal fire for
breakfast. Other sailing-craft seemed to be getting under way, and
a fishing-boat, loaded with the night's catch, came to anchor
alongside.

The three brothers Villar felt the schooner heel slightly and knew
that she was stealing toward the Spanish gunboat which was
supposed to be on guard against precisely such undertakings as
this. A few moments, then there came a hail which brought their
hearts into their throats. Morin himself answered the call.

"Good morning, countryman! Have you caught any of those accursed
filibusters since I saw you last? So? Cayo Romano, eh? Well, they
come in the night and they go in the night. If I were the pilot of
your ship I'd guarantee to put you where they'd fall into your
arms, for I know these waters. What have I aboard?" Morin laughed
loudly. "You know very well--cannon and shot for the rebels, of
course. Will you look? ... No? ... Then a cup of coffee perhaps?"

O'Reilly peeped through a dirt-stained cabin window and saw that
the volandra was slipping past the stern of the ironclad, so he
withdrew his head quickly.

In spite of his hospitable invitation, Captain Morin made no move
to come about, but instead held his schooner on its course,
meanwhile exchanging shouts with the unseen speaker. It seemed
incredible that Spanish discipline could be so lax, that the
schooner would be allowed to depart, even for a coastwise run,
without some formalities of clearance; but so it seemed. Evidently
the Spaniards had tired of examining these small craft. It was
typical of their carelessness.

Of course this was but one danger past and there were many more
ahead, for Morin's schooner was liable to be stopped by any of the
numerous patrol-boats on duty to the eastward. Nevertheless, when
an anxious hour had gone by and she was well out toward the harbor
mouth, the refugees told one another they were safe.

Morin shoved back the companionway hatch and thrust a grinning
face into view. "Ho, there! my lazy little cousins!" he cried.
"Wake up, for I smell Pancho's coffee boiling."




XXVIII

THREE TRAVELERS COME HOME


Esteban Varona made slow progress toward recovery. In the weeks
following O'Reilly's departure from Cubitas his gain was steady,
but beyond a certain point he seemed unable to go. Then he began
to lose strength. Norine was the first to realize the truth, but
it was some time before she would acknowledge it, even to herself.
At last, however, she had to face the fact that Esteban's months
of prison fare, the abuse, the neglect he had suffered in Spanish
hands, had left him little more than a living corpse. It seemed as
if fever had burned him out, or else some dregs of disease still
lingered in his system and had all but quenched that elusive spark
which for want of a better name we call vitality.

Esteban, too, awoke to the fact that he was losing ground, and his
dismay was keen, for a wonderful thing had come into his life and
he spent much of his time in delicious contemplative day dreams
concerning it, waiting for the hour when he would dare translate
those dreams into realities. It seemed to him that he had always
loved Norine; certainly she had enshrined herself in his heart
long before his mind had regained its clarity, for he had come out
of his delirious wanderings with his love full grown. There had
been no conscious beginning to it; he had emerged from darkness
into dazzling glory, all in an instant. Not until he found himself
slipping backward did he attempt to set a guard upon himself, for
up to that hour he had never questioned his right to love. He
found his new task heavy, almost too much for him to bear. That he
attempted it spoke well for the fellow's strength of character.

The time came finally when he could no longer permit the girl to
deceive herself or him with her brave assumption of cheerfulness.
Norine had just told him that he was doing famously, but he smiled
and shook his weary head.

"Let's be honest," he said. "You know and I know that I can't get
well."

Norine was engaged in straightening up the interior of the bark
hut in which her patient was installed; she ceased her labors to
inquire with lifted brows:

"Tut! Tut! Pray what do you mean by that?"

"There's something desperately wrong with me and I realized it
long ago. So did you, but your good heart wouldn't let you--"

Norine crossed quickly to the hammock and laid her cool hand upon
the sick man's forehead.

"You mustn't be discouraged," she told him, earnestly. "Remember
this is a trying climate and we have nothing to do with. Even the
food is wretched."

Esteban's smile became wistful. "That isn't why my fever lasts. If
there were any life, any health left in me you would rekindle it.
No, there's something desperately wrong, and--we're wasting time."

"You simply MUSTN'T talk like this," she cried. Then at the look
in his eyes she faltered for the briefest instant. "You'll--undo
all that we've done. Oh, if I had you where I could take proper
care of you! If we were anywhere but here you'd see."

"I--believe you. But unfortunately we are not elsewhere."

"I'm going to take you away," she exclaimed, forcefully.

Esteban stroked her hand softly. "You can't do that, Miss Evans.
You have been wonderful to me and I can't begin to express my
gratitude--" Norine stirred, but he retained his grasp of her
fingers, gaining courage from the contact to proceed. "I have been
trying for a long time to tell you something. Will you listen?"

Norine possessed a dominant personality; she had a knack of
tactfully controlling and directing situations, but of a sudden
she experienced a panic-stricken nutter and she lost her air of
easy confidence.

"Not now," she exclaimed, with a visible lessening of color.
"Don't bother to tell me now."

"I've waited too long; I must speak."

Norine was amazed at her own confusion, which was nothing less
than girlish; she had actually gone to pieces at threat of
something she had long expected to hear.

"I know how tired of this work you have become," the man was
saying. "I know you're eager to get back to your own work and your
own life."

"Well?"

"You have stayed on here just to nurse me. Isn't that true?"

She nodded somewhat doubtfully.

"Now then, you must stop thinking about me and--make your
arrangements to go home."

Norine eyed the speaker queerly. "Is THAT what you have been
trying so long to tell me?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Is that--all?"

There was a moment of silence. "Yes. You see, I know how tired you
are of this misery, this poverty, this hopeless struggle. You're
not a Cuban and our cause isn't yours. Expeditions come from the
United States every now and then and the Government will see that
you are put safely aboard the first ship that returns. I'll manage
to get well somehow."

Norine's color had returned. She stood over the hammock, looking
down mistily. "Don't you need me, want me any more?" she inquired.

Esteban turned his tired eyes away, fearing to betray in them his
utter wretchedness. "You have done all there is to do. I want you
to go back into your own world and forget--"

A sudden impulse seized the girl. She stopped and gathered the
sick man into her young, strong arms. "Don't be silly," she cried.
"My world is your world, Esteban dear. I'll never, never leave
you."

"Miss Evans! NORINE!" Varona tried feebly to free himself. "You
mustn't--"

Norine was laughing through her tears. "If you won't speak, I
suppose I must, but it is very embarrassing. Don't you suppose I
know exactly how much you love me? "Why, you've told me a thousand
times--"

"Please! PLEASE!" he cried in a shaking voice. "This is wrong. I
won't let you--you, a girl with everything--"

"Hush!" She drew him closer. "You're going to tell me that you
have nothing, can offer me nothing. You're going to do the
generous, noble thing. Well! I hate generous people. I'm selfish,
utterly selfish and spoiled, and I don't propose to be robbed of
anything I want, least of all my happiness. You do love me, don't
you?"

Esteban's cry was eloquent; he clasped his arms about her and she
held him fiercely to her breast.

"Well, then, why don't you tell me so? I--I can't keep on
proposing. It isn't ladylike."

