did. Nobody was safe from the Sin Verguenza then, and I felt I could

trust him. There are men who make one feel like that, you know."

For no apparent reason she glanced at Violet Wayne, who sat with a curious expression in her eyes, looking--not at Tony, as Miss Harding noticed--but across the valley.

"Yes," she said, "there are. Go on, please!"

"I went with him to the rebel headquarters, and then very nearly tried to run away again, because it was like walking into the lion's den. The patio was littered with the furniture they had thrown out of the windows, and I could hear the men roystering over their wine. Still, when I looked at the man with me, I went in."

She stopped and sat silent a space of seconds, while none of the others spoke. They felt it might not be advisable to ask questions.

"Well," she continued, "he hid me in a room, and then sat down on the veranda that ran round the patio outside it where I could see him from the lattice. The city was in a turmoil, the insurgent leaders were carousing in the house and you will remember they were the Sin Verguenza. There was only that man and his American comrade between me and those horrors. I think he fancied I rested, but all that awful night I scarcely took my eyes off him. He was very like the marble knight just then."

"Isn't that a little rough on the effigy?" said Tony with a smile. "The man was, I think you told us, a leader of shameless brigands."

Violet Wayne saw the gleam in Nettie's eyes, and noticed the faint ring in her voice as she said, "There are not many men who could lead the Sin Verguenza, but you would understand what I mean if you had seen him. He was ragged and very weary, and had been hurt in the fighting, but he sat there keeping himself awake, with his rifle across his knees, and every time I looked at his face it reassured me. It was haggard, but it was grim and strong--and I knew that man would have to be torn to pieces before any harm could come to me. He was keeping vigil with something entrusted to him which he would guard with his life--and that, I think, is the fancy that stirs one when one looks at your marble knight."

Hester smiled as she admitted that this was probably what the sculptor had wished to express, but it was in Violet Wayne's eyes that Nettie saw the most complete comprehension.

"That man almost deserved so stanch a champion," said Tony. "Eventually your father found you?"

"Yes," said Nettie. "The Sin Verguenza marched out in the early morning."

Then there was silence until Tony rose languidly. "I think I'll go and bring some more cake," he said. "You sit still, Hester. I'll ask Mrs. Grantly for it."

Hester Earle laughed. "She is out. Perhaps you had better show him where it is, Violet."

The two who were left were silent for awhile, and then Hester Earle smiled at her companion as she said, "You wanted to see Tony Palliser."

Nettie glanced suggestively towards Tony, who was then coming back across the lawn, carrying a tray.

"There is no reason why he should not do that kind of thing--but the trouble is that it seems quite natural to him, as though it was what he was meant to do," she said.

"Don't you think he could do anything else?"

Nettie appeared reflective. "It strikes me he wouldn't want to."

"Tony is a very good fellow," said Hester. "He has never done an ungraceful thing."

"Well," said Nettie, "I expect that is just what is wrong with him. It seems to me that the men who do what is worth doing can't always be graceful. The knight in the chancel had his helmet beaten in, while I fancy his mail was battered and dusty, and if the great glittering angel waited for the Palliser who was shot in Africa it wasn't because he carried tea trays prettily."

"And yet Violet, who expects a good deal, is content with him."

"Well," said Nettie gravely, "I'm almost afraid she's giving herself away. I have seen the man who would have suited her--and he was a ragged leader of the Sin Verguenza."

"Had that man no taste?" asked Hester with a little laugh.

Nettie glanced down at the white hand she moved a little so that there was a flash from the ring. "That was there already. It was a man of the same kind who put it on."

Tony and Violet Wayne came up just then, and when they sat down Hester turned to the man. "We are getting up a concert in the Darsley assembly rooms for the sewing guild," she said. "We are, as usual, short of money. You will bring your banjo, and sing a coon song."

"It's too hot," said Tony. "Besides, folks expect a decorum I haven't been quite accustomed to from me now, and I'm not going to black my face for anybody. I would a good deal sooner give you the money."

"That's very like you, Tony, but it's too easy, though we will take the money too. It's a good cause, or it would not be in difficulties. You will come and sing."

Tony made a gesture of resignation. "Well," he said "it would take too much trouble to convince you that you had better get somebody else, and, anyway, I can have a cold."

Then the conversation turned on other topics until Tony and Violet took their leave, but when she shook hands with him Hester reminded Tony of his promise. It was, however, almost a month later when he was called upon to keep it and finding no excuse available drove into the neighboring town one evening. He was welcomed somewhat effusively when he entered an ante-room of the assembly hall, and then taken to a place that had been kept for him beside Violet and her mother. The concert very much resembled others of the kind, and neither Tony nor his companions paid much attention to the music until Mrs. Wayne looked up from her programme.

"Therese Clavier. Costume dance!" she said. "No doubt they called it that to pacify the vicar. Well, she is pretty, if somewhat elaborately got up. Doesn't she remind you of somebody, Violet?"

Tony glanced at the stage, and gasped. A girl with dark hair in voluminous flimsy draperies came on with a curtsey and a smile, and a little chill ran through him before he heard Violet's answer.

"Lucy Davidson. But of course it can't be she," she said. "This woman is older and has darker hair, though that, perhaps, does not count for very much, while Lucy could never have acquired her confidence."

Tony said nothing. He was staring across the rows of heads and watching the girl. She appeared older, bolder, and harder than Lucy Davidson had done, but the likeness was still unpleasantly suggestive. She danced well, but it was not the graceful posing or the swift folding and flowing of light draperies that held Tony's attention. His eyes were fixed upon the smiling face, and he scarcely heard the thunder of applause or Mrs. Wayne's voice in the silence that followed it.

"Effective, and yet nobody could take exception to it," she said. "But don't you come on next, Tony?"

Tony, who had not remembered it, stood up suddenly, knocking down the hat of a man beside him, and trod upon the girl's dress as he passed. She glanced up at him sharply, for he was seldom awkward in his movements, but he was looking another way. The audience was also getting impatient, and there was a clapping of hands and stamping of feet before he appeared upon the stage. Then he sat down fingering his banjo pegs, and twice asked the accompanist for a note on the piano.

"Any other man would have done that before," said Mrs. Wayne. "Still, I suppose Tony cannot help it, and he seems contented now."

There was a tinkle from the banjo followed by a chord on the piano, but Tony did not face the audience until the introduction had dragged through. Then Violet noticed that his voice, which was a sweet tenor, was not so clear as usual, and the silence of the piano emphasized his feebler touch on the strings. Still, Tony sang such songs as usually go with the banjo well, for the mingling of faint pathos and mild burlesque was within his grasp, which was, perhaps, not without its significance, and nobody appeared to find any fault with the performance. There was, in fact, enthusiastic applause, though Violet was glad when Tony persisted in leaving the stage, and her mother glanced at her.

"I have heard Tony put much more spirit into that song," she said.

Tony in the meanwhile was endeavoring to make his way quietly through the green-room when one of the committee touched his shoulder.

"Can't you spare us a few minutes?" he said. "Miss Clavier seemed to like your singing, and I think she would be pleased if you noticed her. When she heard it was a charity she came down for half her usual fee."

Tony was not grateful to the man who had detained him, and could it have been done without exciting comment would have shaken off his grasp. As it was, however, there was no avoiding the introduction, and he suffered himself to be led forward with unpleasant misgivings. Miss Clavier made him a somewhat dignified bow, but she also made room for him beside her, while something in her dark eyes warned Tony that it would be wise of him to accept the unspoken invitation. He sat down, wondering what she wanted, until she smiled at him.

"There are coffee and ices in the other room, Tony," she said. "Will you take me there?"

