Rita shook her head, and crept nearer, gazing with wide eyes of fear at the prostrate form beside which Dolores was sitting.



"See, Dolores!" she said; and her tone was as humble as the woman's own. "I must learn—to take care of him—of them!" She nodded at the sufferer. "All my life, you see, I could never bear the sight of blood. To cut my finger, I fainted at the instant. Always they said, 'Poor child! it is her delicacy, her sensibility;' they praised me; I thought it a fine thing, to faint, to turn pale at the word even. Now—oh, Dolores, do you see? I desire to help my country, my brother, all the heroes who are risking their life, are shedding their—their blood—for Cuba. I think I can fight; I forget; I see only the bright shining blades, the victorious banners; I forget that these heroes must bleed, that this horrible blood must flow in streams, in torrents, that oceans of it must overwhelm us, the defenders of my country. Ay de mi! I begged the General even now to let me fight, to let me stand beside my Carlos, and wield my beautiful machete. Suddenly, Dolores—I heard the shots; I heard—terrible sounds! screams—oh, Dios!—screams of men, perhaps of my own brother, in anguish. All at once it came over me—I cannot tell you—I saw it all, the blood, the wounds, the horror to death. I awoke from my dreams; I was a child, do you see, Dolores? I was a child, playing at war, and thinking—thinking the thoughts of a silly, silly child. Now I am awake; now I know—what—what war means. So—I am foolish, but I can learn; I think I can learn. You are a brave woman; I have been watching you through the leaves for half an hour. I saw you—I saw you change those cloths; those terrible bloody cloths on that poor man's head. At first my eyes turned round, I saw black only; but I opened them again, I fixed them on what you held, I watched. Now I can bear quite well to look at it. Help me, Dolores! teach me—to help as you help; teach me to care for these brothers, as you do."

Dolores looked earnestly in the beautiful young face. In spite of the deadly pallor, she saw that the girl was fully herself, was calm and determined. With a simple, noble gesture she lifted Rita's slender hand to her lips, saying merely: "This hand shall bring blessing to many! come, my senorita, and see! it is so easy, when once one knows the way of it."

Very gently the poor peasant's wife showed the rich man's daughter the A B C of woman's work among the sick and suffering. At first Rita could do little more than control her own nerves, and fight down the faintness that came creeping over her at sight of the bandaged faces, ghastly under the brown, of the torn flesh and nerveless limbs. Gradually, however, she began to gain strength. The rough brown hand moved so easily, so lightly; it laid hold of those terrible bandages as if they were mere ordinary bits of linen. Surely now, she, Rita, could do that too. As Dolores took a cloth from her husband's head, the girl's hand was outstretched, took it quietly, and handed a fresh one to the nurse. The cloth she took was covered with red stains. For a moment Rita's head swam, and the world seemed to turn dark before her eyes; but she held the thing firmly, till her sight cleared again; then dropped it in the tub of water that stood ready, and taking up the fan of green palm-leaf, swept it steadily to and fro, driving the clouds of flies and mosquitoes away from the sufferer.

Coming back from his siesta half an hour later, good Doctor Ferrando paused a moment at the entrance of the hospital grove. There were two nurses now; the good man gazed in astonishment at the slender figure kneeling beside one of the rough cots, fanning the wounded man, and singing in a low, sweet voice, a song of Cuba. Several of the men were awake, and gazing at her with delight. Dolores, with a look of quiet happiness on her face, sat beside the bed where her husband was sleeping peacefully. "Come!" said the doctor, "war, after all, has its beauty as well as its terror. Observe this heavenly sight, you benevolent saints!" he waved his cigar upward, inviting the attention of all attendant spirits. "Consider this lovely child, awakened to the holiness of womanhood! and the General will destroy all this to-morrow, from respect for worldly conventions! He is without doubt right; yet, what a pity!"



CHAPTER VII.

CAMP SCENE.

"If I must, dear Senor General—I will be good, I will, indeed; but my heart will break to leave Carlos, and the camp, and you, Senor General."

"My dear child,—my dear young lady, what pleasure for me to keep you here! the first sunshine of the war, it came with you, Senorita Margarita. Nevertheless, duty is duty; I should be wanting in mine, most wofully and wickedly wanting, if I allowed you to remain here, in hourly danger, when a few hours could place you in comparative safety. Perfect safety, I do not promise. Where shall we find it, even for our nearest and dearest, in this poor distracted country? But with Don Annunzio and his family you will be safe at least for a time; whereas here—" The General looked around, and shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands out with a dramatic gesture. "The Gringos have learned the way to our mountain camp; they will not forget it. Another attack may come any night; our camp is an outpost, placed of purpose to guard this position, which must of necessity be one of danger. To have women with us—it is not only exposing them to the terrible possibilities of war, but—"

He paused. "I see!" cried Rita. "I see! you are too kind to say it, but we are a burden upon you. We make harder the work; we are an encumbrance. Dear Senor General, I go! I fly! Give me half, a quarter of an hour, and I am gone. Never, never, will I be in the way of my country's defenders; never! Too long we have stayed already; Manuela shall make on the instant our packets, and in a little hour you shall forget that we were here at all."

The good General cried out, "No! no! my dear child, my dear senorita; cease these words, I implore you. You cut me to the heart. Consider the help that you have brought to us; consider the nursing, the tender care that you and the wife of Valdez have given to our sufferers, in the rancho there. Never will this be forgotten, rest assured of that. But—it is true that you must go; yet not too soon. This evening, when the coolness falls, Don Carlos, with a chosen escort, will conduct you to the residence of Don Annunzio. There, I rejoice to think that you will find, not luxury, but at least some few of the comforts of ordinary life. Here you have suffered; your lofty spirit will not confess it, but you have—you must have suffered, delicate and fragile as you are, in the rough life of a Cuban camp. Enough! The day is before you, dearest senorita. I pray you, while it lasts, make use of me, of all that the camp contains, in whatever way you can imagine. I would make the day a pleasant one, if I might. Command me, dear senorita, in anything and everything. The camp is yours, with all it contains."

He bowed with courtly grace, and Rita courtsied and then turned quickly away, to hide the tears that would come in spite of her. It was a keen disappointment. When Carlos told her that morning that she must leave the camp, she had refused pointblank. A stormy scene followed, in which the old Rita was only too much in evidence. She raged, she wept, she stamped her little foot. She was a Cuban, as much as he was; she was a nurse, a daughter of the army; no human power should drive her from the ground where she was prepared to shed her last drop of blood for the defenders of her country. Now—a few kind, grave words from a gray-haired man, and all was changed. She was not a necessity, she was a hindrance; she saw that this must be so; the pain was sharp, but she would not show it; she would never again lose her self-control, never. Carlos should see that she was no longer a child. He had called her a child, not half an hour ago, a naughty child, who was making trouble for everybody. Well—Rita stood still; the thought came over her suddenly,—it was true! she had been childish, had been naughty. Suppose Margaret or Peggy should behave so, stamping and storming; how would it seem? Oh, well, that was different. Their blood was cool, almost cold. It flowed sluggishly in their veins. She was a child of the South; it was not to be expected that she should be like Margaret. Yes! but—the thought would come, troubling all her mind; suppose Margaret were here, with her calm sense, her cheerful face, and tranquil voice; would not she be of more use, of more help, than a girl who could not help screaming when she was in a passion?

These thoughts were new to Rita Montfort. Full of them, she walked slowly to her hut, with bent head, and eyes full of unshed tears. Meanwhile, the good General went back to his tent, where Carlos awaited him with some anxiety.

"Well?" he asked, as the gray head bent under the tent-flaps.

"Well," responded his commander. "It is very well, my son. The senorita—she is adorable, do you know it? Never have I seen a more lovely young person! The senorita is most reasonable. She comprehends; she understands the desolation that it is to me to send away so delightful a visitor; nevertheless—she accepts all, with her own exquisite grace."

Carlos shrugged his shoulders; that same exquisite grace had flashed a dagger in his eyes not ten minutes before, vowing that it should be sheathed in the owner's heart before she left the camp; but it was not necessary to say this to the General. Carlos was an affectionate brother, and was honestly relieved and glad to find that Rita had come to her senses. He thanked General Sevillo warmly for his good offices, and, being off duty, went in search of his sister, determining that he would make her last day in camp a pleasant one, so far as lay in his power. He found Rita sitting sadly in the door of her hut, watching Manuela, who was packing up their belongings, unwillingly enough. Manuela had enjoyed her stay in camp greatly, and thought life would be very dull, in comparison, at Don Annunzio's cottage; but there was no escape, and the white silk blouse and the swansdown wrapper went into the bag with all the other fineries.

"Come, Rita," said Carlos, taking his sister's hand affectionately; "come with me, and let me show you some things that you have not yet seen. You must not forget the camp. Who knows? Some day you may come back to pay us a visit."

Rita shook her head, and the tears came to her eyes again; but she drove them back bravely, and smiled, and laid her hand in her brother's; and they passed out together among the palm-trees.

Manuela looked after them, and laid her hand on her heart; it was a gesture that she had often seen her mistress use, and it seemed to her infinitely touching and beautiful. "Ohime," sighed Manuela. "War is terrible, indeed! To think that we must go away, just when we are so comfortable. But where, then, is this idiot? Pepe! When I call you, will you come, animal? Pepe!"

The thicket near the rancho rustled and shook, and Pepe appeared. This young man presented a different figure from the forlorn one that had greeted the two girls on their first arrival at the camp. His curly hair was now carefully brushed and oiled. The scarlet handkerchief was still tied about his head, but it was tied now with a grace that might have done credit to the most dandified matador in the Havana ring. His jacket was neatly mended; altogether, Pepe was once more a self-respecting, even a self-admiring youth. Also, he admired Manuela immensely, and lost no opportunity of telling that she was the light of his eyes and the flower of his soul. He was now beginning some remarks of this description, but Manuela interrupted him, laying her pretty brown hand unceremoniously on his lips.

"For once, Pepe, endeavour to possess a small portion of sense," she said. "Listen to me! We must leave the camp."

"How then, marrow of my bones! Leave the camp? You and I?"

"I am speaking to a monkey, then, instead of a man? The use, I ask you, of addressing intelligent remarks to such a corporosity? My mistress and I, simpleton. This General of yours drives us from his quarters; he begrudges the morsel we eat, the rude hut that shelters us. Enough! we go; even now I make preparation. Pull this strap for me, Pepe; at least you have strength. Ah! If I were but a great stupid man, it would be well with me this day!"