"We're quite mad, quite insane," he told her after a while. "This
only makes it harder to give you up."

"You're not going to give me up and you're not going to die. I
sha'n't let you. Think what you have to live for."

"I--did wrong to surrender."

"It was I who surrendered. Come! Must I say it all? Aren't you
going to ask me--"

"What?"

"Why, to marry you, of course."

Esteban gasped; he looked deeply into Norine's eyes, then he
closed his own. He shook his head. "Not that," he whispered. "Oh,
not that!"

"We're going to be married, and I'm going to take you out of this
miserable place."

"What happiness!" he murmured. "If I were well--But I won't let
you marry a dying man."

Norine rose, her face aglow with new strength, new determination.
She dried her eyes and readjusted her hair with deft, unconscious
touch, smiling down, meanwhile, at the man. "I brought you back
when you were all but gone. I saved you after the others had given
you up, and now you are mine to do with as I please. You belong to
me and I sha'n't consult you--" She turned, for a figure had
darkened the door; it was one of her English-speaking
convalescents who was acting as a sort of orderly.

"Senorita," the man said, with a flash of white teeth, "we have
another sick man, and you'd never guess who. It is that American,
El Demonio--"

"Mr. Branch?"

"Si! The very same. He has just come from the front."

"Is he sick or wounded?" Esteban inquired.

"Shot, by a Spanish bullet. He asked at once for our senorita."

"Of course. I'll come in an instant." When the messenger had gone
Norine bent and pressed her lips to Esteban's. "Remember, you're
mine to do with as I please," she said; then she fled down the
grassy street.

Branch was waiting at Norine's quarters, a soiled figure of
dejection. His left arm lay in a sling across his breast. He
looked up at her approach, but she scarcely recognized him, so
greatly changed was he.

Leslie had filled out. There was a healthy color beneath his deep
tan, his flesh was firm, his eyes clear and bright.

"Hello, Norine!" he cried. "Well, they got me."

Norine paused in astonishment. "'Way, LESLIE! I was so frightened!
But--you can't be badly hurt."

"Bad enough so that Lopez sent me in. A fellow gets flyblown if he
stays in the field, so I beat it."

"Has your arm been dressed?"

"No. I wouldn't let these rough-and-tumble doctors touch it.
They'd amputate at the shoulder for a hang-nail. I don't trust
'em."

"Then I'll look at it."

But Leslie shrugged. "Oh, it's feeling fine, right now! I'd rather
leave it alone. I just wanted to see you--"

"You mustn't neglect it; there's danger of--"

"Gee! You're looking great," he interrupted. "It's better than a
banquet just to look at you."

"And YOU!" Norine scanned the invalid appraisingly. "Why, you're
another man!"

"Sure! Listen to this." He thumped his chest. "Best pair of
bellows in Cuba. The open air did it."

"What a pity you were hurt just at such a time. But you would take
insane risks. Now then, let's have a look at your wound." She
pushed him, protesting, into her cabin.

"It doesn't hurt, really," he declared. "It's only a scratch."

"Of course you'd say so. Sit down."

"Please don't bother. If you don't mind--"

"But I do mind. If you won't trust me I'll run for a doctor."

"I tell you I can't stand 'em. They'll probe around and give a
fellow gangrene."

"Then behave yourself." Norine forced the patient into a chair and
withdrew his arm from the sling. Then, despite his weak
resistance, she deftly removed the bandage. From his expression
she felt sure that she must be hurting him, but when the injury
was exposed she looked up in wonderment.

"Leslie!" she exclaimed. "What in the world--"

"Well! You insisted on seeing it," he grumbled. "I told you it
wasn't much." He tried to meet her eyes, but failed.

There was a moment's pause, then Norine inquired, curiously: "What
is the trouble? You'd better 'fess up."

Branch struggled with himself, he swallowed hard, then said: "I'm-
-going to. You can see now why I didn't go to a doctor: _I_ did
it--shot myself. You won't give me away?"

"Why--I don't understand."

"Oh, I'm in trouble. I simply had to get away, and this was all I
could think of. I wanted to blow a real hole through myself and I
tried three times. But I missed myself."

"Missed yourself? How? Why?"

Branch wiped the sweat from his face. "I flinched--shut my eyes
and pulled the trigger."

Norine seated herself weakly; she stared in bewilderment at the
unhappy speaker. "Afraid? You, El Demonio! Why, you aren't afraid
of anything!"

"Say! You don't believe all that stuff, do you? I'm afraid of my
shadow and always have been. I'm not brave and never was. They
told me I was going to die and it scared me so that I tried to end
things quickly. I couldn't bear to die slowly, to KNOW that I was
dying by inches. But, Lord! It scared me even worse to go into
battle. I was blind with fright all the time and I never got over
it. Why, the sight of a gun gives me a chill, and I jump every
time one goes off. God! how I've suffered! I went crazy at our
first engagement--crazy with fear. I didn't know where I was, or
what happened, or anything. Afterward, when they hailed me as a
hero, I thought they were kidding, that everybody must know how
frightened I was. After a time I saw that I'd fooled them, and
that shamed me. Then--I had to keep it up or become ridiculous.
But it nearly killed me."

"If you're speaking the truth, I'm not sure you're such a coward
as you make out," Norine said.

"Oh yes, I am. Wait! Before I knew it I had a reputation. Then I
had to live up to it." The speaker groaned. "It wasn't so bad as
long as I felt sure I was going to die, anyhow, but when I
discovered I was getting well--" Branch raised a pair of tragic
eyes, his tone changed. "I'll tell you what cured me. I SCARED
myself well! Those bugs in my lungs died from suffocation, for I
never breathed as long as there was a Spaniard in the same county
with me. One day I found that I couldn't cough if I tried. I got
strong. I slept well. And EAT? Huh! I gobbled my share of food and
whined for more. I stole what belonged to the others. I began to
enjoy myself--to have fun. Life opened up nice and rosy. I fell in
love with my new self and the joy of living. Then I didn't want to
die--never had, you understand, except to cheat the bugs; it gave
me the horrors to think of the chances I'd taken. To be strong, to
be healthy and free from pain, to tear my food like a wild animal,
and to enjoy hard work was all new and strange and wonderful. I
was drunk with it. To think of being cut down, crippled, reduced
to the useless, miserable thing I had been, was intolerable. I was
twice as scared then as I'd ever been, for I had more to lose. You
understand? I forced myself to do the insane things expected of
me, when people were looking--natural pride, I suppose--but when
they weren't looking, oh, how I dogged it! I crawled on my belly
and hid in holes like a snake."

"How--funny!" Norine exclaimed.

"You've got a blamed queer idea of humor," Branch flashed, with a
show of his former irritability.

"And so you shot yourself?"

"Yep! I tried to select a good spot where it wouldn't hurt or
prove too inconvenient, but--there isn't a place to spare on a
fellow's whole body. He needs every inch of himself every minute.
I was going to shoot myself in the foot, but my feet are full of
bones and I saw myself on crutches the rest of my life."

"Why didn't you resign from the service? You didn't regularly
enlist and you've surely earned your discharge."