The man realized that this mode of address had its significance, for it had been Mr. Palliser in the old days; but he rose gravely and held out his arm, knowing that what he did would not pass without comment. The feeling was also warranted, for one of the men who watched them pass out into the corridor smiled as he turned to his companion.

"Tony seems bent on doing rather more than was expected of him," he said. "No doubt she knows his standing in the neighborhood, and intends this as a delicate compliment to one or two of our lady amateurs who were not exactly pleasant to her. It's quite certain she can't be hungry."

As it happened, there was nobody but the attendant in the buffet when they reached it, and Lucy Davidson flung herself down with a curious, lithe gracefulness in a big chair in a corner.

"Bring me some coffee for the look of the thing," she said.

Tony did it, and then stood beside her while she toyed with her cup. Lucy Davidson was distinctly pretty in spite of her get up, but it was unpleasantly evident to her companion that she was not the girl he had flirted with. She seemed to have changed into a capable, determined woman, and there was something that suggested imperiousness in her dark eyes when she looked up at him.

"I want to know why you brought me here," he said.

The girl laughed. "That wasn't civil, Tony. You should have let me think you came because you wanted to."

"I didn't," said Tony doggedly. "Nor can I stay here long. Don't you know that some of these people might recognize you?"

"I don't see why that should worry me, though I don't think they will. They are Darsley folk, and I fancy I have changed. You are going to be married I hear!"

Tony set his lips as he saw the mocking smile in his companion's face.

"Yes," he said. "We may as well talk plainly. You know of no reason why I shouldn't."

Lucy Davidson made a little reproachful gesture. "Tony," she said, "have I objected?"

"No. The question is, do you mean to?"

"That depends. I really don't want to cause you trouble. You see, I was fond of you once, Tony--and would you like me to tell you that I am still?"

Tony stood rigidly still with the blood in his forehead until the girl laughed.

"You needn't meet trouble before it comes," she said. "I only wanted to see you."

Again there was silence, until Tony, who felt he must say something, broke it.

"Where have you been since you left Northrop?" he asked.

"In London. Music-hall stage. I took there, and was in Melbourne, too. Just now I'm resting a little, and only came down here out of curiosity."

"Still," and Tony's voice trembled a little, "you will have heard--"

"Sit down," said the girl almost sharply. "I want to talk to you. Yes, I heard in Melbourne. I read it all in a Darsley paper, and thought what fools the folks were to blame Mr. Appleby."

Tony gasped. "It is a painful thing to talk about, and I don't want to distress you, but--"

Lucy Davidson looked at him steadily. "What I felt about it doesn't concern anybody but myself. I told you they were fools, Tony. You and I know who it was that circumstances really pointed to."

Tony's cheeks turned a trifle gray, but this time he met her gaze. "Listen to me, Lucy. On my word of honor I had no hand in what happened," he said. "The solemn truth is that your father had an altercation with Appleby, and afterwards fell over the bridge."

The girl's eyes flashed, and she slowly straightened herself. "It is fortunate for you that I can take your word, because I had formed my own conclusions," she said. "Don't suppose I should sit here talking to you if I had thought you were guilty. This, however, is quite between ourselves."

There was a significance in the last words which was not lost upon the man. "Well," he said slowly, "we come back to the point again. What do you want from me?"

"Just a little kindness. I was, I don't mind telling you again, fond of you, perhaps because--but we don't always give reasons, Tony. There is nothing I want to ask you for in the meanwhile."

"I am to be married soon," the man said in desperation.

Lucy Davidson rose with a curious mocking smile. "Well," she said, "I wish her joy of you. You are, you know, very poor stuff, Tony, and haven't nerve enough to make either a good man or a rascal. The last, at least now and then, gets something for his pains. Now, you may take me back again."

XVIII -- NETTIE ASKS A QUESTION

NETTIE HARDING had spent at least six weeks at Low Wood when she sat one afternoon on the lawn, gazing before her reflectively, with a book turned upside-down upon her knee. She had at one time wondered why she lingered there, though she found the company of Hester Earle congenial, and Hester's father had pressed her to extend her visit, while other reasons that appeared more or less convincing had not been wanting. The Northrop valley was very pretty, and the quiet, well-ordered life her English friends led pleasant, as a change from the turmoil of commercial enterprise and the fierce activity of the search for pleasure she had been accustomed to in America. The tranquillity of the green, peaceful country appealed to her, and she found interesting the quietly spoken men and women who so decorously directed what was done in it, partly because the type was new to her.

That, however, was at the beginning, for by and by she was willing to admit that Northrop might grow wearisome if she saw too much of it, and she could no longer hide from herself the fact that she had a more cogent reason for dallying there. She felt, though as yet it appeared quite likely that she might be mistaken, she was picking up the threads of a drama, the plot of which had been imperfectly revealed to her. This in itself was interesting, for she had at least as much inquisitiveness as most of her sex, and she was sensible of a little thrill of pleasurable excitement when the scent grew hotter. Still, she never asked an indiscreet question, and waited with a patience that is not usually a characteristic of the women of her nation until she was certain.

Miss Wayne, she decided, was at least very like the woman Appleby had pictured to her; but she was difficult to understand, for Violet seldom displayed her feelings, and her cold serenity baffled the observer. Tony Palliser, of whom she had contrived to see a good deal, was an easier and less interesting study. Nettie was naively witty, and could assume American mannerisms with excellent effect when she chose while Tony was fond of being amused, and Violet Wayne apparently devoid of any small jealousy. Thus he spent a good deal of time hanging about Miss Harding, and would have been painfully astonished had he discovered what she thought of him. Languid good nature and the faculty of idling time away very gracefully did not appeal to her, for even pleasure is pursued with grim strenuousness in her country. He was, she fancied, just such a man as the one Appleby had sacrificed himself for; but she surmised that there were a good many men of that kind in England, and Appleby had told his story in a fashion that made the identification of the scene and the persons concerned in it difficult. Nettie felt also that should conviction be forced upon her she would still have to decide what her course would be.

She felt for Appleby a quiet esteem and a kindliness which just stopped short of tenderness. She was an American, and could hold her own with most men in the art of flirtation, but she was also capable of a camaraderie that was characterized by frank sincerity and untainted by any affectation of love-making for one of the opposite sex. That being so, she felt it was incumbent upon her to discharge the obligation she owed him if opportunity afforded, though she knew that the indiscreet meddler not infrequently involves in disaster those she would benefit. By and by there was a step behind her, and she saw Hester Earle regarding her with a twinkle in her eyes.

"If there had been anybody else to see you--Tony Palliser, for example-- one could almost have fancied you had assumed that becomingly pensive pose," she said. "You would make a picture of ingenuous contemplation."

Nettie laughed. "Well," she said, "I feel very like a torpedo. Anyway, I didn't put it on, though I'm open to admit that there's quite a trace of the peacock about me."

"That is evidently American hyperbole," said Hester. "Talk English, Nettie. I don't understand."

She seated herself on the mossy wall close by, and noticed that her companion was meditatively watching two figures approaching by a path through a wheatfield. They were just recognizable as Tony and Violet Wayne, and were evidently unaware of being observed, for the man stooped, and, plucking what appeared to be a poppy from among the corn, offered it to his companion. The pair stopped a moment, and the man seemed to be desirous of fastening it in the girl's dress.

"The peacock," said Nettie in the drawl she assumed only when it suited her, "is easy. They're vain, you know, and I wouldn't figure it was worth while to spread out my best tail before men like Tony Palliser. I'm quite fond of being looked at, too."

"One would fancy you could scarcely find fault with him on that account," said Hester dryly. "But the torpedo?"