"But well for no one else, my idol," said Pepe, tugging away at the strap. "Desolation and despair for the rest of mankind, Rose of the Antilles. Accidental death to this bag! why have you filled it so full? There! it is strapped. Manuela, is it possible that I live without you? No! I shall fall an easy victim to the first fever that comes; already I feel it scorching my—"

"Oh, a paralysis upon you! Can I exercise my thoughts, with the chatter of a parrot in my ears? Attend, then, Pepe,—you will miss me a little, will you? Just a very little?"

Pepe opened his mouth for new and fiery protestations, but was bidden peremptorily to shut it again.

"I desire now to hear myself speak," said Manuela. "I weary, Pepe, for the sound of my own poor little voice. Listen, then! These days I have been here, and you have never asked me what I brought with me for you; brought all that cruel way from the city. I knew I should find you somewhere, my good Pepe; or, if not you, some other friend, some other good son of Cuba. I thought of you, I remembered you, even in the rush of our departure. See! It is yours. May it bring you fortune!"

She handed him a little packet, neatly folded in white paper, and tied with a crimson ribbon. Receiving it with dramatic eagerness, Pepe opened it and looked with delight at its contents.

"A detente!" he cried. "Manuela! and the most beautiful that has been seen upon the earth. This is not for me! No! Impossible! The General alone is worthy to wear this object of an elegance so resplendent."

Reassured on this point, he proceeded to pin the emblem on his jacket, and contemplated it with delighted pride. It was a simple thing enough; a square of white flannel the size of an ordinary needlebook, neatly scalloped around the edge with white silk. In the centre was embroidered a crimson heart, and under it the words, "Detente! pienso en ti!" ("Be of good cheer! I think of thee!")

"And did you really think of me, Manuela?" cried the delighted Pepe. "Did you, bright and gay, in the splendid city, think of the lonely soldier?"

"Yes, I did," said Manuela, "when I had nothing else to do. And now you may go away, Pepe, I am busy; I cannot attend to you any longer."

"But," said Pepe, bewildered, "you called me, Manuela."

"Yes; to strap my bag. It is done; I thank you. It is finished."

"And—you have given me the detente, moon of my soul!"

"Then you cannot complain that I never gave you anything. And now I give you one thing more,—leave to depart. Adios, Don Pepe!" and she actually shut the door of the hut in the face of her astonished adorer, who departed muttering strange things concerning the changeableness of all women, and of Manuela in particular.

Meanwhile, Rita and Carlos were wandering about the camp, and Rita was seeing, as her brother promised, some things that were new to her, even after a stay of nearly a week. She saw the kitchen, or what passed for a kitchen,—a pleasant spot under a palm-tree, where the cook was even then toasting long strips of meat over the parilla, a kind of gridiron, made by simply driving four stakes, and laying bits of wood across and across them, then lighting a fire beneath.

"But why does it not burn up, your parilla?" asked Rita of the long, lean, coffee-coloured soldier, picturesque and ragged, who was turning the strips with a forked stick.

"Pardon, gracious senorita, it does burn up; not the first time, nor perhaps the second, but without doubt the third."

"And then?"

"And then,—it is but to build another. An affair of a moment, senorita."

"But does not the meat often fall into the fire when it breaks?"

"Sufficiently often, most noble. What of that? It imparts a flavour of its own; one brushes off the ashes—soldiers do not dine at the Hotel Royal, one must observe. May I offer the senorita a bit of this excellent beef? This has not fallen down at all, or at most but once, one little time."

Rita thanked him, but was not hungry. At least she would have a cup of guarapo, the hospitable cook begged; and he hastened to bring her a cup of polished cocoanut shell, filled with the favourite drink, which was simply hot water with sugar dissolved in it. Rita took the cup graciously, and drank to the health of the camp, and to the freedom of Cuba; the cook responded with many bows and profuse thanks for the honour she had done him, and the brother and sister passed on.

"There are some good bananas near here," said Carlos; "little red ones, the kind you like, Rita. I'll fill a basket for you to take with you; Don Annunzio's may not be so good."

They were making their way through a tangle of tall grass and young palm-trees, when suddenly Rita stopped, and laid her hand on her brother's arm.

"Look!" she said. "Look yonder, Carlos! The grass moves."

"A snake, perhaps," said Carlos; "or a land-crab. Stand here a moment, and I will go forward and see."

He advanced, looking keenly at the clump of yellowish grass that Rita had pointed out. Certainly, the grass did move. It quivered, waved from side to side, then seemed to settle down, as if an invisible hand were pulling it from below. Carlos drew his machete, and bent forward; whereupon a loud yell was heard, and the clump of grass shot up into the air, revealing a black face, and a pair of rolling eyes.

"What is it?" cried Rita, in terror. "Carlos, come back to me! It is a devil!"

"Only a scout!" said her brother, laughing. "One of our own men on outpost duty. Have peace, Pablo! your hour is not yet come."

"Caramba! I thought it was, my captain!" said the negro scout, grinning. "Better be a crab than a Cuban in these days."

He was a singular figure indeed. From head to waist he was literally clothed in grass, bunches of it being tied over his head and round his neck and shoulders, falling to his thighs. A pair of ragged trousers of no particular colour completed his costume. A more perfect disguise could not be imagined; indeed, except when he lifted his head, he was not to be distinguished from the clumps and tufts of dry grass all about him.

"Pablo is a good scout!" said Carlos, approvingly. "No Gringo could possibly see you till he stepped on you, Pablo; and then—"

"And then!" said Pablo, grinning from ear to ear; and he drew his machete and went through an expressive pantomime which, if carried out, would certainly have left very little of Gringo or any one else.

"Is your post near here? show it! The senorita would like to see how a Cuban scout lives."

Pablo, a man of few words, gave a pleased nod, and scuttled away through the bush, beckoning them to follow. Rita, stepping carefully along, holding her brother's hand, kept her eyes on the scout for a few moments; then he seemed to melt into the rest of the grass, and was gone. A few steps more, and they almost fell over him, as his black face popped up again, shaking back its grassy fringes.

"Behold the domicile of Pablo!" he said, with a magnificent gesture. "The property, with all it contains, of the senorita and the Senor Captain Don Carlos."

Brother and sister tried to look becomingly impressed as they surveyed the domain. Close under a waving palm-tree a rag of brown canvas was stretched on two sticks laid across upright branches stuck in the ground. Under this awning was space for a man to sit, or even to lie down, if he did not mind his feet being in the sun. A small iron pot, hung on three sticks over some blackened stones, showed where the householder did his cooking; a heap of leaves and grass answered for bed and pillows; this was the domicile of Pablo.

Breaking a twig from a neighbouring shrub, the scout bent over the pot, and speared a plantain, which he offered to Rita with grave courtesy. She took it with equal dignity, thanking him with her most gracious smile, and ate it daintily, praising its flavour and the perfection of its cooking till the good negro's face shone with pleasure.

"And you stay here alone, Pablo?" she asked. "How long? you are not afraid? No, of course not that; you are a soldier. But lonely! is it not very lonely here, at night above all?"

Pablo spread out his hands. "Senorita, possibly—if it were not for the crabs. These good souls—they have the disposition of a Christian!—sit with me, in the intervals of their occupations, and are excellent company. They cannot talk, but that suits me very well. Then, there is always the chance of some one coming by—as to-day, when the Blessed Virgin sends the senorita and the Senor Don Carlos. Also at any moment the devil may send me a Gringo; their scouts are as plenty as scorpions. No, senorita, I am not lonely. It is a fine life! In a prison, you see, it would be quite otherwise."

"But there are other ways of living, Pablo, beside scouting and going to prison," said Rita, much amused.

"Without doubt! Without doubt!" said Pablo, cheerfully. "And assuredly neither would befit the senorita. May she live as happy as she is beautiful, the sun being black beside her. Adios, senorita; adios, Senor Captain Don Carlos!"

"Adios, good Pablo! good luck to you and your crabs!" and laughing and waving a salute, they left the scout nodding his grass-crowned head like a transformed mandarin, and went back to the camp.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE PACIFICOS.

A long, low adobe house, brilliantly white with plaster; a verandah with swinging hammocks; the inevitable green blinds; the inevitable cane and banana patch; this was Don Annunzio's. Don Annunzio Carreno himself (to give him his full name for once, though he seldom heard or used it) sat in a large rocking-chair on the verandah, smoking. He was enormously stout and supremely placid, and he looked the picture of peace and prosperity, in his spotless white suit and broad-brimmed hat.

To Rita, weary after her ten miles' ride from the camp, the whole place seemed a page out of a picture-book. Her mind was filled with rugged and startling images: the rude hospital, with its ghastly sights and homely though devoted tendance; the ragged soldiers, with head or arm bound in bloody bandages; the camp fire and kitchen, the scout in his grassy panoply. Her eyes had grown accustomed to sights like these, and the bright whiteness of house and householder, the trim array of flower-beds and kitchen-garden, struck her as strange and artificial. She felt as if Don Annunzio ought to be wound up from behind, and was whimsically surprised to see him rise and come forward to meet them.

Carlos made his explanation, and presented General Sevillo's letter. Don Annunzio's hat was already in his hand and he was bowing to Rita with all the grace his size allowed; but now he implored them to enter the house, which he declared he occupied henceforward only at their pleasure.

"If the senorita will graciously descend!" said the good man. "On the instant I call my wife. Prudencia! Where are you, then? Visitors, Prudencia; visitors of distinction. Hasten quickly!"

A woman appeared in the doorway; tall and lean, clad in brown calico, with a sun-bonnet to match, but with apron and kerchief as snowy as Don Annunzio's "ducks."

"For the land's sake!" said Senora Carreno.

Rita looked up quickly.

"Visitors, my love!" Don Annunzio explained rapidly, in good enough English. "The Senor Captain and the Senorita Montfort, bringing a note from his Excellency General Sevillo. The senorita will remain with us for some days; I have placed all at her disposal; I—"

"There, Noonsey!" said the lady, not unkindly. "You set down, and let me see what's goin' on."

She laid a powerful hand on her husband's shoulder, and pushed him into his chair again; then advanced to the verandah steps, regarding the newcomers with frank but cheerful scrutiny.

"What's all this?" she said. "Good mornin'! Yes, it's a fine day. Won't you step in?"