Branch nodded. "I thought of that, but I've gained a reputation
that I don't deserve and, strangely enough, I'm madly jealous of
it. I thought if I were really shot by a regular bullet I'd be
mourned as a hero and have a chance to walk out with colors
flying. I want to tell my children, if I ever have any, what a
glorious man I was and how I helped to free Cuba. Oh, I'd lie like
a thief to my own children! Now you see why I don't want a doctor.
There's only one thing I want--and that's--HOME." Leslie heaved a
deep sigh. "Gee! I'm homesick."

"So am I," Norine feelingly declared. "I think I understand how
you feel and I can't blame you for wanting to live, now that
you've learned what a splendid thing life is."

"If O'Reilly had been with me I think I could have managed,
somehow, for he would have understood, too. I--I'll never go back
to the front, alone--they can shoot me, if they want to. Have you
heard anything from him?"

"Not a word. Cuba swallowed him up. Oh, Leslie, it is a cruel
country! It is taking the best and the youngest. I--want to go
away."

He smiled mirthlessly. "I'm fed up on it, too. I want to be where
I can shave when I need to and wear something besides canvas
pajamas. I'm cured of war; I want a policeman to stop the traffic
and help me across the street. I want to put my feet under a
breakfast-table, rustle a morning paper, and slap an egg in the
face. That's all the excitement I hunger for."

Norine filled a basin with clean water and, taking a fresh
bandage, wrapped up the self-inflicted hurt, Branch watching her
anxiously. Now and again he flinched like a child when she touched
his wound. At last he inquired, apprehensively, "Is it infected?"

"No."

"Lord! I'm glad! Wouldn't it be just my luck to get blood
poisoning?"

Norine surprised her patient by inquiring, irrelevantly, "Leslie,
is there anybody here who can marry people?"

"Eh? Why, of course!" Then suddenly his somber face lightened and
he cried: "NORINE! DO YOU MEAN IT?"

"Not you. I wouldn't marry you."

"Why not? I'm perfectly well--"

"Please answer me."

Leslie settled back in his chair. "I dare say some of the Cuban
Cabinet officers could put up a good bluff at a marriage
ceremony."

"A bluff wouldn't do."

"Who's going to be married?"

"I am."

Branch started to his feet once more, his mouth fell open. "You?
Nonsense!" When she nodded, his face darkened. "Who is he? Some
Cuban, I'll bet--one of these greasers."

"It is poor Esteban."

"'Poor Esteban'! Damn it, they're all poor. That's the very reason
he asked you. He's after your money."

"He didn't ask me. I asked him. He's--dying, Leslie." There was a
pause. "I'm going to marry him and take him home, where he can get
well."

"What will O'Reilly say?"

"I'm afraid we'll never see O'Reilly again. Cuba frightens me. It
has taken him, it will take Esteban, and--that would break my
heart."

"Do you love him as much as that?"

Norine raised her eyes and in their depths Branch read her answer.
"Well, that ends the rest of us," he sighed. "There's a Minister
of Justice here, I believe; he sounds as if he could perform most
any kind of a ceremony. We'll find out for sure."

It so happened that the President and well-nigh the entire
Provisional Cabinet were in Cubitas. Leslie and Norine went
directly to the former. The supreme official was eager to oblige
in every way the guest of his Government and her dare-devil
countryman, El Demonio. He promptly sent for the Minister of
Justice, who in turn gallantly put himself at Norine's disposal.
He declared that, although he had never performed the marriage
ceremony he would gladly try his hand at it. In no time the news
had spread and there was subdued excitement throughout the camp.
When Norine left headquarters she was the target of smiles and
friendly greetings. Women nodded and chattered at her, ragged
soldiers swept her salutes with their jipi-japa hats, children
clung to her and capered by her side. It was vastly embarrassing,
this shameless publicity, but it was touching, too, for there was
genuine affection and good-will behind every smile. Norine was
between tears and laughter when she ran panting into Esteban's
cabin, leaving Branch to wait outside.

At sight of her Esteban uttered a low cry of happiness. "Dearest!
I've been lying in a stupor of delight. The world has become
bright: I hear people laughing. What a change! And how is El
Demonio?"

"He's all right; he's waiting to see you, but first--I've arranged
everything! The President and his Cabinet are coming to witness
the ceremony."

Esteban poised, petrified, upon his elbow, his face was a study.
"What have you arranged?" he managed to inquire.

"'Sh--h!" Norine laid a finger upon his lips. "The guest of the
Republic is to be married to-day. Dignitaries, magistrates,
nabobs, are turning out in her honor. They are shaving and
borrowing clean shirts for the occasion. The Minister of Justice
has a brand-new pair of tan shoes and he has promised to wear
them, come rain or shine."

"NORINE! Oh, my dear--" quavered the sick man. "I can't let you do
this mad thing. Think! I'm ready for the grave--"

"This will make you well. We're going away when the very next
expedition arrives."

But still Varona protested. "No, no! Who am I? I have nothing to
offer, nothing to give. I'm poorer than a peon."

"Thank goodness, I can do all the giving! I've never told you,
Esteban, but I'm quite rich." Holding the man away, she smiled
into his eyes. "Yes, richer than I have any right to be. I had no
need to come to Cuba; it was just the whim of an irresponsible,
spoiled young woman. I gave a huge amount of money to the New York
Junta and that's why I was allowed to come."

"You're not a--a trained nurse?"

"Oh, dear, no! Except when it amuses me to pretend."

"How strange!" The invalid was dazed, but after a moment he shook
his head. "It is hard to say this, but I don't know whether you
really love me or whether your great heart has been touched. You
have learned my feelings, and perhaps think in this way to make me
well. Is that it?"

"No, no! I'm thoroughly selfish and must have what I want. I want
you. So don't let's argue about it." Norine tenderly enfolded the
weak figure in her arms, "You must, you SHALL get well or--I shall
die, too."

"I haven't the strength to refuse," Esteban murmured. "And yet,
how can I leave Cuba? What right have I to accept happiness and
leave Rosa--"

This was a subject which Norine dreaded, a question to which she
knew no answer. She was not in a mood to discuss it, and made no
attempt to do so. Instead, she laid the invalid upon his pillow,
saying:

"Leslie is waiting to wish you joy and a quick recovery. May I ask
him in?"

She stepped to the door, only to behold her late companion making
off down the village street in great haste and evident excitement.
Surprised, offended, she checked her impulse to call him back. A
moment, then she stepped out into the full sunlight and stared
after him, for she saw that which explained his desertion.
Approaching between the drunken rows of grass huts was a little
knot of people. Even as Norine watched it grew into a considerable
crowd, for men and women and children came hurrying from their
tasks. There were three figures in the lead, a man and two boys,
and they walked slowly, ploddingly, as if weary from a long march.

Norine decided that they were not villagers, but ragged pacificos,
upon the verge of exhaustion. She saw Branch break into a swifter
run and heard him shout something, then through eyes suddenly
dimmed she watched him fall upon the tallest of the three
strangers and embrace him. The crowd grew thicker. It surrounded
them.

"Esteban!" Norine cried in a voice she scarcely recognized. She
retreated into the doorway with one hand upon her leaping heart.
"Esteban! Look! Some one has just arrived. Leslie has gone--" She
cleared her vision with a shake of her head and her tongue grew
thick with excitement. "They're coming--HERE! Yes! It's--it's
O'REILLY!"