"That's a little harder. I suppose you never felt as if you were full of explosives, and could go off when you wanted and scatter destruction around. A torpedo doesn't appear a very terrible thing, you know. It's nice and round and shiny. I've seen one. Julian showed it me."

"Nobody goes off in England--at least not among the people we care to mix with," said Hester. "We send those who seem inclined to behave in that fashion out to the colonies or America. People appear to rather like explosions there."

"Still, you must get a little shake up now and then. Did nothing startling and unexpected ever happen at Northrop?"

Hester Earle was English, and proud of the decorous tranquillity of the life she led. "No," she said. "That is, nothing really worth mentioning. Where did you get charged with explosives, Nettie?"

Nettie felt that one of the stoutest threads she had laid her fingers upon had snapped in a most unexpected manner, but she had observed the British character, and was not quite convinced. It was, she reflected, after all a question of what Hester Earle considered worthy of mention.

"In Cuba," she said. "Now, I was worrying about something, and because you are one of those quiet persons who think a good deal I'd like your opinion. Suppose you or somebody else had a friend who was in trouble through other people's fault, and would not say a word to clear himself, and you found how you could make things straight for him? The answer to that seems easy, but it gets complicated by the fact that to do it you would have to stir up no end of mud and startle quite a few nice easy- going people."

"Speaking generally, I should leave the mud alone, and feel that the friend knew best. After all, he may have been to blame."

"No," said Nettie. "The man I was thinking of never did a mean thing in his life."

"Then you can ask Violet Wayne. She is even quieter than I am, and I believe she thinks a good deal."

Tony and his companion joined them then, and Violet took her place beside Nettie, while the man sat down on the smooth strip of turf that sloped to the sunken tennis lawn.

"You seem to have been discussing something serious," he said.

"Yes," said Hester. "Nettie has been comparing herself with a torpedo, and wished to know whether it would be desirable for her to go off or not. I recommended her to submit the case to Violet. Hadn't you better begin, Nettie? You rather like an audience."

Nettie was seldom abashed, and the position appealed to her. She had only vague surmises to go upon, and one of the clues had snapped, but the rest might hold, while such an opportunity of discovering the sentiments of the woman who might prove to be most involved could scarcely occur again. It was accordingly with a little thrill of excitement she put the question a trifle more concisely than she had done to Hester, and though she smiled at the others, watched Tony closely. He was certainly astonished, though the case was so outlined that it could scarcely be identified with his own; but his indolent carelessness stood him in good stead, and he sat still, listening with no great show of interest until Nettie concluded.

"Of course, what I have told you concerns somebody in Cuba and not England," she said. "Now, the point is, would it be better to leave the people alone who seem quite content with everything as it is? One of them would be hurt considerably if the truth came out!"

There was a little silence, and once more Violet Wayne was sensible of the vague apprehension which had troubled her more frequently of late, but she met Nettie's inquiring glance with steady eyes.

"Still, I think it would be better for that person to know the truth," she said.

"I am not quite sure," said Hester reflectively. "We will surmise that he or she is happy in the deception, and it would last all her life. In that case would it be a kindness to undeceive her?"

"I think so. If, as you seem to assume, the person were a woman she would probably discover the truth herself. Deceptions seldom continue, and if the awakening must come it would come better sooner than later."

Nettie was watching Tony, who lay now endeavoring to pluck a daisy out of the turf. The task seemed to occupy all his attention. "You haven't decided yet?" she said.

Tony assumed an attitude of languid reflection, though it was evident to Nettie that his fingers, stained a little with the soil, were not quite steady. He may have realized this, for he rubbed them in the grass with slow deliberation.

"Well," he said, "it seems to me that if one is dreaming something very nice it would be better to let him sleep as long as possible, and a blunder to waken him to unpleasant realities. There's another point, too. You seem to have overlooked the person who did the wrong."

"I don't think I mentioned that there was one!"

"Still, you led us to believe that wrong had been done. That, of course, implies that somebody must have perpetrated it, and I expect you will think me warranted in assuming it was a man. Well, you see, he mayn't have meant to do any harm at all, and be sincerely sorry. Wouldn't he deserve a little consideration? People are forced into doing a thing they don't want to now and then."

Nettie watched him thoughtfully. Tony's face was indifferent, but she fancied that he, at least, desired to convince himself.

"Tony's question is unnecessary," said Violet Wayne. "If the man were sincerely sorry there would be an end of the difficulty. He would put it straight by making reparation."

"He might find it difficult," said Hester.

Tony seemed to wince, and once more turned his attention to the daisy, but when the rest sat silent he glanced at Violet.

"I rather think we are getting away from the point, but since you seem to expect it I'll take up that man's brief," he said. "Well, we will assume that he is a well-intentioned person who has only slipped up once, and is trying to make up for what he has done. Now, if he were left alone, such a man might go straight all the rest of his life."

"That's specious, but distinctly unorthodox," said Hester. "Who had those beautifully illuminated tables of the law put up in Northrop church, Tony?"

Nettie laughed to conceal her interest. "But John P. Robinson, he says they didn't know everything down in Judee. That's latter day American, but it's what a good many people seem to think. Please go on, Mr. Palliser."

"I can't go very far. Still, we'll try to picture such a man giving liberally where it's wanted, going straight, and doing what good he can all round. We'll say the lives of other people who believe in him are bound up in his, and their happiness depends upon his holding their confidence. Now, would it be a kindness to anybody to bring everything down crashing about his head?"

He stopped, and glanced with a curious half-veiled appeal in his eyes at Violet, but she shook her head, and the gravity Nettie had once or twice wondered at crept into her face. It showed perfect in its contour and modelling under the big hat, but its clear pallor was more noticeable just then, and it seemed to Nettie very cold. Then she smiled faintly.

"It is a very old question. Can a man be pardoned and retain the offence? Still, I think it was answered decisively," she said.

Tony said nothing, and, as none of the others appeared inclined to talk, the stillness of the afternoon made itself felt. The pale yellow sunshine lay hot upon the lawn, and the soft murmur of the river came up across the corn, which, broken by dusky woodlands steeped in slumbrous shadow and meadow no longer green, rolled back in waves of ruddy bronze into the valley. Beyond it the hillsides, narrowing in, faded blurred and dim into the hazy distance. Still, the eyes of Tony and Violet Wayne were fixed upon the raw blotch of brickwork rising against the green woods above a flashing pool of the river. The rushy meadows and barren hillside environing it were now worth the best plough land on the Northrop estate, and, as both of those who looked at them remembered then, they had been intended as Appleby's inheritance.

It was Hester who broke the silence. "Your question has been answered, Nettie," she said. "It is decided that the person who did the wrong is the one to right it; and now we'll change the topic. The entertainment we had at Darsley was, as you know, an immense success, so great, indeed, that as we still want money we have decided to have another."

"Still, it seems to me you can't consistently inflict any more tickets on the Darsley tradesmen," said Tony, who appeared desirous of concealing his relief. "The fact is, I was rather sorry for one or two of them. Rawley told me he had to buy at least two half-crown tickets from each of his leading supporters. I don't think it would be decent to bleed them any more."

Hester laughed. "That difficulty has been provided for, and I told everybody that I sent tickets to that it would be conducive to success if when they broached the subject they paid their bills. This time we intend to put the screw on our friends. You see, it is some time since we had any little relaxation among ourselves."

"A concert isn't really very amusing," said Tony. "Anyway, not when you have to sing at it."

"That depends. This one will be; and since it isn't exactly a concert it will have the virtue of novelty. We intend to hold it here by moonlight and limelight on the lawn. The tickets will be invitation ones at half- a-guinea."