Carlos told his story, and asked permission for his sister and her maid to spend some days at the house until some permanent place could be found for her.

The senora considered with frowning brows, not of anger but of consideration.

"Well," she said, "I did say I wouldn't take no more boarders. I had trouble with the last ones, and said I'd got through accommodatin' folks. Still—I dunno but we could manage—does she understand when she's spoke to—English, I mean?"

"Yes, indeed, I do!" cried Rita, coming forward. "I am only half Cuban; it is good to hear you speak. If you will let me stay, I will try to give little trouble. May I stay, please?"

"Well, I guess you may!" cried the New England woman. "You walk right in and lay off your things, and make yourself to home. The idea! Why didn't you say—why, it's as good as a meal o' victuals to hear you speak. Been to the States, have you? Well, now, if that don't beat all! Noonsey, you go and tell Jose we shall want them chickens for supper. Set down, young man! This your hired gal, dear? Does she speak English? Well no, I s'pose not."

She said a few words to Manuela in Spanish which, if not melodious, was intelligible, and then led Rita into the house, talking all the way.

"Here's the settin'-room; and here's the spare-room off'n it. There! lay your things on the bed, dear. I keep on talkin', when all the time I want to hear you talk. It is good to hear your native speech, say what they will. Husband, he does his best, to please me; but it's like as though he was speakin' molasses, some way. Been in the States to school, did you say?"

Rita told her story: of her American father, who had always spoken English with her and her brother; of the summer spent in the North with her uncle and cousins. "Oh," she said, "you are right. I used to think that I was two-thirds Cuban; I thought I cared little, little, for the American part of me. Now—but it is music to hear you speak, Senora Carreno."

"S'pose you call me Marm Prudence!" said the good woman, half-shyly. "I don't see as 'twould be any harm, and I should like dretful well to hear the name again. I was a widow when I married Don Noonzio. Yes'm. My first husband was captain of a fruit schooner. I voyaged with him considerable. He died in Santiago, and I never went back home: I couldn't seem to. I washed and sewed for families I knew, and then bumbye I married Don Noonzio. He gave me a good home, and he's a good provider. There's times, though, that I'm terrible homesick. There! I don't know what I should do if 'twa'n't for my settin'-room. Did you notice it, comin' through? I just go there and set sometimes, and look round, and cry. It does me a sight o' good."

Rita had indeed glanced around the sitting-room as she passed through it, but it said nothing to her. The six haircloth chairs, the marble-topped centre-table with its wool and bead mat, its glass lamp with the red wick, its photograph-album and gilt family Bible, did not speak her language. Neither did the mantelpiece, with its two china poodles and its bunches of dried grasses in vases of red and white Bohemian glass. The Cuban girl could not know how eloquent were all these things to the exiled Vermont woman; but she looked sympathetic, and felt so, her heart warming to the homely soul, with her rugged speech and awkward gestures.

Marm Prudence now insisted that her guest must be tired, and brought out a superb quilt, powdered with red and blue stars, to tuck her up under; but word came that Captain Montfort was going, and Rita hurried out to the verandah to bid him farewell. Carlos took her in his arms, affectionately. "How is it, then, little sister?" he asked. "Are you reconciled at all? Can you stay here in peace a little, with these good people?"

Rita returned his caress heartily. "You were right, Carlos!" she said. "You and the dear General were both right. It was wonderful to be there in camp; I shall never forget it; I hope I shall be better all my life for it; but I could not have stayed long, I see that now. Here I shall be taken care of; here I shall rest, as under a grandmother's care. This good Marm Prudence,—that is what I am to call her, Carlos,—already I love her, already she tends me as a bird tends her young. Ah, Carlos, you will not neglect Chico? I leave him as a sacred legacy. The men implored me so. They said the bird had brought them good fortune once, and would be their salvation again; I had not the heart to take him from them. You will see that they do not feed him too much? Already he has had a fit of illness from too much kindness on the part of our faithful soldiers. Thank you! and have no thought of me, my brother; all will be well with me. Return to your glorious duty, son of Cuba. It may be that even here, in this peaceful spot, it may be given to your Rita to serve the mother we both adore. Adios, Carlos! Heaven be with thee!"

Carlos, who was of a practical turn of mind, was always uncomfortable when Rita spread her rhetorical wings. He did not see why she could not speak plain English. But he kissed her affectionately, heartily glad that he could leave her content with her surroundings; and with a cordial farewell to the good people of the house, he rode away, followed by his clanking orderlies, leading the horse Rita had ridden.

While all this had been going on, Manuela had been arranging her mistress's things; shaking out the crumpled dresses, brushing off the bits of grass and broken straw that clung to hem and ruffle, mementoes of the days in camp. Manuela sighed over these relics, and shook her head mournfully.

"Poor Pepe!" she said. "If only he does not fall into a fever from grief! Ah, love is a terrible thing! Dios! what a rent in the senorita's serge skirt! A paralysis on the brambles in that place! yet it was a good place. At least there was life. One heard voices, neighing of horses, jingling of stirrups. Here we shall grow into two young cabbages beside that old one, my senorita and her poor Manuela. Ah, life is very sad!"

Here Manuela chanced to look out of the window, and saw a handsome Creole boy leading a horse to water in the courtyard. Instantly her face lighted up. She flew to the looking-glass, and was arranging her hair with passionate eagerness, when the door opened, and Rita entered, followed by their kind hostess. Manuela started, then turned to drop a demure courtsey. "I was examining the glass," she explained, "to see if it was fit for the senorita to use. These common mirrors, you understand, they draw the countenance this way, that way,—" she expressed her meaning in vivid pantomime,—"one thinks one's visage of caoutchouc. But this is passable; I assure you, senorita, passable."

"Well, I declare!" said Marm Prudence. "My best looking-glass, that I brought from Chelsea, Massachusetts, when I was first married! If it ain't good enough for you, young woman, you're free to do without it, and so I tell you."

She spoke with some severity, but softened instantly as she turned to Rita. "Now you'll lie down and rest you a spell, won't you, dear?" she said. "I must go and see about supper, and I sha'n't be satisfied till I see you tucked up under my 'Old Glory spread.' That's what I call it; it has the colours, you see. There! comfortable? Now you shut your pretty eyes, and have a good sleep. And you," she added, turning to Manuela, "can come and help me a spell, if you've nothing better to do. I'm short-handed; help is turrible skurce in war-time, and I can keep you out of Satan's hands, if nothing else."



CHAPTER IX.

IN HIDING.

"You busy, Miss Margaritty?"

It was Marm Prudence's voice, and at the sound Rita opened her door quickly. She and Manuela had been holding a mournful consultation over the state of her wardrobe, which had had rough usage during the past two weeks, and she was glad of an interruption.

"I thought mebbe you'd like to come and set with me a spell while I worked."

"Oh, yes!" cried Rita, eagerly. "And may I not work, too? Isn't there something I can do to help?"

"Why, I should be pleased!" said the good woman. "I'm braidin' hats for the soldiers. I promised a dozen to-morrow night. It's pretty work; mebbe you'd like to try."

"For the soldiers? For our soldiers? Oh, what joy, Marm Prudencia! No, Prudence, you like better that. Show me, please! I burn to begin."

"Why, you're real eager, ain't you?" said Marm Prudence. "Now I'm glad I spoke; I thought mebbe 'twould suit you. Young folks like to be at something."

In a few minutes the two were seated on the cool inner verandah, looking out on the garden, with a great basket between them, heaped with delicate strips of palmetto leaf, white and smooth.

"Husband, he whittles 'em for me," Marm Prudence explained. "It's occupation for him. Fleshy as he is, he can't get about none too much, and this keeps his hands busy. It's hard to be a man and lose the activity of your limbs. But there! there's compensations, I always say. If Noonsey was as he was ten years ago, he'd be off with the rest, and then where'd I be?"

"Then"—Rita's eyes flashed, and she bent nearer her hostess, and spoke low. "Then you are not at heart pacificos, Marm Prudence. On the surface, I understand, I comprehend, it is necessary; but au fond, in your secret hearts, you are with us; you are Cubans. Is it not so? It must be so!"

"Oh, land, yes!" said Marm Prudence, composedly. "I'm an American, you see; and husband, he's a Cuban five generations back. We don't have no dealin's with the Gringos, more than we're obleeged to. Livin' right close t' the road as we do, we can't let out the way we feel, but I guess there's mighty few Mambis about here but knows where to come when they want things. There ain't many so bold as your brother, to come in open daylight, but come night, they're often as thick as bats about the garden here. There! I have to shoo' em off sometimes; yet I like to have 'em, too."

Rita's face glowed with excitement. "Oh, Marm Prudence," she cried; "how glorious! Oh, what fortune, what joy, to be here with you! We will work together; we will toil; our blood shall flow in fountains, if it is needed. Embrace me, mother of Cuba!"

Marm Prudence put on her spectacles, and surveyed the excited girl with some anxiety.

"Let me feel your pult, dear!" she said, soothingly. "You got a touch o' sun, like as not, riding in that heat this morning. Now there's no call to get worked up, or talk about blood-sheddin'. Blood-sheddin' ain't in our line, yours nor mine, nor husband's neither. Fur as doin' goes, we're all pacificos here, Miss Margaritty, and you mustn't forget that. Just wait a minute, and I'll go and git you a cup of my balm-tea; 'tis real steadyin' to the nerves, and I expect yours is strung up some with all you've be'n through."

Rita protested that she was perfectly well, and not at all excited; but she submitted, and drank the balm-tea meekly, as it was cold and refreshing.

"It is my ardent nature!" she explained. "It is the fire of my patriotism which consumes me. Do you not feel it, Marm Prudence, oftentimes, like a flame in your bosom?"

No, Marm Prudence was not aware that she did. Things took folks different, she said, placidly. She had an aunt when she was a little gal, that used to have spasms reg'lar every time she heard the baker's cart. Some thought she had had hopes of the baker before he married a widow woman, but you couldn't always account for these things. What a pretty braid Rita was getting!



Indeed, the work suited Rita's nimble fingers to perfection, and yard after yard of snowy braid rolled over her lap and grew into a pile at her feet. She was eager to make her first hat. After an hour or two of braiding, she discovered that it suited Manuela's genius better than her own. The basket of splints was turned over to the willing handmaiden, and good-natured Marm Prudence showed Rita how to sew the braids together smooth and flat, and initiated her into the mysteries of crown and brim. In a creditably short space of time, Rita, with infinite pride, held her first hat aloft, and twirled it round and round on her finger.