Young Varona struggled from his hammock. "ROSA!" he called,
loudly, "ROSA!"

Norine ran and caught him or he would have fallen prone. He pawed
and fumbled in a weak attempt to free himself from her restraining
arms; a wildness was upon him; he shook as if with palsy. "Did he
bring her with him? Is she here? Why don't you answer me? Rosa--"
He began to mutter unintelligibly, his vitality flared up, and it
was with difficulty that Norine could hold him down. His gaze,
fixed upon the square of sunlight framed by the low doorway, was
blazing with excitement. To Norine it seemed as if his spirit, in
the uncertainty of this moment, was straining to leap forth in an
effort to learn his sister's fate.

The crowd was near at hand now. There came the scuffling of feet
and murmur of many voices. Esteban fell silent, he closed his hot,
bony hands upon Norine's wrists in a painful grip. He bent
forward, his soul centered in his tortured eyes.

There came a shadow, then in the doorway the figure of a man, a
tattered scarecrow of a man whose feet were bare and whose brown
calves were exposed through flapping rags. His breast was naked
where thorns had tried to stay him; his beard, even his hair, were
matted and unkempt, and the mud of many trails lay caked upon his
garments.

It was O'Reilly!

He peered, blinking, into the obscurity, then he turned and drew
forward a frail hunchbacked boy whose face was almost a mulatto
hue. Hand in hand they stepped into the hut and once again Esteban
Varona's soul found outlet in his sister's name. He held out his
shaking, hungry arms and the misshapen lad ran into them.

Dumb with amazement, blind with tears, Norine found herself
staring upward into O'Reilly's face, and heard him saying:

"I told you I would bring her home."

The next instant she lay upon his breast and sobs of joy were
tearing at her.




XXIX

WHAT HAPPENED AT SUNDOWN


The story of Rosa's rescue came slowly and in fragments, for the
news of O'Reilly's return caused a sensation. His recital was
interrupted many times. So numerous and so noisy did these
diversions become that Norine, fearing for the welfare of her
patient, banished O'Reilly's visitors and bore him and Branch off
to her own cabin, leaving the brother and sister alone. In the
privacy of Norine's quarters O'Reilly finished telling her the
more important details of his adventures. He was well-nigh worn
out, but his two friends would not respect his weariness; they
were half hysterical with joy at his safety, treating him like one
returned from the dead; so he rambled disjointedly through his
tale. He told them of his hazardous trip westward, of his and
Jacket's entrance into Matanzas and of the distressing scenes they
witnessed there. When he had finished the account of his dramatic
meeting with Rosa his hearers' eyes were wet. The recital of the
escape held them breathless.

"As a matter of fact, our get-away was ridiculously easy," he
said, "for we had luck at every turn--regular Irish luck. I'm sure
Captain Morin suspected that Rosa wasn't a boy, but he was
perfectly foolish about Jacket and tolerated us on his account. We
owe everything to that kid; he's wonderful. I made Morin
independent for life, but it wasn't the money, it was Jacket who
induced him to bring us clear to Turiguano. He landed us one
night, this side of the Moron trocha. Since then we've waded
swamps to our armpits, we've fought the jungle and chewed bark--
but we're here." Johnnie heaved a deep sigh of relief.

"Where did you get the money to hire schooners and corrupt
captains?" Branch inquired. "You were broke when I knew you."

O'Reilly hesitated; he lowered his voice to a whisper. "We found
the Varona treasure."

Norine uttered a cry. "Not Don Esteban's treasure?"

"Exactly. It was in the well where young Esteban told us it was."

"Oh, Johnnie! You mean thing!" exclaimed the girl. "You promised--
"

"You'll have a chance to dig," he laughed. "We couldn't begin to
bring all of it; we merely took the jewels and the deeds and what
money our clothes would hold. The rest--"

"Wait! WAIT!" Branch wailed, clapping his hand to his head.
"'Merely the jewels and the deeds and what money our clothes would
hold?' Bullets! Why, one suit of clothes will hold all the money
in the world! Am I dreaming? 'Money!' I haven't seen a bona-fide
dollar since I put on long pants. What does money look like? Is it
round or--?"

Johnnie produced from his pocket a handful of coins.

Branch's eyes bulged, he touched a gold piece respectfully,
weighed it carefully, then pressed it to his lips. He rubbed it
against his cheeks and in his hair; he placed it between his teeth
and bit it.

"It's REAL!" he cried. "Now let me look at the jewels."

"Rosa has them. She's wearing them on her back. Hunched backs are
lucky, you know; hers is worth a fortune."

"Why, this beats the Arabian Nights!" Norine gasped.

"It beats--" Branch paused, then wagged his head warningly at the
girl. "I don't believe a word of it and you mustn't. Johnnie read
this story on his yachting-trip. It couldn't happen. In the first
place there isn't any more money in the world; mints have quit
coining it. Why, if I wrote such a yarn--"

"It IS almost unbelievable," Johnnie acknowledged. "I found
Aladdin's cave, but"--his face paled and he stirred uneasily--"it
was nearly the death of all of us. I'll have to tell you the whole
story now; I've only told you the half."

While his hearers listened, petrified with amazement and doubting
their ears, he recited the incidents of that unforgettable night
on La Cumbre: how Cobo came, and of the trap he sprung; how Jacket
stole upon the assassin while he knelt, and of the blow he struck.

When Johnnie had finished there was a long moment of silence. Then
Norine quavered, tremulously: "That boy! That blessed boy!"

Branch murmured, feebly: "Dash water in my face, or you'll lose
me. I--You--" He found no words to express his feelings and
finally voiced his favorite expletive.

"It's all too weirdly improbable," O'Reilly smiled, "but ask Rosa
or Jacket--the boy is bursting to tell some one. He nearly died
because he couldn't brag about it to Captain Morin, and there
won't be any holding him now. I'm afraid he'll tip off the news
about that treasure in spite of all my warnings. Those jewels are
a temptation; I won't rest easy until they're safely locked up in
some good vault. Now then, I've told you everything, but I'm dying
for news. Tell me about yourselves, about Esteban. I expected to
find him well. What ails him?"

"Oh, Johnnie!" Norine began. "He's very ill. He isn't getting
well." Something in her tone caused O'Reilly to glance at her
sharply. Branch nodded and winked significantly, and the girl
confessed with a blush: "Yes! You told me I'd surrender to some
poor, broken fellow. I'm very happy and--I'm very sad."

"Hunh! He's far from poor and broken," Leslie corrected; "with a
half-interest in a humpful of diamonds and a gold-plated well,
according to Baron Munchausen, here. This is the Cuban leap-year,
Johnnie; Norine proposed to him and he was too far gone to refuse.
You came just in time to interrupt a drum-head marriage."

"Is it true?" When Norine acquiesced, O'Reilly pressed her two
hands in his. "I'm glad--so glad." Tears started to the girl's
eyes; her voice broke wretchedly. "Help me, Johnnie! Help me to
get him home--"

He patted her reassuringly and she took comfort from his hearty
promise.