"Where will you get your limelights from? I believe that kind of thing costs a good deal," said Tony.

"I don't know. The privilege of being allowed to supply them has been allotted to Mr. Anthony Palliser. He is also put down for a song."

Tony made a gesture of resignation. "It will most likely rain."

"Still, the tickets will have been sold, and if it does rain the people who can't get into the big billiard room can sit out in couples in the hall, which will probably please them just as well. We, however, mean to have it outside if we can. We want the limelights for the tableaux and costume dancing."

"Who have you got to dance?" said Tony with evident concern.

"Miss Clavier--the young woman who pleased everybody that night at Darsley. The vicar doesn't mind. Have you very strong objections to skirt dancing, Tony?"

"No," said Tony slowly, and Nettie fancied his voice was a trifle strained. "Of course I haven't. Still, you must not depend too much on me. I mean I'll get the limelights, and buy as many tickets as can be reasonably expected of me, but whether I'll be there or not is another affair. I have to go up to London now and then, you see."

The last was so evidently an inspiration that Hester laughed as she glanced at him. "We will contrive to fix a night that will suit you," she said. "I fancy you had better submit quietly, Tony."

Tony murmured something which was not wholly flattering to the promoters of such entertainments, and when he and Violet Wayne took their leave Hester glanced at Nettie.

"I wonder why Tony is anxious not to meet Miss Clavier again," she said.

As it happened, Nettie was asking herself the same question, but she decided that there was nothing to be gained by mentioning it.

"The girl who dances! You think he didn't want to meet her?" she said.

"Of course! He showed it. Everybody can tell what Tony is thinking. He is almost painfully transparent."

"Well," said Nettie slowly, "I don't quite know. I have come across other men like him and found that they take one in. You fancy you can look right through them, and yet you see very little of what is inside them."

"The trouble is that there is nothing in Tony except good nature," said Hester.

Nettie appeared reflective, and once more expressed herself in the same fashion. "I don't quite know. Still, I hope you are right," she said. "You see, I'm quite fond of Violet Wayne."

XIX -- POSITIVE PROOF

HESTER EARLE'S entertainment promised to prove as successful as the other had been, for a clear moon hung low above the hillside when Tony drove Violet Wayne and her mother to Low Wood down the Northrop valley. The night was pleasantly warm, and the murmur of the river which slid in and out of the mist wisps in the hollow beneath the white road rose faintly musical out of the silence. Beyond the long hedgerows the stubble lay steeped in silvery light save where the long shadows lay black as ebony in the wake of the gleaming sheaves. A smell of honeysuckle drifted out from the blackness of a coppice they flitted through, and Tony turned with a little laugh to the girl beside him, while the clip-clop of the hoofs rang amidst the trees.

"I wonder if you and I are thinking of the same thing," he said. "It happened just about this hour a year ago, and it was such another night."

His voice had a faint thrill in it, and Violet laughed softly as she glanced at her left hand.

"You were horribly nervous that evening, Tony," she said. "I don't think I ever mentioned it, but when you put the ring on it scarred my finger. That might have had a significance with superstitious people."

Tony glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Mrs. Wayne, who sat behind them, was apparently interested in something her companion was saying.

"I think that was quite natural," he said lightly. "You see, the situation was disconcertingly novel to me."

"So you told me!" said the girl with a little laugh. "If I remember, you laid some stress upon the fact. It was also a proof of my credulity that I believed you."

It was one of Tony's disadvantages that he was now and then unduly sensitive, for the deception he had been guilty of on the night in question was by comparison trifling. Still, he remembered with unpleasant distinctness another incident of a somewhat similar description, in which it was a little brooch that figured and not an engagement ring, and the red lips he had stooped to were not those of Violet Wayne. Tony could recall their tempting curve, and the gleam in the dark eyes that met his own, as well as the little lodge garden that was very still and shady that drowsy afternoon. It was perhaps the memory of it which made him flick the horse viciously with the whip. Then he felt that his companion's eyes were fixed upon him.

"The brute is afraid of shadows," he said.

Violet turned her eyes on him, and there was a curious little smile in them. "I wonder if the complaint is infectious. He goes steadily with me," she said. "Tony, you haven't the hands you had."

Tony flushed visibly, for the moonlight was on his face now they had left the copse behind, and he remembered what had passed between him and the girl in a room at Northrop the night Godfrey Palliser died.

"Well," he said a trifle dryly, "if you are right it's due to worry, which, as everybody knows, never did agree with me. While agricultural property brings in what it does just now, keeping everything straight at Northrop isn't quite so easy as some folks seem to fancy."

"Still, the sale of that land to the electrical company and the ground rent you are getting from the other concern should simplify it," said the girl.

"You can't quite understand these affairs"; and Tony, who raised the whip, let it drop again.

Violet once more looked at him steadily, and her voice was low as she said, "If they were explained to me I think I could, but we will let that pass. What you said a little while ago reminds me of the weeks that followed the night you put that ring on. You had more cause for anxiety-- and yet we had no cares then."

"No," said Tony. "I will remember those weeks while I live. Nothing could take them away from me."

"And now there is a difference! A little shadow that dims the brightness. Tony, you feel it, too?"

The man, who did not answer, laid both hands on the reins, for, and he recognized the significance of it, they swung round a bend of the road into sight of Appleby's inheritance just then. A pile of harsh brickwork rose in front of them, jarring upon the harmonies of the night; there was a ringing of hammers, and their eyes were dazzled by the glare of a great light under which a swarm of bent black figures were toiling. The horse broke into a gallop, the dog-cart jolted furiously, and for five anxious minutes Tony, who set his lips, dragged at the reins. Then, as the startled beast was forced into a trot again, he laughed petulantly.

"You are a little fanciful, Violet," he said. "I have not been quite up to my usual form lately, and singing at these confounded concerts worries me. Hester will keep me busy, too, and I shall scarcely get a moment near you."

Now Violet Wayne was seldom troubled by trifling jealousies, but she was a little anxious about Tony, and watched him as she said, "Your duties seemed to consist in entertaining Miss Clavier on the last occasion!"

The color showed in Tony's forehead, but it was the vague apprehension in his face that astonished his companion, who noticed the sudden tightening of his fingers on the reins. Still, the only answer she caught was an indistinct "Confound the woman!"

Violet made no comment, for she had noticed already that the anxieties Tony had evidently decided on concealing from her were affecting his temper, and when five minutes later they rattled up the Low Wood avenue there was no longer any opportunity for questions. Tony had contrived to arrive just as the entertainment was commencing, and Hester Earle promptly despatched him to the performers' room.

The long windows were wide open, and the soft night air flowed in with the faint scent of flowers, and a murmur of voices from the specially invited audience Miss Earle had bestowed in the tennis green, which was sunk a few feet on one side below the level of the sweep of lawn. Tennis was not a game she was fond of, and she had pacified the gardener by placing the chair legs on boards. Tony could see the shadowy mass of humanity showing black against a dazzling glare, for the big oxyhydrogen lights he had provided were then blazing in front of the proscenium, which had been extemporized on the verge of the higher level. The path that led to it wound along the edge of a tall shrubbery where colored lights blinked here and there amidst the dusky leaves.

He was never certain afterwards as to whom he talked with or what he said, though he surmised that his observations had not been especially apposite, for some of those about him appeared a trifle astonished, and two of them laughed. Tony was somewhat apt to lose his head when brought face to face with a difficulty, and the fact that Lucy Davidson was sitting a few yards away disconcerted him. A glance at his programme showed him that she was to figure in two pieces of mimicry instead of dancing, and she was dressed simply and tastefully, but while the room was crowded there were only two very young men in her vicinity, and that fact with something in their laughter seemed to differentiate their companion from the rest of the company. Tony, however, fancied that they were favored with scanty encouragement from the girl. She looked at him once, but Tony turned his head away, and it was not until he was about to go out that he felt himself compelled to speak to her.