"But, it is perfect!" she cried. "The shape, the colour, the air of it. Manuela, quick! a mirror! hold it for me—so! look!" She took the ribbon from her belt, and began to twist it in one coquettish knot after another about the hat, which she had set on her dark hair.

"Is that chic? Is it adorable, I ask you? Was such a hat ever seen in Paris? Never! I wear no other from this day on; hear me swear it! It will become the rage; I will make it so. Or—no! I will keep to myself the secret, and others will die of envy. I name it, Manuela. The Prudencia, for thee, my kind hostess. Why do you laugh?"

Marm Prudence was twinkling in her quiet way. "I was only thinkin' there'd have to be one soldier boy go without his hat to-morrow!" she said, good-humouredly. "It does look nice on you, though, Miss Margaritty, that's certin."

Blushing scarlet, Rita tore the hat from her head.

"Ah!" she cried, casting it on the floor. "Wretch, ingrate, serpent that I am! Take away the glass, girl! take it away; break it into a thousand pieces, to shame my vanity, and never speak to me of hats again. Henceforward I tie a shawl over my head, for the remainder of my life; I have said it."

Much depressed, she worked away in silence, as if her life depended upon it. Manuela, shrugging her shoulders, carried off the glass, but did not think it necessary to obey the injunction to break it. She was used to her senorita's outbreaks, and returned placidly to her braiding as if nothing had happened.

The good hostess regarded her pretty visitor with some alarm, mingled with amusement and admiration. She might have her hands full, she thought, if she attempted to keep this young lady occupied, and out of mischief. The time when she was asleep was likely to be the most peaceful time in Casa Annunzio. Yet how pretty she was! and what a pleasure it was to hear her speak, something between a bird and a flute. On the whole, Marm Prudence thought her coming a thing to be thankful for.

Talking with Don Annunzio himself that evening, Rita found him far less guarded than his wife in his expression of patriotic zeal. He echoed her saying, that every Mambi in the country knew where to come when he wanted anything; and he went on to draw lurid pictures of what he would do to the Gringos if he but had the power.

"See, senorita!" he said, in his wheezy, asthmatic voice. "I am powerless, am I not? Already of a certain age, I am afflicted with an accession of flesh; moreover, I am short of breath, owing to this apoplexy of an asthma. Worse than this, my legs, if the senorita can pardon the allusion, refuse now these two years to do their office. With two sticks, I can hobble about the house and garden; without them, behold me a fixture. How, then? When the war breaks out, I go to my General, to General Sevillo, under whom I served in the ten years' war. I say to him, 'Things are thus and thus with me, but still I would serve my country. Give me a horse, and let me ride with you as an orderly.' Alas! it may not be. 'Annunzio,' he says, 'your day of service in the field is over. Stay at home, and help our men when they call upon you. Thus you can do more good ten-fold than you could do in the saddle.'

"Ohime! my heart is broken; it is reduced to powder, but what will you? reason, joined to authority,—I am but a simple man, and I obey. Since then, I sit and whittle splints for my admirable wife. A woman, senorita, to rule a nation! The Gringos pass by, and see me working at my trade. I greet them civilly, I supply requisitions when backed by authority; again, what will you? I suffer in silence till their back is turned, and my maledictions accompany them along the road. Ah! if none of them had longer life than I wish him, the road would be encumbered with corpses. Then,—draw your chair nearer, senorita, if you will have the infinite graciousness,—then, at night—it may be this very night—the others come. Hush! yes—the Mambis; the sons of Cuba. Quietly, by ones, by twos, they appear, dropping from the sky, rising from the earth. Then—ha! then, you shall see. Not a word more, Senorita Margarita! Donna Prudencia is a pearl, an empress among women, but rightly named; she complains that I talk too much on these subjects. But when one's heart is in the field, and one's legs refuse to follow,—again, what would you? No matter! silence is golden! Wait but a little, and you shall see. Who knows? It may be this very night."

Thus Don Annunzio, with many nods and winks, and gestures of dramatic caution. His words fanned the flame of Rita's zeal, and she longed for one of the promised nocturnal visits. That night and the next she was constantly waking, listening for a whisper, the clank of a chain, the jingle of a spur; but none came, and the nights passed as peacefully as the days. The dozen, and more, were completed; and then, in spite of her vow, Rita found time to make one for herself, certainly as pretty a hat as heart could desire. So pretty, Rita thought it a thousand pities that there was no one beside Don Annunzio and Marm Prudence to see her in it. She sighed, and thought of the camp among the hills, of Carlos and the General, and Don Uberto.

One day, soon after noon, Marm Prudence asked Rita if she would like to take a walk with her. Rita assented eagerly, and put on her pretty hat. She looked on with surprise as Marm Prudence proceeded to take from a cupboard an ample covered basket, from which protruded the neck of a bottle and some plump red bananas.

"Are we going on a picnic, then?" she asked.

The good woman nodded. "You'll see, time enough!" she said. "It's a picnic for somebody, if not for us, Miss Margaritty. Look, dear! is Don Noonsey out in the ro'd there?"

Don Annunzio was out in the road, having made what was quite a journey for him, down the verandah steps, along the garden walk, and across the sunny road. He now stood shading his eyes with his hand, looking this way and that with anxious glances.

At length, "All is quiet!" he said. "The road is clear, and no sign anywhere. Make haste then, mi alma, and cross while yet all is safe."

Beckoning to Rita, Marm Prudence slipped out and across the road swiftly, not pausing till she had gained the screen of a thick clump of cacti. Rita kept close to her side, drinking the mystery like wine. They stood for a few moments behind the aloes; then Don Annunzio spoke again.

"All is still perfect, and you may go without fear. Carry my best greetings whither you are going. At the proper hour I will await you here, and signal when return is safe."

Without wasting words, his wife waved her hand, and turning, plunged into the forest, followed by the delighted Rita.

The tangle of underbrush was higher than their heads, but they made their way quickly, and Rita soon saw that a narrow path wound along through the bush, and that the ground under her feet had been trodden many times. The trees towered high above the dense undergrowth, some leafy and branching, others, the palms, tossing their single plume aloft. Open near the wood, the wood grew thicker and thicker, till it stood like a wall on either side of the narrow footpath; the twigs and leaves, broken and crushed here and there, showed, like the path, the traces of frequent passage.

Rita was burning with curiosity, yet she would not for worlds have asked a question. They were nearing every moment the heart of the mystery; she would not spoil the dramatic effect by prying into it too soon.

Suddenly, a gleam of sunlight struck through the trees. They were near the end of the wood, then. A few steps more, and she caught her breath, with a low cry of amazement.

A round hollow, dipping deep like a cup, with here and there a great tree standing. On one side, a clear spring flowing from a rocky cleft. Under one tree, a hammock slung, and in a hammock a man asleep. Thus much Rita saw at the first glance. The next instant the man was on his feet, and the long barrel of his carbine gleamed level at sight.

"Alto! quien va?" the challenge rang clear and sharp.

"Cuba!" replied Senora Carreno. "For the land's sake, Mr. Delmonty, don't start a person like that. You'd oughter know my sunbunnit by this time."

The young man had already lowered his weapon, and showed a laughing face of apology as he lifted his broad-brimmed hat.

"I beg your pardon, Donna Prudencia," he said. "I was asleep, and dreaming; not of angels!" he added, as he made another low bow, which included Rita in its sweep of respectful courtesy.

He spoke English like an Anglo-Saxon, without trace of accent or hesitation. His hair and complexion were brown, but a pair of bright blue eyes lightened his face in an extraordinary manner.

Who might this be?

"Mr. Delmonty, let me make ye acquainted with Miss Margaritty Montfort!" said Senora Carreno, with some ceremony. "Miss Montfort is stoppin' with us for a spell. Both of you bein' half Yankee, I judged you might be pleased to meet up with each other."

Rita bowed with her most queenly air; then relaxed, as she met the merry glance of the blue eyes.

"Are you?" she said. "I am very glad—but your name is Spanish."

"My father was a Cuban," said the young man; "my mother is American. She was a Russell of Claxton." He paused a moment, as if inviting comment; but Rita, brought up in Cuba, knew nothing of the Russells of Claxton, a famous family.

"I've been in the North most of the time since I was a little shaver," he went on, "at school and college; came down here last year, when things seemed to be brewing. Have you been much in Boston, Miss Montfort? We might have some acquaintances in common."

Rita shook her head, and told him of her one summer in the North. "I hope to go again," she said, "when our country is free. When Cuba has no longer need of her daughters, as well as her sons, I shall gladly return to that fair northern country."

Again she caught a quizzical glance of the blue eyes, and was reminded, she hardly knew why, of her Uncle John. But Uncle John's eyes were brown.

"You are—alone here, Senor Delmonte?" she asked, glancing around the solitary dell.

"Yes," said the young man, composedly. "I'm in hiding."

Rita's eyes flashed. Hiding! a son of Cuba! skulking about in the woods, while his brother soldiers were at the front, or, like Carlos, guarding the hill passes! This was indeed being only half a Cuban. She would have nothing to do with recreant soldiers; and she turned away with a face of cold displeasure.

"How's your foot?" asked Senora Carreno, abruptly. "That last dressing fetch it, do you think?"

"All right!" said the young man. "Look! I have my shoe on." And he held up one foot with an air of triumph. "I shall be ready for the road to-night, and take my troublesome self off your hands, Senora Carreno."

"No trouble at all!" said the good woman, earnestly. "Not a mite of trouble but what was pleasure, Captain Jack."

Captain Jack! where had Rita heard that name? Before she could try to think, her hostess went on.

"Well, I kinder hate to have you go, but of course you're eager, same as all young folks are. But look here! You'd better pass the night with us, and let me see to your foot once more, and give you a good night's sleep in a Christian bed; and then I can mend up your things a bit, and you lay by till night again, and start off easy and comfortable."

"It sounds very delightful," said the young man, with a glance at the charming girl who would stand with her head turned away. "But how about the Gringos, Donna Prudencia? Supposing some of them should come along to-morrow!"

"They won't come to-morrow!" said Marm Prudence, significantly.

"No? you have assurance of that? and why may they not come to-morrow?"

"Because they've come to-day, most likely!"

Rita started, and turned back toward the speakers.

"The Gringos? to-day?" she cried.