"Of course I will. We'll take him and Rosa away where they can
forget Cuba and all the misery it has caused them. We'll make him
well--don't worry. Meanwhile, at this moment Rosa needs food and
clothing, and so do I."

As the three friends walked up the street they discovered Jacket
holding the center of an interested crowd of his countrymen. It
was the boy's moment and he was making the most of it. Swollen
with self-importance, he was puffing with relish at a gigantic
gift cigar.

"I exaggerate nothing," he was saying, loudly. "O'Reilly will tell
you that I killed Cobo, alone and unassisted. The man is gone, he
has disappeared, and all Matanzas is mystified. This is the hand
that did it; yonder is the weapon, with that butcher's blood still
on it. That knife will be preserved in the museum at Habana, along
with my statue." Jacket spied his chief witness and called to him.
"Tell these good people who killed Cobo. Was it Narciso Villar?"

"It was," O'Reilly smiled. "The fellow is dead."

There was renewed murmuring. The crowd pressed Jacket closer; they
passed the knife from hand to hand. Doubters fell silent; the boy
swelled visibly. Bantam-like he strutted before their admiring
glances, and when his benefactor had passed safely out of hearing
he went on:

"God! What a fight we had! It was like those combats of the
gladiators you hear about. The man was brave enough; there's no
denying his courage, which was like that of ten men--like that of
a fierce bull; but I--I was superb, magnificent! The man bellowed,
he roared, he grunted; he charged me, flinging the earth high with
his heels, but I was banderillero, picador, and matador in one. I
was here, I was there, I was everywhere; so swiftly did I move
that no eye could follow me." Jacket illustrated his imaginary
movements with agile leaps and bounds. "The terror of his name
frightened me, I'll admit, but it lent me a desperate courage,
too. I thought of the brave men, the good women, the innocent
children he had slain, and I fell upon him from this side, from
that side, from the front, from the rear. I pricked him, shouting:
'That for the people of Las Villas! This for the women of the San
Juan. And once again for the babies you have killed.'" Jacket
carried out his pantomime by prodding with a rigid finger first
one, then another of his listeners. "Oh, he went mad, like a bull,
indeed, but I was another Rafael Guerra. He shed rivers of blood,
the ground grew slippery and the grass became red. He stood
rocking in his tracks, finally; his breath was like a hurricane.
He was exhausted, he was covered with foam, his limbs were made of
lead. It was my moment. 'For all your sins!' I cried, and with
that I drove yonder blade through his heart and out between his
shoulders, thus! My brothers, his flesh was rotten, and the steel
clove it as if it were butter."

Jacket was more than gratified at the effect of his recital, for
children screamed, women shuddered, and men turned shocked eyes
upon one another. He realized that with a little further practice
and a more diligent attention to detail he could horrify the
stoutest-hearted listener, nay, cause hysterical women to swoon.
He concluded his account in a studiously careless tone; "O'Reilly
came, too late, but he helped me to bury the offal. We flung it
head first into an old well and dumped rocks upon it. There it
will lie until Cuba is free. That, my friends, was the end of
Cobo, exactly as it happened."

O'Reilly saw little of his sweetheart that day, for Norine
promptly bore the girl off to her own quarters and there attended
to her needs, the most pressing of which was clothing. Norine's
wardrobe offered little to choose from, but between them they
reduced a nurse's uniform to fit the smaller figure. Meanwhile,
with a rapidity and a thoroughness delightful to both of them, the
two girls came to know each other.

While O'Reilly was similarly engaged in making himself
presentable, he and Branch talked earnestly, with the result that
they repaired later to General Gomez.

The general welcomed them; he listened with interest to O'Reilly's
story of the rescue, and to the account of conditions in Matanzas.
O'Reilly concluded by saying:

"I've done what I came to do, sir, but Miss Varona is badly shaken
by all she has been through. She's very nervous and far from well.
Esteban, too, isn't recovering."

General Gomez nodded. "Miss Evans declares he must have a change,
and we have arranged to send him out of the country. His sister,
poor child, should go, too."

"When can they leave?"

"Who knows? Not for some time, certainly. Expeditions are
irregular."

"They should go at once," O'Reilly said, positively. "That's why
we came to see you. Let us--Branch and me--take all three of them
to the United States."

"You, too, El Demonio?" inquired the general.

"Yes, sir; if you please."

"But how? How can you take two women and a sick man-

"We'll manage somehow," O'Reilly declared. "It isn't far across to
the Bahama Banks."

"True. That's the route of our underground--our undersea--
railroad. As you probably know, there is a venturesome countryman
of yours who carries our despatches by that way. He devised the
scheme, to keep us in touch with our friends in New York, and he
has done us great service. He comes and goes in a small boat, but
how or when nobody knows. The Spanish patrols are on the lookout
for him, and there's a price on his head, so you won't find it
easy or safe to cross. Beware that you are not mistaken for him."

"Do you mean that we may go?" Branch eagerly inquired.

The general hesitated, whereupon O'Reilly spoke up: "For my part,
I'll agree to come back if you so desire."

Gomez shook his white head. "No! You came to find and to save your
fiancee, and you volunteered to serve with us while you were doing
so. We have no desire to keep any man against his will. Some one
must escort Miss Evans, who is our guest. Why not you two? She has
every confidence in you, and if she chooses to risk this
enterprise rather than wait until we can guarantee her an easier
trip we shall not restrain her. I shall see that you reach the
coast safe and sound; beyond that you must trust in God."

Branch was immensely relieved; he joined volubly in O'Reilly's
thanks and became careless of his arm, which no longer appeared to
pain him. Peace with honor, it seemed, was all that he desired.

"I was looking forward to an interesting ceremony this afternoon,"
Gomez went on. "Has your arrival changed the plans?"

"Oh no, sir!" O'Reilly said, quickly. "I'd like to make it doubly
interesting, if Miss Varona will consent to such short notice."

"Bravo! You have a way of doing the unexpected. Twin births, a
double wedding! Why not? The sight of a little happiness will be
good for all of us; we're apt to forget that life and the big
world are going on as usual. I don't think Miss Varona will have
it in her heart to refuse you anything."

The old soldier was right. Rosa did not gainsay her lover, and
toward sundown the city among the leaves witnessed an unaccustomed
scene.

The women of the camp, delighted at an opportunity of serving
Norine, had transformed Esteban's poor quarters into a tiny bower
of wild blossoms and green leaves; they likewise gathered flowers
for the two brides-to-be, then joined with nimble fingers in
adorning their costumes. When the girls came down the street, hand
in hand, they received an ovation from men and women alike. Norine
was pleased; she smiled and blushed and ran the gantlet bravely
enough. But Rosa, sadly overwrought by the day's excitement, was
upon the verge of a collapse. Nevertheless she was happy; her eyes
were shining, her face was transfigured, her hand, when she took
O'Reilly's, was cold and tremulous, but it warmed and grew steady
under his grasp.