"The others will take a lead from you, and those young asses are only making the thing more unpleasant for the girl," said a man he was talking to.

Tony said nothing. He could think of no excuse, but remembering what Violet had mentioned he shrank from the encounter. The good-natured committee-man's meaning had been perfectly plain to him, and he knew that he could save the girl the unpleasantness of being met with chilly aloofness or undue familiarity. His disposition was also a kindly one, and the decision that she must be left to fight her own battles caused him a little flush of confusion. As it happened, she saw it, and a portentous sparkle showed in her dark eyes. Tony noticed this, and remembered that weak complaisance had once placed him under the thumb of keeper Davidson. He did not mean to repeat the blunder, and his fears made him slightly venomous.

"I think you have met Mr. Anthony Palliser already, Miss Clavier," said his companion.

Tony knew that every eye in the room was upon him, and that his words would not be lost, but he felt he could not afford to be gracious, and while he hesitated the girl rose up and made him a little curtsey with quiet ironical insolence.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Palliser--once or twice," she said in a voice that was intended to reach the rest.

Tony stood still a moment fingering his watch chain, and looking down at her with something his masculine companion had never seen there before in his face. It almost suggested vindictive cruelty, but he murmured a conventional word or two that was scarcely audible, and passed on with the slightest of inclinations. There was also a little silence when he went out, and the color faded a trifle in Miss Clavier's face, leaving her cheeks alone red, while a gleam that implied a good deal crept into her eyes.

Tony, however, sang brilliantly when his turn came a few minutes later. He had at last made a decided stand, and felt a trifle exhilarated by the novelty of it. Still, he was without stability, and it was much against his wishes that, wandering about between the songs after spending some time with Nettie Harding, he met Miss Clavier again. He had just seated himself upon the sloping bank of turf not far from the stage when he became aware that a seat above him was occupied, and glancing round at a sound saw the girl looking down on him. Then he would have turned away, but she stopped him with a little derisive laugh.

"Get up, Tony, and come and sit beside me," she said.

Tony rose, but noticing that one or two colored lights which hung from the branches of a copper beech above them rendered the seat visible stood still.

"To be frank, I would sooner be excused," he said. "After the little exhibition in the green-room it's a trifle difficult to understand why you want me."

"You deserved it! A word or two wouldn't have cost you anything, and I wanted you to keep those boys away."

"One would have fancied that you were quite capable of fighting your own battles."

The girl made a curious little gesture. "I think you are taking the wrong way," she said. "Now I don't want very much from you to-night, but I don't like being left out in the cold. You see, I am not accustomed to it, and you could have made this evening a good deal pleasanter to me."

She, however, blundered when she said to-night. Tony's fears had made him brutal, and it is the terror of the unknown that grows most oppressive. He did not know what she wanted, and it had unfortunately never dawned on him that she might, after all, want very little, and have had no hand in Davidson's scheme of extortion.

"Your meaning is tolerably plain, but I have been under the screw once," he said. "Now, I don't wish to rake up anything that would be painful, but you know just as well as I do that if I posed as an old friend of yours it would strengthen your hand. You will excuse me putting it plainly, but that is just what I don't intend to do."

A curious faint smile flickered into his companion's eyes. "It's unfortunate you haven't a little more sense," she said. "When you should be obstinate you are soft, and when a pleasant word or two would pay you well you bully. Has it ever struck you that I mayn't be--what you evidently think I am--or have any designs on you?"

Tony still went the wrong way, for it seemed to him that a resolute attitude would at least tend to moderate any claim the girl might contemplate making. "I don't think I ever worried about the question," he said. "You see, it's necessary to be quite frank, and it really wasn't of any importance to me."

"Well, I don't want to argue," and Miss Clavier laughed. "You told me you were going to be married, but you didn't tell me who to. Of course, I could find out, but you should feel a little easier when you hear that I haven't tried to."

Tony did not believe her, and she recognized it. "I was once driven too hard, but this time I'll fight," he said. "Anything you might feel tempted to do to annoy me would most certainly recoil upon yourself."

"That really isn't necessary, Tony. Well, one could make a guess. It is the very pretty girl with the blue eyes I saw you talking to. An American, too. They're generally rich, and, of course, you must have money!"

Tony seized the opportunity of at least starting her on the wrong track. "Money," he said chillingly, "would be a very small recommendation in Miss Harding's case."

"Yes," said his companion, "I daresay it would. She saw I was lonely, and I think meant to be kind, because she came up and spoke to me. Don't you think it's my duty to give her a hint after that?"

"I am not going to stay to be baited," and Tony slowly straightened himself. "I shall have pleasure in leaving you to your youthful admirers. I see them coming."

He swung round upon his heel, and Miss Clavier braced herself for an effort, as the result of which the two condescending youths retreated somewhat precipitately with flushed faces. Then she did a thing that would have astonished Tony, for she leaned back in the garden seat and with an abrupt movement passed her handkerchief across her eyes. It was a moment or two later when, looking up at the sound of a footstep, she saw Nettie Harding gravely regarding her, and to her vexation as well as astonishment felt the blood tingle in her cheeks.

"Yes," said Nettie quietly. "I heard what you told them. They deserved it, and you did it very well. Now, I've been talking about nothing for most of two hours, and this place seems nice and quiet. You don't mind my sitting here with you a little?"

Nettie Harding's directness was usually assumed, because she found it convenient in England when she had anything delicate to do, and Miss Clavier, who read sympathy in her face, was grateful to her. She also hoped her companion would not notice the moisture on her long dark lashes.

"I am paid for coming here, you understand?" she said. "I dance and mimic people on the stage."

"Of course!" said Nettie. "Well, my father once peddled oranges on the trains; and they make quite a fuss over people who are on the stage in London, while I don't think many of them could have done that last piece of yours half as cunningly. Anyway, I haven't laughed as much since I've been in England. If you did it in New York you'd coin money."

She sat down smiling, and Miss Clavier regarded her out of half-closed eyes. There was nobody very near them, and only two dim colored lights above their heads. Somebody was singing, and a sweet tenor voice floated away into the stillness of the moonlit night. Miss Clavier glanced swiftly round into the shadows of the copper beech that fell blackly athwart the seat.

"You like frankness in your country," she said. "Now I am, perhaps, going to offend you, but I don't mind if I do. I saw you talking a good deal to Mr. Tony Palliser at Darsley and here to-night."

Nettie contrived to hide her astonishment, but she felt that another thread was being placed in her hand.

"Well," she said, "American young women are permitted to talk to gilt- edge Englishmen, and even to marry them now and then. It really isn't astonishing."

"No," said her companion. "Still, it would be a blunder for an American girl who hadn't seen many Englishmen to marry Tony Palliser."

Nettie felt a thrill of pleasurable excitement, and her little show of anger was very well assumed.

"Are you quite sure you ought to talk to me like that?" she said.

"Yes. You will understand what I mean when I tell you that I was Lucy Davidson. I fancied some of the people here would have recognized me, but it seems they haven't."

"Oh!" said Nettie sharply, and sat still, wondering what meaning she was to attach to this since she had never heard of Lucy Davidson, until her companion leaned forward a trifle.

"I have told nobody else, but it was not Bernard Appleby who came to meet me at Northrop lodge," she said.