Marm Prudence nodded. "That was why I brought you here, dear," she said; "most of the reason, that is. We got word they was most likely comin', quite a passel of 'em; and we judged it was well, Don Noonsey and me, that they shouldn't see you. I thought mebbe," she added, with a sly glance at the basket, "that if I brought a little something extry, we might get an invitation to take a bite of luncheon, but we don't seem to."

"Oh! but who could have supposed that I was to have all the good things in the world?" cried Delmonte, merrily. "This is really too good to be true. Help me, Donna Prudencia, while I set out the feast! Why, this is the great day of the whole campaign."

The two unpacked the basket, with many jests and much laughter; they were evidently old friends. Meantime Rita stood by, uncertain of her own mood. To miss an experience, possibly terrible, certainly thrilling; to have lost an opportunity of declaring herself a daughter of Cuba, possibly of shooting a Spaniard for herself, and to have been deceived, tricked like a child; this brought her slender brows together, ominously, and made her eyes glitter in a way that Manuela would have known well. On the other hand—here was a romantic spot, a young soldier, apparently craven, but certainly wounded, and very good-looking; and here was luncheon, and she was desperately hungry. On the whole—

The tragedy queen disappeared, and it was a cheerful though very dignified young person who responded gracefully to Delmonte's petition that she would do him the favour to be seated at his humble board.



CHAPTER X.

MANUELA'S OPPORTUNITY.

That was a pleasant little meal, under the great plane-tree in the cup-shaped dell. Marm Prudence had kept, through all her years of foreign residence, her New England touch in cookery, and Senor Delmonte declared that it was worth a whole campaign twice over to taste her doughnuts. They drank "Cuba Libre" in raspberry vinegar that had come all the way from Vermont, and Rita was obliged to confess that Senor Delmonte was a charming host, and that she was enjoying herself extremely.

It was late in the afternoon when she and Marm Prudence took their way back through the forest. At first Rita was silent; but as distance increased between them and the dell, she could not restrain her curiosity.

How was it, she asked, that this young man was there alone, separated from his companions? He said he was in hiding. Hiding! a detestable, an unworthy word! Why should a son of Cuba be in hiding, she wished to know! She had worked herself into a fine glow of indignation again, and was ready to believe anything and everything bad about the agreeable youth with the blue eyes.

"I must know!" she repeated, dropping her voice to a contralto note that she was fond of. "Tell me, Marm Prudence; tell me all! have I broken the bread of a recreant?"

"I thought it was my bread," said Marm Prudence, dryly. "I'll tell you, if you'll give me a chance, Miss Margaritty. I supposed, though, that you'd have heard of Jack Delmonty; Captain Jack, as they call him. Since his last raid the Gringos have offered a big reward for him, alive or dead. He was wounded in the foot, and thought he might hender his troop some if he tried to go with them in that state. So he camped here, and we've seen to him as best we could."

Rita was dumb, half with amazement, half with mortification. How was it possible that she had been so stupid? Heard of Captain Jack? where were her wits? the daring guerrilla leader, the pride of the Cuban bands, the terror of all Spaniards in that part of the island. Why, he was one of her pet heroes; only—only she had fancied him so utterly different. The Captain Jack of her fancy was a gigantic person, with blue-black curls, with eyes like wells of black light (she had been fond of this bit of description, and often repeated it to herself), a superb moustache, and a nose absolutely Grecian, like the Santillo nose of tender memory. This half-Yankee stripling, blue-eyed, with a nose that—yes, that actually turned up a little, and the merest feather of brown laid on his upper lip—how could she or any one suppose this to be the famous cavalry leader?

Rita blushed scarlet with distress, as she remembered her bearing, which she had tried to make as scornful as was compatible with good manners. She had meant, had done her best, to show him that she thought lightly of a Cuban soldier who, for what reason soever, proclaimed himself without apology to be "in hiding." To be sure, he had not seemed to feel the rebuke as she had expected he would. Once or twice she had caught that look of Uncle John in his eyes; the laughing, critical, yet kindly scrutiny that always made her feel like a little girl, and a silly girl at that. Was that what she had seemed to Captain Delmonte? Of course it was. She had had the great, the crowning opportunity of her life, of doing homage to a real hero (she forgot good General Sevillo, who had been a hero in a quiet and business-like way for sixty years), and she had lost the opportunity.

It was a very subdued Rita who returned to the house that evening. At the edge of the wood they were met by Don Annunzio, who stood as before, smoking his long black cigar, and scrutinising the road and the surrounding country. A wave of his hand told them that all was well, and they stepped quickly across the road, and in another minute were on the verandah.

Don Annunzio followed them with an elaborate air of indifference; but once seated in his great chair, he began to speak eagerly, gesticulating with his cigar.

"Dios! Prudencia, you had an inspiration from heaven this day. What I have been through! the sole comfort is that I have lost twenty pounds at least, from sheer anxiety. Imagine that you had not been gone an hour, when up they ride, the guerrilla that was reported to us yesterday. At their head, that pestiferous Col. Diego Moreno. He dismounts, demands coffee, bananas, what there is. I go to get them; and, the saints aiding me, I meet in the face the pretty Manuela. Another instant, and she would have been on the verandah, would have been seen by these swine, female curiosity having led her to imagine a necessary errand in that direction. I seize this charming child by the shoulders, I push her into her room. I tell her, 'Thou hast a dangerous fever. Go to thy bed on the instant, it is a matter of thy life.'

"My countenance is such that she obeys without a word. She is an admirable creature! Beauty, in the female sex—"

"Do go on, Noonsey," said his wife, good-naturedly, "and never mind about beauty now. Land knows we have got other things to think about."

"It is true, it is true, my own!" replied the amiable fat man. "I return to the verandah. This man is striding up and down, cutting at my poor vines with his apoplexy of a whip. He calls me; I stand before him thus, civil but erect.

"'Have you any strangers here, Don Annunzio?'

"'No, Senor Colonel.'

"It is true, senorita. To make a stranger of you, so friendly, so gracious—the thought is intolerable.

"He approaches, he regards me fixedly.

"'A young lady, Senorita Montfort, and her maid, escaped from the carriage of her stepmother, the honourable Senora Montfort, while on the way to the convent of the White Sisters, ten days ago. A man of my command was taken by these hill-cats of Mambis, and carried to a camp in this neighbourhood. He escaped, and reported to me that a young lady and her attendant were in the camp. I raided the place yesterday.'

"'With success, who can doubt?' I said. Civility may be used even to the devil, whom this officer strongly resembled.

"He stamped his feet, he ground his teeth, fire flashed from his eyes. 'They were gone!' he said. 'They had been gone but a few hours, for the fires were still burning, but no trace of them was to be found. I found, however, in a deserted rancho,—this!' and he held up a delicate comb of tortoise-shell."

"My side-comb!" cried Rita. "I wondered where I had lost it. Go on, pray, Don Annunzio."

"He questioned me again, this colonel, on whom may the saints send a lingering disease. I can swear that there is no young lady in the house? but assuredly, I can, and do swear it, with all earnestness. He whistles, and swears also—in a different manner. He says, 'I must search the house. This is an important matter. A large reward is offered by the Senora Montfort for the discovery of this young lady.'

"'Search every rat-hole, my colonel,' I reply; 'but first take your coffee, which is ready at this moment.'

"In effect, Antonia arrives at the instant with the tray. While she is serving him, I find time to slip with the agility of the serpent into the passage, and turn the handle of the bedroom door. 'Spotted fever!' I cry through the crack; and am back at my post before the colonel could see round Antonia's broad back. Good! he drinks his coffee. He devours your cakes, my Prudencia, keeping his eye on me all the time, and plying me with questions. I tell him all is well with us, except the sickness.

"'How then? what sickness?'

"'A servant is ill with fever,' I say. 'We hope that it will not spread through the house; it is a bad time for fever.' I see he does not like that, he frowns, he mutters maledictions. I profess myself ready to conduct him through my poor premises; I lead him through the parlour, which he had not sense to admire, to the kitchen, to our own apartment, my cherished one. All the time my heart flutters like a wounded dove. I cry in my soul, 'All depends on the wit of that child. If she had but gone with Prudencia to the forest!'

"Finally there is no escape, we must pass the door. I stop before it. 'Open!' says the colonel.

"'Your Excellency will observe,' I say, 'that there is a dangerous case of spotted fever in this room.'

"He turns white, then black. He pulls his moustache, which resembles a mattress.

"At last 'How do I know?' he cries; 'You may be lying! all Cubans are liars. The girl may be in this room!'



"I throw open the door and step back, my heart in my mouth, my eyes flinging themselves into the apartment. Heavens! what do we see? a hideous face projects itself from the bed. Red—black—a face from the pit! A horrible smell is in our nostrils—we hear groans—enough! The colonel staggers back, cursing. I close the door and follow him out to the verandah. My own nerves are shaken, I admit it; it was a thing to shatter the soul. Still cursing, he mounts his horse, and rides away with his troop. I see them go. They carry away the best of what the house holds, but what of that? they are gone!

"I hasten, as well as my infirmity allows, to the chamber. I cry 'Manuela, is it thou?'

"I am bidden to enter. I open the door, and find that admirable child at the toilet-table, washing her face and laughing till the tears flow. Already half of her pretty face is clean, but half still hideous to behold.

"'How did you do it?' I ask her. She laughs more merrily than before; if you have noticed, she has a laughter of silver bells, this maiden. 'The red lip-salve,' she says, 'and a little ink. Have no fear, Don Annunzio; it was you who discovered the fever, you know.'

"'But the smell, my child? there must be something bad here, something unhealthy; a vile smell!'

"She laughs again, this child. 'I burned a piece of tortoise-shell,' she says. 'Saint Ursula forgive me, it was one of the senorita's side-combs, but there was nothing else at hand.'

"Thus then, senorita, thus, my Prudencia, has Manuela virtually saved our house and ourselves. Hasten to embrace her! I have already permitted myself the salute of a father upon her charming cheek, as simple gratitude enjoined it."

As if by magic—could she have been listening in the passage?—Manuela appeared, blushing and radiant. Donna Prudencia did not think it necessary to kiss her, but she shook her warmly by the hand, telling her that she was a good girl, and fit to be a Yankee, a compliment which Manuela hardly appreciated. As for Rita, she kissed the girl on both cheeks, and stood holding her hands, gazing at her with wistful eyes.