Many people--all Cubitas, in fact--had assembled to witness the
romantic double wedding, but few actually succeeded, for Esteban's
hut was too small to accommodate more than the highest officials
of the Provisional Government, so the others were forced to wait
outside in the gathering dusk. And those Ministers, those
secretaries of departments, those generals and colonels, what a
motley crowd they formed! There was scarcely a whole garment among
them. They were sunburnt, wind-browned, earnest men, the old ones
grayed and grizzled from worry, the younger ones wasted from
hardships in the field. But out of their rags and poverty shone a
stately courtesy and consideration. They were gentlemen, men of
culture and refinement, the best and oldest blood of Cuba. Both
Norine and Johnnie had learned their gratitude, and the story of
the Varona twins was typical of the island, nowadays, so they
unbent and there were warm congratulaitons, well-turned Latin
pleasantries, elaborate compliments upon the beauty of the brides.

Then, afterward, there was a surprise--a genuine surprise--in the
form of a banquet at the big mess shelter, with an orchestra
concealed behind a screen of fresh-cut palm-leaves stuck into the
soft earth. This was the men's part of the celebration, the
official compliment to Cuba's guest. It was a poorly furnished
banquet, with a service of tin and granite ware and chipped china,
and there was little to eat, but the true spirit of festivity was
present. The Lone Star emblem of the new Republic was draped with
the Stars and Stripes, and there were many speeches.

Norine's protests at leaving Esteban went unheeded, and Leslie
Branch escorted her in place of the bridegroom, who lay blissfully
dreaming in his hammock. Her amazement passed all bounds when,
from the hidden recess behind the palm-leaves, came not the music
of mandolins and guitars, but the strains of a balanced orchestra
under the leadership of Cuba's most eminent bandmaster. Whence the
players had come, where they had found their instruments, was a
mystery, but they played well, divinely, so it seemed to the
music-hungry diners. Such a banquet as that was! Some one had
contributed a demijohn of wine, and there was coffee, too, at the
last, made from the berries of some jungle plant. The chef, once
famous at the Inglaterra, was forced to appear and take homage for
this final triumph.

Rosa, very dainty in her borrowed nurse's uniform, was round-eyed,
timid; she evoked much admiration, but when she was addressed as
Senora O'Reilly she blushed to the roots of her hair and shrank
close to her husband's side. To feel herself secure, to see on all
sides friendly faces, to know that these fine men and women--there
were numerous good Cuban matrons present--were her own people and
meant her well, was almost unbelievable. She had so long been
hidden, she had so long feared every stranger's glance, it was not
strange that she felt ill at ease, and that the banquet was a
grave ordeal for her.

Branch proved to be a happy choice as Esteban's proxy, for he
relieved Norine's anxiety and smothered her apprehensions. When
called upon to speak he made a hit by honestly expressing his
relief at escaping the further hazards of this war. Prompted by
some freakish perversity, and perhaps unduly stimulated by the
wine he had drunk, he made open confession of his amazing
cowardice.

O'Reilly interpreted for him and well-nigh every sentence evoked
laughter. El Demonio's heroic reputation had preceded him,
therefore his unsmiling effort to ridicule himself struck the
audience as a new and excruciatingly funny phase of his
eccentricity. Encountering this blank wall of disbelief, Branch
waxed more earnest, more convincing; in melancholy detail he
described his arrant timidity, his cringing fear of pain, his
abhorrence of blood and steel. His elongated face was genuinely
solemn, his voice trembled, his brow grew damp with unpleasant,
memories; he seemed bent upon clearing his conscience once for
all. But he succeeded only in convulsing his hearers. Women
giggled, men wiped tears from their eyes and declared he was a
consummate actor and the rarest, the most fantastic humorist they
had ever listened to. They swore that Cuba had lost, in him, a
peerless champion. When he had finished they cheered him loudly
and the orchestra broke into a rousing military march.

Leslie turned to voice his irritation and surprise to Norine, but
she had slipped away, so he glared at O'Reilly, wondering how the
latter had so artfully managed to mistranslate his remarks.

When Rosa and O'Reilly returned to Esteban's cabin they found
Norine ahead of them. She was kneeling beside the sick man's
hammock, and through the doorway came the low, intimate murmur of
their voices. Rosa drew her husband away, whispering, happily:

"He will get well. God and that wonderful girl won't let him die."




XXX

THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT


The journey to the coast was made by easy stages and Esteban stood
it fairly well. The excitement wore upon him, to be sure, and the
jolting of his litter was trying, but Norine was always at his
side where he could see her, and Rosa joined in the tender care of
him. Guides, horses, and a tent for the sick man had been
supplied, and over these O'Reilly exercised a jealous
watchfulness, ably seconded by Branch. For once, at least, the
latter lent himself to useful ends and shirked no duties. His
wounded arm recovered miraculously and he exercised it freely; he
skirmished industriously for food and he enlivened the journey by
a rare display of good spirits.

Jacket, of course, went along. Upon the announcement of O'Reilly's
intended departure for the States he had promptly abandoned Cuba
to her fate. He foreswore her utterly and declared himself a loyal
American citizen. He made it plain once more, and for the last
time, that where O'Reilly went, there went he, for they were one
and indivisible. It dismayed him not at all to turn his feet to
new pathways, his face toward new adventures.

Relying upon the best information obtainable at Cubitas, O'Reilly
had counted upon securing a sailboat from a certain fisherman
whose sympathies were known to be loyal, but in this he was
disappointed. The party arrived at its destination, a tiny
clearing on an unfrequented part of the north shore, only to find
it deserted and already grown to weeds. The house was empty, the
boats were gone--all but one old hulk, too rotten to warrant
moving, which lay high up on the sand, its planks worm-eaten, its
seams wide spread by the sun.

Having established Esteban in the hut, O'Reilly took counsel with
his Cubans, but gained little satisfaction from them. They knew of
no other fisherman in this vicinity; the nearest towns were in
Spanish hands; they advised a return to Cubitas at once. This
O'Reilly would not listen to. Sending them in one direction, he
took Leslie and Jacket and rode away in the other. The trio
followed the beach for several miles until they came to a vast
mangrove swamp which turned them inland. This they skirted until
the jungle became impassable and they were in danger of losing
themselves; they returned at dusk, having encountered no human
being and having discovered neither roads nor houses.

The other expedition reported slightly better successes; it had
located a small plantation some distance to the east, the owner of
which had warned them against exploring farther, inasmuch as a
strong Spanish patrol, on the lookout for that American despatch-
bearer from Nassau, was operating in his neighborhood. It was
these very troops, he announced, who had driven the fisherman from
his home; he was sure there were no boats anywhere within reach.

O'Reilly was in a quandary. He gravely doubted Esteban's ability
to stand the rough return journey, and when he spoke to Norine of
turning back she was panic-stricken at the suggestion.

"No, no!" she cried, anxiously. "We MUST get him away. Oh,
Johnnie, every day we lose by waiting lessens his chances! His
heart is set on going through and it would--kill him to go back."

"Then I guess we'll have to go through," he smiled.

For the first time in their acquaintance Norine lost control of
herself.

"We simply MUST find a boat. All he needs is proper care, proper
food, and medical attention. Here we can get nothing. Why, the
disappointment alone--" Her voice failed her, tears started to her
eyes, and she began to tremble wretchedly. "If he--If I--lose him
I'll die, too," she sobbed.