Nettie's gasp of astonishment was perfectly genuine this time, for though the story Appleby had told her had been very vague in respect to the part played by Lucy Davidson she had been able to supply the deficiencies in it, and she was sure of her companion now.

"And you let them think--how could you?" she said with flashing eyes.

Miss Clavier was evidently almost as astonished as her listener, but she had committed herself.

"It was too late to do any good by speaking when I heard they suspected him--and I was just a little fond of Tony once," she said. "Of course, he wasn't worth it--he never was--and that's why I tried to warn you. You made me feel you wanted to be kind to me."

Nettie laughed a little, almost scornfully. "Now, I don't know if that was nice of you. If you only meant to punish Mr. Palliser it wasn't."

Miss Clavier's face was faintly flushed all over now, but she regarded her companion steadily. "I don't quite know why I did it--but it wasn't altogether to make Tony smart," she said. "It was, at least, a little because I seemed to feel you were too good for him. Oh, I know I have done a good deal of harm--and it's a change to do the other thing now and then. I don't want Tony. Any one can have him and welcome--they'll get a very poor bargain, and I wouldn't like you to think I meant to pluck him--though that would have been easy."

"No," said Nettie, "I did not think that of you. What did you mean to do with him?"

"I don't know. To amuse myself by watching him wriggle, I think. It was nice to feel I could frighten him horribly. If you had been like the rest, and he had only shown me a little kindness, I fancy I would have let him go. But he couldn't do the right thing if it would cost him a trifle--he hasn't it in him; and he made me believe you meant to marry him."

"No," said Nettie, with a faint ring in her voice. "The man I'm going to marry is worth--several hundred Tony Pallisers. Still, I'm glad you told me, and you'll tell me the rest of the story."

Miss Clavier sat still for at least a minute, and then obeying an impulse told her tale. Her voice was also a little strained as she said, "Clavier was bad--bad all through--and he left me before he died in Melbourne; but though my father never knew it I was married to him all the time. I found the--'Madame'--a disadvantage."

Then there was silence until a burst of applause greeted the conclusion of the song; and while the two sat in the shadows Nettie Harding laid her hand sympathetically on her companion's arm.

XX -- FOUND GUILTY

TWO or three weeks had passed since the concert on the Low Wood lawn, and Therese Clavier had gone back into the obscurity she came from, when Nettie Harding once more stood beside the effigy in Northrop church. It was then late in the afternoon, and the little ancient building was growing shadowy. Hester Earle and Violet Wayne were moving about the aisle with bundles of wheat-ears and streamers of ivy, for the harvest thanksgiving was shortly to be celebrated, while the vicar stood waiting their directions on the chancel steps with a great handful of crimson gladioli.

Nettie, however, noticed none of them. She was lost in reflection, and her eyes were fixed on the grim stone face. She had gazed at it often with a vague sense of comprehension and a feeling that the contemplation of it brought within her grasp the spirit of the chivalrous past. Loyalty, she felt, was the predominative motive in the sculptured face, though it bore the stamp of stress and weariness; and she stood very still struggling with a half-formed resolution as she gazed at it.

Hester's voice rose softly from the aisle, and there was a patter of feet and swish of draperies, but it was low, as though the girl who made it felt the silence of the place. The door beside the organ was open wide, and Nettie could hear a faint rustle of moving leaves, and the sighing of a little warm wind about the church, while, lifting her head, she caught a brief glimpse of the dusky beech woods and sunlit valley. It was all very still, impressively quiet, and she felt the peace of it; but it was not peace, but something born of strife and yet akin to it her fancy strained after, and once more she seemed to hear the strident crackle of riflery and the shouts of the Sin Verguenza. The green English valley faded, and she saw in place of it the white walls of the Cuban town rise against the dusky indigo. Then once more she could dimly realize the calm that came of a high purpose, and was beyond and greater than the peace of prosperity. She had seen it beneath the stress and weariness in the faces of the marble knight and a living man.

Then with a little swift move of her shoulders she shook off the fancies, and fell to considering the task which it seemed was laid before her. She had made a friend of Bernard Appleby and that meant much with her; while ever since she had heard Miss Clavier's story the desire to right him had been growing stronger, but she had unpleasant misgivings. She felt the responsibility of breaking the smooth course of other lives almost too great for her, and wondered vaguely whether if she declared the truth in that sheltered land where nothing that was startling or indecorous ever seemed to happen anybody would believe her. She might even have kept silent had Violet Wayne been different, but Nettie already entertained an affection that was largely respectful for her, and determined that if she married Tony Palliser she should at least do so knowing what kind of man he was. Once more, however, her resolution almost failed her, and she glanced at the great glittering angel in the west window with a sense of her presumption in venturing to meddle with the great scheme of destiny. Still, Nettie was daring, and turning suddenly she looked down into the stone face again.

"I think you would understand, and at least you would not be afraid. Well, the man who is very like you shall have his rights," she said.

The stillness seemed to grow more intense, the calm face more resolute, while the spirit of the dead sculptor's conception gripped the girl as it had never done before. She felt that her duty was plain before her, and that fears and misgivings must be trampled on. Then there was a step behind her, and she saw Hester looking at her with a little smile.

"Were you talking to the effigy, Nettie?" she said.

"Yes," said Nettie quietly. "I think I was. There is no reason you shouldn't laugh if you want to, but I seem to fancy that man understands me. What you will not believe, however, is that he answered me."

Hester appeared a trifle astonished, but she smiled again. "I saw you turn and look at the figure in the west window," she said. "Were you holding communion with the angel too?"

"No," said Nettie with a curious naive gravity. "I'm quite open to admit I don't know much about angels--I've only seen pictures of them. Still, I sometimes think there's a little of their nature in the hearts of men. That man must have had it, and the Palliser who was killed in Africa had it too. Of course, that's not the kind of talk you would expect from an American."

Hester realized by the last trace of irony that Nettie did not desire to pursue the topic, and looking round saw that the vicar had joined them unobserved. He was a quiet man with an ascetic face, but there was a little twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes," he said. "I admit I overheard. It seems to me that Miss Harding's attitude is perfectly comprehensible."

Hester laughed. "That," she said, "is convincing, coming from you. In the meanwhile I am positively thirsty, and tea will be waiting at Low Wood. You may as well come over with us now since we expect you at dinner."

It was, however, half an hour later when they left the rectory and walked through the fields to Low Wood with Tony, who had been waiting them. Nettie laughed and talked to the vicar with her usual freedom, but she was also sensible of a quiet resolution. Violet Wayne should know the truth and Appleby's name be cleared, but she was shrewd, and saw the difficulty of attesting it convincingly. She was also very fair, and decided that Tony must have an opportunity of defending himself or admitting his offence. Now and then she felt her heart throbbing as she wondered whether she would fail at her task, but she shook off her misgivings, and it was only afterwards the vicar guessed at the struggle that went on within his companion.

They were sitting about the little table on the lawn when an opportunity was made for her, and the scene long remained impressed on Nettie's memory. The old house showed cool and gray between its wrappings of creepers that were flecked with saffron now, while here and there a tendril gleamed warm crimson against the stone. Its long shadow lay black upon the velvet grass, and there were ruddy gleams from the woodlands from which the yellow light was fading beyond the moss-crusted wall. Still, the river shone dazzlingly where it came rippling out of the gloom of a copse, and a long row of windows blinked in the building beside its bank.