"Ah, Manuela," she cried; "I must not begrudge it to you. You are a heroine; you have had the opportunity, and you knew how to take it. Daughter of Cuba, your sister blesses you."

Before Manuela could reply, Donna Prudencia broke in. "There! there!" she said. "Come down off your high horse, Miss Margaritty, there's a dear; and help me to see to things. Here's Captain Delmonty coming to-night, and them chicken-thieves of Gringos have carried off every living thing there was to eat in the house."



CHAPTER XI.

CAPTAIN JACK.

When Jack Delmonte appeared, late in the evening, he was puzzled at the change which had come over the pretty Grand Duchess, as he had mentally nicknamed Rita. In the afternoon she had appeared, he could not imagine why, to regard him as a portion of the scum of the earth. He thought her extremely pretty, and full of charm, yet he could not help feeling provoked, in spite of his amusement, at the disdainful curl at the corners of her mouth when she addressed him. Now, he was equally at a loss to understand why or how the Grand Duchess was replaced by a gentle and tender-voiced maiden, who looked up at him from under her long curved lashes with timid and deprecatory glances. She insisted on mixing his granita herself, and brought it in the one valuable cup Marm Prudence possessed, a beautiful old bit of Lowestoft. She begged to hear from his own lips about his last raid—about all his raids. She had heard about some of them; the one where he had swum the river under fire to rescue the little lame boy; the other, when he had chased five Spaniards for half a mile, with no other weapon than a banana pointed at full cock. She even knew of some exploits that he had never heard of; and the honest captain found himself blushing under his tan, and finally changed the subject by main force. It was very pleasant, of course, to have this lovely creature hanging on his words, and supplementing them with others of her own, only too extravagantly laudatory; but a fellow must tell the truth; and—and after all, what was the meaning of it? She wouldn't look at him, three hours ago.

Had they had a gay winter in Havana? he asked. He hadn't been to a dance for forty years. Was she fond of dancing? of course she was. What a pity they couldn't—here he happened to glance at Rita's black dress, and stopped short.

"Miss Montfort, I beg your pardon! It was very stupid of me. I ran on without thinking. You are in mourning. What a brute I am!"

The tears had gathered in Rita's eyes, but now she smiled through them. "It is six months since my father died," she said. "He was the kindest of fathers, though, alas! Spanish in his sympathies."

"Your mother?" hazarded Jack, full of sympathy.

"My mother died three years ago. My stepmother—" then followed the tale of her persecution, her escape, and subsequent adventures. Captain Jack was delighted with the story.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed. "That was tremendously plucky, you know, going off in that way. That was fine! and you got to your brother all right? I wonder—is he—are you any relation of Carlos Montfort? Not his sister? You don't mean it. Why, I was at school with Carlos, the first school I ever went to. An old priest kept it, in Plaza Nero. Carlos was a good fellow, and gave me the biggest licking once—I'm very glad we met, Miss Montfort. And—I don't mean to be impertinent, I'm sure you know that; but—what are you going to do now?"

Alas! Rita did not know. "I thought I was safe here," she said. "I was to stay here with these good people till word came from my uncle in the States, or till there was a good escort that might take me to some port whence I could sail to New York. Now—I do not know; I begin to tremble, Senor Delmonte. To-day, while Donna Prudencia and I were in the forest, a Spanish guerrilla came here, looking for me. Don Diego Moreno was in command. He is a friend of my stepmother's. I know him, a cold, hateful man. If he had found me—" she shuddered.

"I know Diego Moreno, too," said Delmonte; and his brow darkened. "He is not fit to look at you, much less to speak to you. Never mind, Miss Montfort! don't be afraid; we'll manage somehow. If no better way turns up, I'll take you to Puerto Blanco myself. Trouble is, these fellows are rather down on me just now; but we'll manage somehow, never fear! Hark! what's that?"

He leaned forward, listening intently. A faint sound was heard, hardly more than a breathing. Some night-bird, was it? It came from the fringe of forest across the road. Again it sounded, two notes, a long and a short one, soft and plaintive. A bird, certainly, thought Rita. She started as Captain Delmonte imitated the call, repeating it twice.

"Juan," he said, briefly. "Reporting for orders. Here he comes!"

A burly figure crossed the road in three strides. Three more brought him to the verandah, where he saluted and stood at attention.

"Well, Juan, where are the rest of you?"

"In the usual place, Senor Captain, four miles from here," said the orderly. "I have brought Aquila; he is here in the thicket, my own horse also. Will you ride to-night?"

"To-morrow, at daybreak, Juan. I have promised Senora Carreno to sleep one night under her roof, and convince her that my foot is entirely well. Bring Aquila into the courtyard. All is quiet in the neighbourhood?"

"All quiet, Senor Captain. Good; I bring Aquila and return to the troop. You will be with us, then, before sunrise?"

"Before sunrise without fail," said Captain Jack. "Buenos noches, Juanito!"

The trooper saluted again, and slipped back across the road; next moment he reappeared leading a long, lean, brown horse, who walked as if he were treading on eggshells. They passed into the courtyard and were seen no more, Juan making his way back to the thicket by some unseen path.

"You do not stay with us through the day then, Mr. Delmonte? I am sorry!" said Rita.

"I wish I could, indeed I do; but I must get to my fellows as soon as possible. I shall come back, though, in a day or two, and put myself and my troop at your orders, Miss Montfort. How would you like to lead a troop, like Madame Hernandez?" He laughed, but Rita's eyes flashed.

"But I would die to do it!" she cried. "Ah! Senor Delmonte, once to fight for my country, and then to die—that is my ambition."

"And you'd do it well, I am sure!" said Delmonte, warmly; "the fighting part, I mean. But nobody would let you die, Miss Montfort, it would spoil the prospect."

He spoke lightly, for heroics embarrassed him, as they did Carlos.

Soon after, Donna Prudencia appeared, with bedroom candles, and stood looking benevolently at the two young people.

"I expect you've been having a good visit," she said. "Well, there's an end to all, and it's past ten o'clock, Miss Margaritty."

Rita rose with some reluctance; nor did Captain Delmonte seem enthusiastic on the subject of going to bed.

"Such a beautiful night!" he said. "Must you go, Miss Montfort? I mustn't keep you up, of course. Good-bye, then, for a few days! I shall be gone before daybreak. I'm very glad we have met."

They shook hands heartily. Rita somehow did not find words so readily as usual. "I too am glad," she said. "It is something—I have always wished to meet the 'Star of Horsemen!'"

"Oh, please don't!" cried Jack, in distress. "That was just a joke of those idiots of mine. Good gracious! if you go to calling names, Miss Montfort, I shall not dare to come back again. Good night!"

It was long before Rita could sleep. She lay with wide-open eyes, conjuring up one scene after another, in all of which Captain Delmonte played the hero's part, and she the heroine's. He was rescuing her single-handed from a regiment of Spaniards; they were galloping together at the head of a troop, driving the Gringos like sheep before them. Or, he was wounded on the field of battle, and she was kneeling beside him, holding water to his lips, and blessing the good Cuban surgeon who had taught her bandaging in the camp among the hills. At length, hero and heroine, Cuban and Spaniard, faded away, and she slept peacefully.

"What is it? what is the matter?" Rita sprang up in her bed and listened. The sound that had awakened her was repeated: a knock at the door; a voice, low but imperative; the voice of Jack Delmonte.

"Miss Montfort! are you awake?"

"Yes; what has happened?"

"The Gringos! Dress yourself quickly, and come out. You can dress in the dark?"

"Yes; oh, yes! I will come. Manuela! wake! wake! don't speak, but dress yourself; the Spaniards are here."

Hastily, with trembling hands, the two girls put on their clothes. No thought now of how or what; anything to cover them, and that quickly. They hurried out into the passage; Delmonte stood there, carbine in hand. He spoke almost in a whisper, yet every word fell clearly on their strained ears.

"It's not Moreno; it's Velaya's guerrilla: we must get away before they fire the house. Give me your hand, Miss Montfort; you will be quiet, I know. Your maid?"

"Manuela, you will not speak!"

"No, senorita!" said poor Manuela, with a stifled sob.

"My horse is ready saddled," Delmonte went on. "If I can get you away before they see us—"

"Me! but what will become of the others?" cried Rita, under her breath. "I cannot desert Manuela and Marm Prudence—Donna Prudencia."

"I am going to save you," said Jack Delmonte, quietly. "If for no other reason, I have just given my word to Donna Prudencia. The rest—I'll get back as soon as I can, that's all I can say. Follow me! hark!"

A shot rang out; another, and another. A hubbub of voices rose within and without the house; and at the same instant a bright light sprang up, and they saw each other's faces.

Delmonte ground his teeth. "Wait!" he said; and going a little way along the passage, he peered from a window. The verandah swarmed with armed men. The door was locked and barred, but they were smashing the window-shutters with the butts of their carbines. He glanced along the passage. Inside the door stood Don Annunzio, in his vast white pajamas, firing composedly through a wicket; beside him his wife, as quietly loading and handing him the weapons. Behind them huddled the few house and farm servants, negroes for the most part, but among them was one intelligent-looking young Creole. Singling him out, Delmonte led him apart, and pointed to Manuela. "Your sister!" he said. "Your life for hers."

The youth nodded, and beckoned the frightened girl to stand beside him. Rita saw no more, for Delmonte, grasping her hand firmly, led her through the winding passage and into the inner courtyard. Pausing a moment on the verandah, they looked through the archway at one side, through which streamed a red glare. The cane patch was on fire, and blazing fiercely. The flames tossed and leaped, and in front of them men were running with torches, setting fire to sheds and out-houses. Their shouts, the crackling and hissing of the flames, the shots and cries from the front of the house, turned the quiet night wild with horror. A crash behind them told that the front door had yielded.

"It's run for it, now!" said Delmonte, quietly. "Now, then, child,—quick!"

A few steps, and they were beside the brown horse, standing saddled and bridled, and already quivering and straining to be off. Delmonte lifted Rita in his arms,—no time now for courtly mounting,—then sprang to the saddle before her. He spoke to the horse, who stood trembling, but made no motion to advance.

"Aquila, softly past the gate—then for life! good boy! Miss Montfort, put your arms around me, and hold fast. Don't let go unless I drop; then try to catch the reins, and give him his head. He knows the way."