O'Reilly tried to comfort her and she bowed her head upon his
shoulder.

"Promise that you won't go back," she implored him.

"Very well, if you'll consent to risk this miserable tub we found
on the beach--"

"I'll risk anything--a raft, even."

"It is large enough to carry us if we can manage to make it hold
water, but it won't be safe. The weather is good at this season
and it shouldn't take us long to run across to Andros if we have
luck. If we don't have luck--"

Norine dried her eyes. "What would you do if you were alone? Would
you dare try it?"

He hesitated, then confessed, "I think I would, but--"

"Is there an even chance of our getting across?"

"Perhaps. It all depends upon the weather."

"Can't we--build a boat?"

He shook his head. "Even if we had lumber and tools it would take
too long. Ten miles to the east there are Spaniards. We must do
one thing or the other quickly, before they learn we're here."

"Then let's go on. I'm sure Rosa will agree."

Rosa did agree. When her husband put the question fairly to her
she showed by the pallor of her cheeks and by the rekindling light
of terror in her eyes how desperately she feared remaining longer
in this land of hate and persecution. "Don't turn back," she
cried. "I'm not the girl I was. I've endured so much here that--
I'm always in fear. Anything would be better than going back."

When morning came O'Reilly made a closer examination of the
abandoned boat. The result was not encouraging, and when he told
Leslie of his intention to make use of it the latter stared at him
in open amazement.

"Why, we'll all be drowned!" Branch declared.

"You can return to Cubitas if you wish."

"Yes, and fight some more! No, thank you! I've got a hunch that
I'll be killed by the very next gun I see."

"Then you'd better risk the sharks."

Jacket, who was conducting an independent examination of the
craft, made an encouraging report. "Ho! I'd go 'round the world in
this boat," said he. "She's rotten, and you can stick your finger
through her, but fish have no fingers. When the water comes in
we'll dip it out."

"Do you want to go with us?" Johnnie eyed the newspaper man
curiously.

"I--Y--yes!" Branch gasped. "I'll go, but it's a shame to lose all
of Rosa's diamonds."

O'Reilly and one of the guides rode away to the farmhouse
discovered on the previous afternoon, and returned in a few hours
with all the tools they could find, together with a bucket of tar
and a coil of galvanized wire. Then work began.

The wire, cut into short pieces, served as nails and staples with
which to draw together the gaping seams. Old rags from the house
and parts of the men's clothing supplied calking, upon which the
tar was smeared. While one man shaped mast and oars, another cut
Esteban's shelter tent into a sail, and fitted it. A stiff, sun-
dried cowhide was wet, then stretched and nailed to the gunwales
at the bow, forming a sort of forward deck to shelter the sick man
from the sun and rain. Jacket climbed the near-by cocoa-palms and
threw down a plentiful supply of nuts for food and water on the
voyage.

With so many hands the work went fast, and late that evening the
crazy craft was launched. It was necessary to handle her gingerly,
and when she took the water she leaked abominably. But during the
night she swelled and in the morning it was possible to bail her
out.

O'Reilly had to acknowledge himself but poorly pleased with the
boat. Branch called her a coffin and declared it was suicide to
venture to sea in her, an opinion shared by the Cubans, but the
girls were enchanted. To them this fragile bark looked stout and
worthy; they were in a fever to be gone.

On the second afternoon the trade-wind died to a gentle zephyr, so
the cocoanuts and other food were quickly put aboard, a bed of
bows was rigged beneath the rawhide forecastle and Esteban was
laid upon it. Then adieux were said and a start was made.

From the point of leaving it was perhaps five miles across the
sound to the fringe of keys which in this neighborhood bordered
the old Bahama Channel with its unplumbed depths of blue water.
Here it was calm, so the run was soon made. The boat handled well
enough, all things considered; nevertheless, to O'Reilly, her
navigator, it was an anxious hour. Not only was he forced to keep
a sharp lookout for blockading gunboats, but he feared he was
doing wrong in committing his precious freight to the
uncertainties of the Atlantic. Even had he been alone, with a crew
of able sailors under him, this voyage would have daunted him, for
it was without doubt the wildest adventure in which he had ever
participated. When he hinted at these fears and put the matter
before his companions for a final test, Branch refused to speak,
but Esteban and the girls were earnestly in favor of pushing on.
Jacket, of course, loudly seconded them.

At sunset they entered a pass and ran between low mangrove banks.
The tide was ebbing and it hurried them through and out into the
open sea, where they felt the lift of the mighty ocean swell. Over
these slow undulations the sailboat plowed, heading toward the
empty northern horizon, with the kindling Pole Star as a beacon.
The sky was clear, the sea was gently roughened by the night
breeze, the constellations grew bright and appeared to hang low.

When the coast-line of Cuba had become a blur astern Rosa crept
back and seated herself beside her husband.

"I breathe freely for the first time since that day when Don Mario
came to offer me marriage," she told him. "The past is beginning
to seem like a bad, bad dream and I feel a great hope, a great
gladness. I am reborn, O'Rail-ye."

"A few hours more and we can all breathe easy." He smiled down at
her. She laid her small palm over his fingers which grasped the
steering-oar, whereupon he cried with pretended sternness: "Avast
there! Don't distract the attention of the skipper or he'll sail
his boat in circles. Look out or he'll send you below."

Rosa persisted mutinously, so he punished her with a kiss planted
fairly upon her pouting lips, whereupon she nestled closer to him.
"How much I love you," she whispered. "But I never can tell you,
for we are never alone. Was there ever such a courtship, such a
marriage, and such a wedding journey as ours?"

"We're the owl and the pussy-cat who went to sea in a beautiful
pea-green boat, 'With plenty of honey and lots of money, wrapped
up in a ten-pound note.' Some day when we've settled down in our
Harlem flat, and I'm working hard, we'll look back on this and
consider it romantic, thrilling. Maybe we'll long for excitement."

"Not I," Rosa shivered. "To be safe, to have you all to myself
where I can spoil you, that will be excitement enough."

"We'll rent that little apartment I looked at, or one just like
it."

"But, O'Rail-ye, we're rich."

"I--I'd forgotten that. Then let's pretend to be poor. Think how
our neighbors would talk about that pretty Mrs. O'Reilly on the
fourth floor, and her magnificent jewels. They'd swear I was a
smuggler."

As the evening lengthened and the boat forged steadily ahead the
two sat murmuring happily. Forward, another bride and groom were
similarly engaged. Branch and Jacket took turns bailing.

It proved to be a long, long night, for the boat, though roomy,
was uncomfortable. O'Reilly steered as straight a course as he
could without compass, but toward morning he saw that the sky was
growing overcast and his apprehensions stirred anew. Daylight
brought an increased breeze which heeled the boat further. She
made better speed, but she likewise took more water through her
seams and it became necessary to lend Leslie and Jacket a hand
with the bailing. The deep channel was far behind now, and they
were on the shallow Bahama Banks; beneath them they could glimpse
beds of sponges, patches of coral, white bottom with occasional
forests of brilliant-hued sea fans. The horizon still remained
vacant and the tip of Andros lay far to the north.

