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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 ne