Softly, slowly, Aquila crept to the archway. He might have been shod with velvet for any sound he made. Could they get away unseen? The men with the torches were busy at their horrid work; they could not be seen yet from the front of the house. The horse crept forward, silent as a phantom. They were clear of the archway. "Now!" whispered Delmonte. "For life, Aquila!" and Aquila went, for life.



CHAPTER XII.

FOR LIFE.

"If we can put the fire between us and them," said Captain Jack, "we shall get off."

For a moment it seemed as if they might do it. Already they saw the road before them, the sand glowing red in the firelight. A few more strides—Just then, a Spanish soldier came running round the corner of the burning cane-patch, whirling his blazing torch. He saw them, and raised a shout. "Alerta! alerta! fugitives! after them! shoot down the Mambi dogs!"

There was a rush to the corner where a score of horses stood tethered to the fence. A dozen men leaped into the saddle and came thundering in pursuit. Aquila gave one glance back; then stretched his long lean neck, and settled into a gallop.

Before them the road lay straight for some distance, red here in the crimson light, further on white under a late moon. On one side the woods rose black and still, on the other lay open fields crossed here and there by barbed wire fences. No living creature was to be seen on the road. No sound was heard save the muffled beat of the horse's hoofs on the sand, and behind, the shouts and cries of their pursuers. Were they growing louder, those shouts? Were they gaining, or was the distance between them widening? Rita turned her head once to look back. "I wouldn't do that!" said Delmonte, quietly. "Do you mind, Miss Montfort, if I swing you round in front of me? Don't be alarmed, Aquila is all right."

Before Rita could speak, he had dropped the reins on the horse's neck, and lifted her bodily round to the peak of the saddle before him. "I'm sorry!" he said, apologetically. "I fear it is very uncomfortable; but—I can—a—manage better, don't you see?" But to himself he was saying, "Lucky I got that done before the beggars began to shoot. Now they may fire all they like. Stupid duffer I was, not to start right."

He had felt the girl's light figure quiver as he lifted her.

"Don't be frightened, Miss Montfort," he said again. "There isn't a horse in the country that can touch Aquila when he is roused."

"I am not frightened," said Rita. "I am—excited, I suppose. It is like riding on wind, isn't it?"

It was true that she felt no fear; neither did she realise the peril of their position. It was one of the dreams come true, that was all. She was riding with Delmonte, with the Star of Horsemen. He was saving her life. They had ridden so before, often and often; only now—

Pah! a short, sharp report was heard, and a little dust whiffed up on the road beside them. Pah! pah! another puff of dust, and splinters flew from a tree just beyond them. Aquila twitched his ears and stretched his long neck, and they felt the stride quicken under them. The road rushed by; they were half-way to the turn.

"Would you like to hold the reins for a bit?" asked Delmonte. "It isn't really necessary, but—thanks! that's very nice."

What was he doing? He had turned half round in the saddle; something touched her hair—the butt of his carbine. "I beg your pardon!" said Captain Jack. "I am very clumsy, I fear."

Crack! went the carbine. Rita's ears rang with the noise; she held the reins mechanically, only half-conscious of herself. Pah! pah! and again crack! The blue rifle-smoke was in her eyes and nostrils, the Mauser bullets pattered like hail on the road; and still Aquila galloped on, never turning his head, never slackening his mighty stride, and still the road rushed by, and the turn by the hill grew nearer—nearer—

Pah! Rita felt her companion wince. His left arm relaxed its hold and dropped at his side. With his right hand he carefully replaced his carbine in its sling.

"For life, Aquila!" he said softly, in Spanish; and once more Aquila gathered his great limbs under him, and once more the terrible pace quickened.

A stone? a hole in the road? who knows? In a moment they were all down, horse and riders flung in a heap together. The horse struggled to his knees, then fell again. He screamed, an agonising sound, that in Rita's excited mind seemed to mingle with the smoke and the dust in a cloud of horror. Every moment she expected to feel the iron hoofs crashing into her, as the frenzied creature struggled to regain his footing.

Delmonte had sprung clear, and in an instant he was at Rita's side, raising her. "You are hurt? no? good! keep behind me, please."

He went to the horse, and tried to lift him, bent to examine him, and then shook his head. Aquila would not rise again; his leg was shattered. Delmonte straightened himself and looked about him. If this had happened a hundred, fifty yards back! but now the woods were gone, and on either hand stretched a bare savannah, broken only by the hateful barbed wire fences. He drew his revolver quietly. The healthy brown of his face had gone gray; his eyes were like blue steel. He looked at Rita, and met her eyes fixed on him in a mute anguish of entreaty.

"Have no fear!" he said. "It shall be as it would with my own sister. I know these men; they shall not touch you alive."

He bent once more over the struggling beast, and even in his agony Aquila knew his master, and turned his eyes lovingly toward him, expecting help; and help came.

"Good-bye, lad!" The pistol cracked, and the tortured limbs sank into quiet.

"Lie down behind him!" Delmonte commanded. "So! now, still."

He knelt behind the dead horse, facing the advancing Spaniards. The revolver cracked again, and the foremost horseman dropped, shot through the head. The troop was now close upon them; Rita could see the fierce faces, and the gleam of their wolfish teeth. Delmonte fired again, and another man dropped, but still the rest came on. There was no help, then?

Delmonte looked at Rita; she closed her eyes, expecting death. The air was full of cries and curses. But—what other sound was that? Not from before, but behind them—round the turn of the road—some one was singing! In all the hurry of her flying thoughts Rita steadied herself to listen.

"For it's whoop-la! whoop! Git along, my little dogies; For Wyoming shall be your new home!—

"What in the Rockies is going on here, anyhow?"

Rita turned her head. A horseman had come around the bend, and checked his horse, looking at the scene before him. A giant rider on a giant horse. The moon shone on his brown uniform, his slouched felt hat, and the carbine laid across his saddle-bow. Under the slouched hat looked out a bronzed face, grim and bearded, lighted by eyes blue as Delmonte's own.

Rita gave one glance. "Help!" she cried, "America, help!"

"America's the place!" said the horseman. He waved his hand to some one behind him, then put his horse to the gallop. Next instant he was beside them.

Delmonte started to his feet, revolver in hand. "U. S. A.?" he said. "You're just in time, uncle. I'm glad to see you."

"Always like to be on time at a party," said the rough rider, levelling his carbine. "My fellows are—in short, here they are!"

There was a scurry of hoofs, a shout, and thirty horsemen swept around the curve and came racing up.

"What's up, Cap'n Jim?" cried one. "Have we lost the fun? Gringos, eh? hooray!"

The Spaniards had checked their horses. Four of them lay dead in the road, and several others were wounded. At sight of the mounted troop, they stopped and held a hurried consultation, then turned their horses and rode away.

The giant looked at Delmonte. "Want to follow?" he asked. "This is your hand, comrade."

"I want a horse!" said Captain Jack. "Miss Montfort,"—he turned to Rita, who had risen to her feet, and stood pale but quiet,—"these are our own good country-men. If I leave you with them but a few moments—"

"Hold on!" said the big man. "What did you call the young lady?"

Delmonte stared. "This is Miss Montfort," he said, rather formally.

"Not Rita!" cried the giant. "Pike's Peak and Glory Gulch! Don't tell me it's Rita!"

"Oh, yes! yes!" cried Rita, running forward with outstretched hands. "It is—I am! and you—oh, I know, I know. You are Peggy's big brother. You are Cousin Jim!"

"That's what they said when they christened me!" said Cousin Jim.



CHAPTER XIII.

MEETINGS AND GREETINGS.

It was no time for explanations. Jim Montfort put out a hand like a pine knot, and gave Rita's fingers a huge shake.

"Glad to find you, cousin," he said. "I've been looking for you. Now, what's up over there?" He nodded in the direction of the fire.

"A candela," said Delmonte, briefly. "I must get back; there are women there. If one of your men will catch me that horse—"

"But you are wounded!" cried Rita. "Cousin, he is shot in the arm. Do not let him go!"

Delmonte laughed. "It's nothing, Miss Montfort," he said; "but nothing at all, I assure you. When we get to camp you shall put some carbolic acid on it, and tie it up for me; that's field practice in Cuba. I shall be proud to be your first field patient." He spoke in his usual laughing way; but suddenly his face changed, and he leaned toward her swiftly, his hand on the horse's mane. "I shall never forget this time—our ride together," he said. "I hope you will not forget either—please? And now, Miss Montfort, I have no further right over you. I would have done my best, I think you know that; but—I must give you into your cousin's protection. You will remain here?"

"Of course she will!" said Cousin Jim, who had heard only the last words. "I'll go with you, comrade. Raynham, Morton, you will mount guard by the lady."

The troopers saluted, and raised their hats civilly to Rita, inwardly cursing their luck. Because they owned the next ranch to Jim Montfort, was that any reason why they should lose all the fun? and why could not girls stay at home where they belonged?

But Rita herself cried out and clasped her hands, and ran to her cousin. "Oh, Cousin Jim—Senor Delmonte—let me go with you! Please, please let me go back. My poor Manuela—Marm Prudence—they may be hurt, wounded. There can be no danger with all these brave men. Cousin, I have been in a camp hospital, I know how to dress wounds. I can be quiet—Senor Delmonte, tell him I can be quiet!"

She looked eagerly at Delmonte.

"I can tell him that you are the bravest girl I ever saw," he said. "But, you have been through a great deal. I don't like to have you go back among those rascals."

James Montfort stroked his brown beard thoughtfully.

"Guess it's safe enough," he said at last. "Guess there's enough of us to handle 'em. Don't know but on the whole she'll be better off with us. My sister Peggy wouldn't like to miss any circus there was going, would she, little girl? Catch another of those beasts for the lady, Bill!"

Rita, with one of her quick gestures, caught his great hand in both hers. "Oh, you good cousin!" she cried. "You dear cousin! You are the very best and the very biggest person in the world, and I love you."

"Well, well, well!" said Cousin Jim, somewhat embarrassed. "There, there! so you shall, my dear; so you shall. But as for being big, you should see Lanky 'Liph of Bone Gulch. Now there—but here is your horse, missy."

The horses of the dead Spaniards had been circling about them, more or less shyly. Two of them were quickly caught by the rough riders, and Rita and Delmonte mounted. As they did so, both glanced toward the spot where lay the brave horse that had borne them so well.

"It was for life indeed, Aquila!" said Captain Jack, softly. His eyes met Rita's, and she saw the brightness of tears in them. Next moment they were galloping back to the residencia.