Fortunately the haze was not thick enough to wholly obscure the
sun and so O'Reilly was enabled to hold his course. But he did not
like the look of things.

By ten o'clock the sea was tumbling and the worm-eaten hulk was
laboring. It became necessary to shorten sail. Soon the bottom of
the boat was awash and Esteban lay in a pool of brine. Even when
the girls helped to dip it out they could not lower its level. The
wind freshened steadily; all hands worked desperately, wet to the
skin.

In time there came a spiteful drizzle which completely hid the sun
and left no indication of the course except the direction whence
drove the rain.

No one spoke now. Even Esteban lay silent, shivering miserably
upon his sodden bed. In obedience to O'Reilly's command Jacket
flung overboard all but a half-dozen of the remaining cocoanuts.
Rosa finally straightened her aching back and smiled at her
husband.

"Are we going down?" she asked.

"Oh no! This is merely a squall," he told her, with an assumption
of confidence he was far from feeling.

Johnnie tried to reason himself into a more hopeful frame of mind.
He assured himself that he and his companions had survived too
many perils to become the prey of an idle breeze like this; he
argued that no fate could be so cruel as to cheat them when they
were so close to safety. But this manful effort brought him little
comfort in the face of the chilling rain and with the whitecaps
curling higher.

Deliverance came suddenly, and from the least-expected quarter.
Out of the mist to starboard there materialized a shape, a
schooner driving ahead of the wind. The refugees descried her
simultaneously and stood ankle deep in the wash, waving their hats
and their calabashes, and shouting crazily until she saw them and
fetched up.

Intense thanksgiving, a melting relief, robbed O'Reilly of half
his strength; his hands were shaking, his muscles weak; he could
barely bring his craft alongside. He saw black faces staring down,
he heard cries of amazement and surprised inquiries, then a
heaving-line came aboard and the leaky tub was drawn close.

There was a babble of voices, shouted questions, hysterical
answers. Rosa was weeping softly; Norine had lifted Esteban and
now clutched him tight, while her tears fell upon his face.

The schooner was a sponger bound for Nassau; its blackbird crew
spoke English and they willingly helped the strangers overside,
laughing and shouting in a child-like display of excitement. How
firm, how grateful was the feel of that stout deck! How safe the
schooner's measured roll! O'Reilly's knees gave way, he clutched
with strained and aching fingers at the rigging to support
himself, leaving Branch and Jacket to tell the surprising story of
their presence here. Soon there was hot food and coffee, dry beds
and blankets for those who needed them.

Johnnie tucked his bride snugly into one of the hard berths, then
stooped and kissed her. Rosa's teeth were chattering, but she
smiled happily.

"God's hand directed us," she said. "One only needs to pray long
enough and strong enough and He will hear."

 It was a month later. Quaint old Nassau lay dozing under an
afternoon sun. Its wide shell streets, its low houses, the beach
against which it crowded, were dazzling white, as if the town had
been washed clean, then spread out to bleach. Upon the horizon Jay
tumbled, foamy cloud masses, like froth blown thither from the
scene of the cleansing. A breeze caused the surface of the harbor
to dance and dimple merrily, the sound of laughter came from the
water-front where barefoot spongers and fishermen were busy with
their boats and gear. Robust negresses with deep bosoms and
rolling hips balanced baskets and trays upon their heads and stood
gossiping with one another or exchanging shouts with their men
across the water. There was noise here, but the town as a whole
was somnolent, peaceful. It sprawled beside the sea like a lazy
man lost in day dreams and lulled by the lapping surf and the hum
of insects.

Up from the beach came O'Reilly and his youthful alter ego,
Jacket. They were clad in clean white clothes; a month of rest had
done them good. Jacket was no longer wizened; he was plump and
sleek and as full of mischief as a colt, while O'Reilly's leanness
had disappeared and he filled his garments as a man should. They
had spent the day fishing on the reefs and now bore home the
choicest part of their catch.

They turned in through a picket gate and up a walk flanked by
flower-beds and outlined between rows of inverted glass bottles
set side by side, the Bahama idea of neatness and beauty. At the
end of the walk stood a cottage with wide porches hidden beneath
jasmine and honeysuckle and morning-glory vines.

O'Reilly's eyes were shining with anticipation; he yodeled loudly.
But there was no need for him to advertise his return, for at the
first click of the gate-latch a figure had started from the
fragrant bower and now came flying to meet him.

"Look, Rosa!" Jacket lifted the heavy string of fish. "We had
stupendous luck." But Rosa was in her husband's arms and neither
she nor O'Reilly had eyes for anything but each other.

"You were gone for ages," pouted the bride.

"You missed me, eh?"

"See! I caught the biggest ones, as usual," Jacket boasted. "I'm a
skilful fisherman and I talk to my hook, but O'Reilly sits
dreaming about somebody while the little crabs eat all his bait."
When this evoked no notice the boy shrugged in disgust and went on
around the house, muttering: "Caramba! You'd think they'd get
sick of so much billing and cooing. But no! I have to steal him
away and take him swimming or fishing if I want a word alone with
him. And the others are just as bad--another pair of pigeons. It's
like living in a dove-cote."

Rosa, too, had vastly changed. She was clad in a charming little
muslin dress, there were dimples in her cheeks, she wore a heavy
Mardchal Neil bud at her breast. O'Reilly held her off and
devoured her with his eyes.

"Sweetheart, you grow fresher and more beautiful every hour," said
he.

Rosa danced upon her toes, and tugged at him. "But come quickly
and see the surprise we have. I've been wild for your return, so
hurry." She led him swiftly up the steps, and there, standing
beside a chair, was Esteban Varona. "He dressed himself and walked
out here alone. HE'S WELL!"

"Esteban! Really--"

The brother nodded decisively. "It's true. I rebelled at last. To-
morrow I'll walk to the gate and the next day we'll go fishing."

"Jove! How splendid!"

"Why, I'm as firm on my feet as a rock."

Norine emerged through one of the French windows and explained:
"He took advantage of me while I was gone for the mail, and now
he's quite out of control. Here's a letter from Leslie, by the
way. He's home and has a position and hopes we'll follow soon.
There's one bit of news; he says the talk of intervention
increases and he may have to return to Cuba as a war
correspondent. Fancy! He's deathly frightened at the prospect."

"Intervention! That would be fine," Esteban cried. O'Reilly
nodded. "Oh, it's bound to come, and when Uncle Sam takes hold
Cuba will be free."

Norine agreed: "I'm sure of it. And then--we'll all go back to our
rainbow's end and dig for that pot of gold."

Esteban turned adoring eyes upon the speaker; he took her hand in
his. "I've found my rainbow's end," said he.

"And I've found mine," O'Reilly asserted. "I've gained your
father's treasure, and more--I've found the prize of all the
Indies." With his arm about Rosa he drew her into the house.

Esteban lowered himself into his chair and Norine rested herself
upon its arm. He lay back with eyes closed. From the regions at
the rear came the voice of Jacket. The boy was in a declamatory
mood. He had gathered an audience, as was his daily custom, and
was addressing them in English:

"I skilled more'n a dozen Spaniards at Pino Bravo. It was my day.
By rights I should have been made a general, but--"

THE END





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