Nettie noticed this vacantly, for it was Tony and Violet Wayne she was looking at. The man lay with a curious languid gracefulness in his chair, his straw hat on the back of his head and a smile on his lips, though Nettie fancied that she saw care in his face. Violet sat erect looking down the valley with thoughtful eyes, and though every line of her figure suggested quiet composure it seemed to Nettie that her face was a trifle too colorless, and that her big gray eyes lacked brightness. She could almost fancy that the shadow of care which rested on Tony had touched his sweetheart too. Opposite them sat the vicar, who had, Nettie understood, been a close friend of the Pallisers, and Hester Earle was busy with her spirit kettle close beside him. The latter looked up suddenly.

"I can't help thinking that the Americans are a somewhat inconsistent people," she said. "It is only a little while since Nettie fancied herself a torpedo, and yet I found her explaining her sentiments to the marble knight this afternoon."

"Well," said Nettie with a little smile, though she could feel her heart beating, "I feel more like a torpedo than ever just now."

Hester nodded. "That is more or less comprehensible," she said. "A torpedo is an essentially modern thing stored with potential activities and likely to go off and startle everybody when they least expect it, all of which is characteristically American. The marble knight--and I fancy some people would include the angel--belongs to the past, to the old knightly days when women were worshipped, men believed in saints and guardian angels, and faith wrought miracles."

The vicar glanced at Nettie as he said, "Extremes meet now and then."

"Well," said Nettie, "women are made much of in my country still, even by impecunious Englishmen who claim descent from men who did their share in those days of chivalry. That is, when they have money enough, but just now I'm not going to be too prickly. You haven't much voice, Hester, but you sing that little jingly song about the fairies quite prettily, and the notion it's hung upon gets hold of me. I can feel it better in Northrop church than anywhere. You know what I mean. There is very little to keep us out of fairyland. You have but to touch with your finger tips the ivory gate and golden!"

"If Hester understands your meaning I admit that it's more than I do," said Tony.

"Still," said Nettie naively, "I didn't think you would. You have too many possessions, and, you see, there are limitations in the song. You might knock a long while at those ivory gates before they let you in."

There was a little laughter, in which Tony joined, and the vicar said, "Excellent! He deserved it. Please don't stop. Miss Harding."

"That's not necessary," said Hester. "Once Nettie gets started she generally, as she would express it, goes straight through."

"Yes," said Nettie, "I quite often do. I'm not in the least afraid, like you, of being thought sentimental. In fact, we are fond of telling people what we think in my country. Still, I'm not sure about those limitations. The gates should open to everybody, even business men and heiresses--but I don't want to go trespassing while the vicar's here."

The vicar nodded. "I claim you as an ally," he said, "The idea you have taken up is not, however, exactly a novel one."

"Well," said Nettie, "what I feel is this. The old loyal spirit is living still--because it belongs to all time and can never die. It's with us now in these days of steam engines and magazine rifles. Those old- time men wore their labels--the monk's girdle, the red-cross shield, the palmer's shell, and some, according to the pictures, the nimbus too; but can't modern men, even those who play poker, which is a game of nerve as well as chance, and smoke green cigars, be as good as they? Now, I don't like a man to be ostensibly puritanical and ascetic--unless, of course, he's a clergyman."

There was a little laughter, and the vicar shook his head. "I'm afraid they don't all come under that category," he said.

"Still, there are men who never did a mean thing or counted the cost when they saw what was expected of them. Can't one fancy their passing the gates of that fairyland the easier because they are stained with the dust of the strife, and reaching out towards communion with the spirits of those old loyal folk who went before them--they, and the women they believe in?"

There was a moment's silence. Nettie's face was a trifle flushed, and a faint gleam showed in Violet Wayne's gray eyes.

"I think," said the vicar reflectively, "you might go further and say-- with all angels and archangels! We will take it that fairyland is only a symbol."

Tony, however, laughed indolently. "One would feel tempted to wonder whether there are many men who never did a mean thing."

A curious anger came upon Nettie. Tony Palliser seemed the embodiment of all that her simple strenuous nature despised, and he who had everything had taken from a better man the blameless name which was his one possession. He sat before her honored and prosperous, while she remembered Appleby's weariness and rags, and obeyed the impulse that drove her to unmask him. Her answer was coldly incisive.

"There are. You know one of them," she said.

"No," said Tony, and there was a trace of anxiety in his glance, "I am not sure that I do, though I have some passable friends."

"Well," said Nettie, "I certainly met one, and he did not wear a label. In fact, he was a smuggler of rifles and a leader of the Shameless Legion, but he was very loyal to his comrades, and when he was wounded and weary with battle he risked and lost a good deal to take care of a woman who had no claim on him. She had, he felt, been committed to his trust, and he would have been torn to pieces before he failed in it. That was why the knight's face reminded me of his--but I have told you about him already."

Tony's face expressed relief, and Nettie sat silent a moment until the vicar said, "It was a generous impulse, but it may have been a momentary one, while in the crusader's case there must have been a sustaining purpose, and a great abnegation, a leaving of lands and possessions he might never regain."

Nettie realized that her task must be undertaken now, and wondered that she felt so quietly and almost mercilessly collected.

"Still," she said, "the man I mentioned did as much--not to win fame or a pardon for his sins, but to save a comrade who was not worthy of the sacrifice. You would like me to tell you about it?"

Hester smiled in languid approbation, and the vicar's face showed his interest; but Tony sat very still, with the fingers of one hand quivering a little, and Violet's eyes seemed curiously grave as she fixed them upon the girl.

"Then," said Nettie, "I will try, though it isn't exactly a pleasant story. There was a man in England who involved himself with a girl whom, because of your notions in this country, he could not marry. It was only a flirtation, but the girl's father made the most of it, and raised trouble for the man when he wanted to marry a woman of his own degree. He had done nothing wrong as yet, but he was weak--so he sent his friend to bluff off the man who had been squeezing money out of him."

Tony made a little abrupt movement, and a tinge of gray showed in his cheek, but it passed unnoticed by all save Nettie Harding. The vicar was watching her with a curious intentness, and there was apprehension in Violet's face, while Hester gazed steadily at Nettie with growing astonishment.

"It was at night the friend met the blackmailer," she said. "There was an altercation, and then a struggle. Still, the blackmailer was not seriously hurt, and the other man saw him walk away. It was not until next day they found he had fallen into a river from the bridge."

She stopped a moment, and Violet turned to her, very white in face, with a great horror in her eyes.

"You venture to tell me this?" she said.

"Yes," said Nettie, glancing at Tony. "It hurts me, but it's necessary. If you do not believe me ask the man who sent his friend to meet the man he dared not face."

There was a sound that suggested a gasp, and a dress rustled softly as Violet, moving a little, closed one hand, while Tony's face showed gray and drawn as he leaned forward in his chair. It was, however, the vicar who broke the tense silence.

"Since you have told us so much, Miss Harding, I must ask you to go on," he said.

"Then," said Nettie, "the friend gave up everything, and took the blame that his comrade might marry the woman he loved, He went to America--and when he comes back there from Cuba we will find room for him."

"I think," said the vicar very slowly, "in order to make quite sure one of us should ask you for his name."

Nettie glanced at Violet, who made a little sign.

"It was Bernard Appleby," she said.

Then Violet turned to Tony, and her voice, which was low and strained, sent a little thrill through the listeners.

"Speak!" she said. "Tony, you can, you must, controvert it!"

Tony rose very slowly to his feet, and the courage of desperation was his. "I can't. Miss Harding is quite correct," he said. "I must ask the rest to leave us. This affair is ours--mine and Violet's only, you see."

"He is right," said the vicar, rising. "I will ask you to let the story go no further in the meanwhile, Miss Harding. There is, I think, only one thing Mr. Palliser can do, but the responsibility is his."

The others went away with him, and for a moment or two Violet and Tony stood face to face. Then when the man would have spoken the girl turned from him with a little gesture of repulsion.