They came only just in time. Not ten minutes had passed since they left the courtyard, but in that time the savage Spaniards had done their work well. The house itself was in flames, and burning fiercely. Good Don Annunzio lay dead, carbine in hand, on the steps of his ruined home. Beside him lay the Creole youth in whose charge Delmonte had left Manuela. The lad was still alive, for as Delmonte bent from the saddle above him he raised his head.

"I did my best, my captain!" he said. "They were too many."

"Where are they?" asked Delmonte and Montfort in one breath.

The boy pointed down the road; raised his hand to salute, and fell back, dead.



Now again it was a ride for life—not their own life this time. Rita had clean forgotten herself. The thought of her faithful friend and servant in the hands of the merciless Spaniards turned her quick blood to fire. She galloped steadily, her eyes fixed on the cloud of dust only a few hundred yards ahead of them, which told where the enemy was galloping, too.

Jim Montfort glanced at her, and nodded to himself. "She'll do!" he said in his beard. "Montfort grit's good grit, and she's got it. This would be nuts to little Peggy."

Jack Delmonte, too, looked more than once at the slender figure riding so lightly between him and the big rough rider. How beautiful she was! He had not realised half how beautiful till now. What nerve! what steadiness! It might be the Reina de Cuba, Donna Hernandez herself, riding to victory.

He felt an unreasonable jealousy of "Cousin Jim." Half—nay! a quarter of an hour ago, she was riding with him; there were only they two in the world, they and Aquila, poor Aquila,—who had given his life for theirs. She was his comrade then, his charge, his—and now she was Miss Montfort, a young lady of fortune and position, under charge of her cousin, a Yankee captain of rough riders; and he, Jack Delmonte, was—nothing in particular.

As he was thinking these thoughts, Rita chanced to turn her head, and met his gaze fixed earnestly upon her. She blushed suddenly and deeply, the lovely colour rising in a wave over cheeks and forehead; then turned her head sharply away.

"Now I have offended her!" said Jack. "Idiot!" and perhaps he was not very wise.

But there was little time for thinking or blushing. The Spaniards, seeing Delmonte, whom they regarded as the devil in person, descending upon them in company with a giant and an army (for so they described the band of rough riders at headquarters next day), abandoned their prisoners. The Americans chased them for a mile or so, killed three or four, and, as they reported, "scared the rest into Kingdom Come," leaving them only on coming to a thick wood, into which the Gringos, leaping from their horses, vanished, and were seen no more. The victors then returned to the forlorn little group of women and negroes, huddled together by the roadside. Rita had already dismounted, and had Manuela in her arms. She felt her all over, hurrying question upon question.

"My child, you are not hurt? not wounded? these ruffians—did they dare to touch you? did they have the audacity to speak to you, Manuela? Oh, why did I leave you? I could not help it; you saw I could not help it. You are sure you have no hurt?"

"But, positively, senorita," said Manuela. "See! not a scratch is on me. They—one fellow—offered to tie my hands; I scratched him so well that he ran away. I am safe, safe—praise be to all saints, to our Holy Lady, and the Senor Delmonte. But—poor Cerito, senorita? what of him? he was with us; he fought like a lion. I saw him fall—"

"Poor Cerito!" said Rita, gravely. "He was a brave, brave lad. A thousand sons to Cuba like him!"

Donna Prudencia was sitting apart on a stone by the roadside. Rita went up to her, took her hand, and kissed her cheek. The Yankee woman looked kindly at her and nodded comprehension, but did not speak. Rita stood silent for a few minutes, timidly stroking the brown cheek and white hair. Her cousin Margaret came into her mind. What would Margaret say, if she were here? She would know the right word, she always did.

"Marm Prudence," she said, presently, "to have the memory of a hero, of one who dies for his country,—that is something, is it not? some little comfort?"

Marm Prudence did not answer at once.

"Mebbe so," she said, presently. "Mebbe so, Miss Margaritty. Noonzio was a good man. Yes'm, I've lost a good husband and a good home! A good husband and a good home!" she repeated. "That's all there is to it, I expect." Her rugged face was disturbed for a moment, and she hid it in her hands; when she looked up, she was her own composed self.

"And what's the next thing?" she asked. "Thank you, Cap'n Delmonty, I'm feeling first-rate. Don't you fret about me. You done all you could. I'll never forget what you done. Poor husband's last words before he was shot was thanking the Lord Miss Margaritty was off safe. We knew we could trust her with you."

"Indeed," said honest Delmonte, "it is not me you must thank, Donna Prudencia. I did what I could, but it was Captain Montfort and his men who saved both her life and mine."

He told the story briefly, and Marm Prudence listened with interest. "Well," she said, "that was pretty close, wasn't it? Anyway, you done all you could, Cap'n Jack, and nobody can't do no more. And he's Miss Margaritty's cousin, you say? I want to know! He's big enough for three, ain't he?"

Rita laughed, in spite of herself. She beckoned to Cousin Jim, who came up and shook hands with the widow with grave sympathy. But he seemed preoccupied, and, while they were preparing to return to the ruined farm, he was pulling his big beard and meditating with a puzzled air.

"Look here!" he broke out at last, addressing his men. "I've been wondering what was wrong. I couldn't seem to round up, somehow, and now I've got it. Where's that poor old Johnny? I left him with you when I rode forward to reconnoitre."

The rough riders looked at one another, and hung their heads.

"Guess he must have dropped behind," said Raynham. "We didn't wait long after you signalled to us to come on. We—came."

"That's so!" clamoured the rough riders, in sheepish chorus. "We came, Cap'n Jim. That's a fact!"

"Well—that's all right!" said Jim. "You might have brought the old Johnny along, though, seems to me. Two of you ride back and get him; you, Bill, and Juckins. If he seems used up, Juckins can carry him, pony and all."

Juckins, a huge Californian, second only to Montfort in stature, chuckled, and rode off with Raynham at a hand gallop.

Montfort turned to Rita.

"I haven't had time to tell you about it before," he said. "Cousin Rita, I've been hunting for you for three days. We met an old Johnny—an old gentleman, I should say—riding about on a pony, for all the world like Yankee Doodle. He'd got lost, poor old duffer, among these inferior crossroads, and didn't know whether he was in China or Oklahoma. We picked him up, and, riding along, it came out that he was searching for his ward, a young lady who had run away from a convent. Ever heard of such a person, missy? He had started out alone, to ride about Cuba till he found her. Kind of pocket Don Quixote, about five foot high, white hair, silk clothes; highly respectable Johnny."

"Don Miguel!" cried Rita. "Poor, dear, good Don Miguel! I have never written to him, wicked that I am. Oh, where is he, Cousin Jim?"

"Come to ask him," Jim continued, "it appeared that the young lady's name was Montfort. Now, I had just had a letter from Uncle John, wanting me to raise the island to get hold of you and ship you North at once. He had had no letters; was alarmed, you understand. Laid up with a bad knee, or would have come himself. I was just going to start back to the city in search of you, when up comes Don Quixote. When he heard I was your cousin, he fell into my arms, pony and all. Give you my word he did! Almost lost him in my waistcoat pocket. I cheered him up a bit, and we've been poking about together these three days, looking for General Sevillo's camp. Thought you might be there. We were camping by the roadside when we heard your firing. Ah! here he comes now!"

The rough riders came back, their horses trotting now, instead of galloping. Between them, ambling gently along, was a piebald pony of amiable appearance, and on the pony sat a little old gentleman with snow-white hair and a face as mild and gentle as the pony's own. At sight of Rita running to meet him, he uttered a cry of joy, and checked his horse. Next moment he had dismounted, and had her in his arms, sobbing like a child.

"Dear Donito Miguelito!" cried Rita. "Forgive me! please do forgive me, for frightening you. I could not go to the convent, indeed I could not. I am a wretch to have treated you so, but I could not go to that place."

"Of course you could not, my child," said the good old man. "Nunc dimittis, Domine! Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace. Of course you could not."

"I could not live with Concepcion; don't you know I could not, Donito Miguelito?"

"The thought is impossible, my Pearl. Speaking with all possible respect, the Senora Montfort, though high-born and accomplished, is a hysterical wildcat. You did well, my child; you did extremely well. So long as I have found you, nothing matters; but, nothing at all. As my great, my gigantic friend, my colossal preserver, el Capitan Gimmo, says, 'Ourrah for oz!'"

"Hurrah!" shouted the rough riders.



CHAPTER XIV.

ANOTHER CAMP.

They made but a brief halt at the ruined farm. The house was completely gutted; the widow of Don Annunzio had the clothes she stood in, and nothing beside. She stood quietly by while her husband's body was laid in the grave beside that of young Cerito; a shallow grave, hastily dug in what had lately been the garden. She listened with the same quiet face while good old Don Miguel, with faltering voice, recited a Latin prayer. She was a Methodist, he a fervent Catholic; but it mattered little at that moment.

By this time it was daylight. A small patch of bananas was found, that had escaped the destroying torch, and on these the party made a hasty meal; then they rode away, all save the negroes, who preferred to stay in the neighbourhood where their lives had been spent.

They rode slowly, in deference to Don Miguel's age and that of his pony. Rita, riding beside the good old man, listened to the recital of his terrors and anxieties from the time her flight was discovered to the present moment. These caused her real grief, and she begged again and again for the forgiveness which he assured her was wholly unnecessary. But when he described the hysterical rage of her stepmother, her eyes brightened, and the colour came back to her pale cheek. She had no doubt that Concepcion Montfort was sorry to lose her; the larger part of her father's fortune had been settled upon her, Rita, before his second marriage.

"The senora also has made diligent search for you, my child!" said Don Miguel. "She has offered ample rewards—"

"I know it!" said Rita. "Only yesterday—can it be that it was only yesterday?—Don Diego Moreno was here—there, I should say, at that peaceful home that is now a heap of ashes. These Spaniards!"

Had she seen Don Diego? the old man asked; and he seemed relieved when she answered in the negative.

"It is well; it is well!" he said. "He is a relative of the senora's, I am aware; but it would have been unsuitable, most unsuitable."

"What would have been unsuitable, Donito Miguelito?"

Don Miguel looked confused. "A—nothing, my child. The Senora Montfort had an idea—Don Diego made certain advances—in short, he would have asked for your hand, my senorita—well, my Margarita, if you will have it so. But I took it upon myself to refuse these overtures without consulting you."