"No," she said faintly. "It is too horrible. I can bear nothing further now."

She swept away from him, and Tony, standing rigidly still with hands clenched, let her go. Then he turned and strode with bent head across the lawn.

Five minutes later Hester Earle, entering one of the rooms quietly with the vicar, found Nettie lying in a chair and apparently shivering. She looked up when she saw them, and then turned her head away.

"Oh, I know you don't want to talk to me!" she said. "Still, though I feel most horribly mean, I did it because I had to."

"Yes," said the vicar gently, "I think I understand. It must have cost you a good deal--and I fancy you were warranted."

"Then go away, both of you, and leave me alone," said Nettie faintly.

They turned away, and met Violet Wayne in the hall. She made a little gesture when she saw their faces, as though to warn them from any expression of sympathy.

"You will excuse me, Hester," she said very quietly. "I think I would sooner walk home alone. I will not ask you to remember that what you heard concerns only Tony and me."

Then she turned and left them, walking slowly, and holding herself very straight with an effort.

XXI -- TONY'S DECISION

TONY PALLISER walked home to Northrop, and was glad when he reached it, for he found even the slight physical effort difficult. He felt half- dazed, and brushed past two of his tenants who greeted him on the road without recognizing them. He did not remember whether he offered any explanation as to why he had not remained at Low Wood, as he had purposed, but by and by he found himself sitting in Godfrey Palliser's chair at the head of the great dinner-table. The big candles were lighted, for the evenings were drawing in, and as he vacantly noticed the glitter of the light on the glass and silver he remembered the opportunity that had been given him there. He had let it pass, and now another had spoken.

Still, as he strove to eat because he felt the servants' eyes upon him it was the loneliness of the shadowy hall that most troubled him. He had noticed it often since Godfrey Palliser died, for Tony was not fond of his own company; but he had pictured Violet Wayne sitting opposite him then, and now it was borne in upon him that she would never smile at him across his table. As yet he scarcely realized the depth of his humiliation, for it was the result of it which must be faced, and not the thing itself that filled him with horror.

It was a relief when somebody took his plate away, and he went out with a cigar he did not remember lighting into the cool night air and flung himself down in a seat on the terrace. There was no moon in the sky, but the stars were clear, and--for the night was still--a chilly dampness settled on everything. He felt it pleasantly cold upon his skin, and lay still huddled limply in the garden chair, trying to realize the position, but found the attempt almost useless, for his thoughts had no cohesion. It was, however, evident that the love of the woman he desired could never be his. She had given him her promise, and he fancied that if he insisted she would redeem it, for he vaguely understood her sense of responsibility; but it was evident that he could not insist, and with the courage of desperation he nerved himself to face the fact that he must let her go. He could think of nothing else, for he was still bewildered by the blow, and could only realize what had been taken from him.

He did not know how long he lay there, but it was very late when he rose with a little shiver and went back into the hall, where he wrote a note.

"Tell John to ride over with that early to-morrow morning, and ask Miss Wayne for an answer," he said to the servant, who wondered at his face, and then walked slowly with hopelessness in his very pose towards his room, where, as it happened, he slept heavily until late next morning.

The next day, however, brought him further misery, for his perceptions were clearer now, and the difficulties he must meet more apparent, while he had also a horrible suspense to struggle with when the man he had sent with the note brought him an answer. It was very brief: "I will try to see you this evening."

Somehow the day dragged through, and Tony was glad when at last he left Northrop as darkness came, for the uncertainty was growing insupportable. It was, however, Mrs. Wayne who greeted him when he reached her house, and she looked at him gravely without shaking hands.

"Yes," she said, answering his unspoken question, "Violet has told me, and it is she who must decide. She will come down in a minute or two."

Tony was weak, but he had now the courage of hopelessness, and he met the lady's eyes.

"I will not try to influence her, madam, and can only thank you for allowing me to speak to her," he said.

Mrs. Wayne made no answer, but opened the door of a lighted room, and Tony, who sat down, waited for what seemed an interminable time until Violet came in. There was a curious hardness in her eyes, and her face was pale, so pale that it had an ivory gleam in the soft light, which the bronzy clusters of warm-tinted hair emphasized, but she was dressed with more than her accustomed taste, and held herself very straight. Tony rose when he saw her.

"I was almost afraid you would not see me," he said.

The girl sank into the chair he drew out, and he stood in front of her, with the hand he rested on the table trembling a little.

"I am not sure that it was wise," she said. "In a case like this one can only say nothing--or too much."

"I could bear the latter more easily," said Tony. "You know what I have done. We must have an understanding now."

His voice was hoarse, but it was even, and Violet Wayne regarded him with dispassionate interest. Tony, it seemed, had risen in his desperation, and his face was, as she had never seen it, set and almost grim.

"Then," she said quietly, "you have no excuse to make--nothing to urge in extenuation?"

"No. It is all true. There was only my love for you--and you must feel that a humiliation now."

Violet Wayne made a little gesture of weariness. "Tony," she said, "I don't quite catch your meaning, and we must speak plainly to-night."

"Well," said the man, in a voice that was curiously expressionless, "you heard Miss Harding's story. She was very fair--about Lucy Davidson--but you can realize how difficult it is for me to go into that?"

A trace of color crept into Violet Wayne's face, but her eyes were fixed upon her companion as she said slowly, "Still, I think it is necessary."

"Then I gave the girl a brooch--and once or twice talked nonsense with her--but it went no further. I can only give you my word for that--and nobody would blame you if you could not credit it. Her father did not, and I could not let you hear the story he built up."

Violet's face was faintly flushed with anger now. "That," she said, "is the one thing I could never forgive you, Tony. I know it is a trifle by comparison, but it hurts the most, and would have killed the confidence that would have drawn us together. You were afraid I would not believe you?"

"Yes, I was afraid."

The girl's anger seemed to melt away, and left her face pale again, while it was with a curious wistfulness she answered him.

"I evidently expected too much, but if you had told me I would have believed you had everybody testified your guilt," she said. "Can't you understand that love without confidence is a worthless thing--and that had you trusted me I would have borne any suspicion or obloquy with you?"

Her voice broke, but there was once more a faintly scornful ring in it when after a few moments' silence she spoke again. "But you were afraid-- afraid to trust me! Oh, it is almost unendurable!"

Tony stood still looking at her, with his heart throbbing painfully and vague wonder in his eyes. Then he moved forward with swift impulsiveness as though he would have flung himself upon his knees beside her chair, but she checked him with a gesture. Still, he stooped and laid a quivering hand upon her shoulder.

"I might have known," he said. "If I had had the courage you would have saved me from everything, but is it too late now? I did it because I loved you, Violet--and you will give me the chance to redeem myself. You can't destroy my last hope by casting me off?"

The girl looked up at him wearily. "A little more restraint, Tony. What has been done can never be undone--and I want to face the position quietly. Last night I struggled with the horror and bitterness of it, and one needs calmness now. We can never reopen the subject again."

Tony moved away from her, and once more leaned upon the table. His susceptibilities were curiously dulled, but still her coldness stung him like the lash of a whip, for he could see the contempt beneath it and could more easily have borne scathing reproaches.

"Well," he said very slowly, "nothing can happen to me that I have not deserved. I make no defence."

He saw the little gleam in the girl's eyes, and there was something in her face which suggested faint approbation.

"I promised to marry you--and that carries an obligation, but you destroyed the love I had for you," she said.

"It would be a very hard thing, but I can give you that promise back. I haven't fallen quite so far that I would take you when you have only contempt for me. I have done wrong, but there may be a faint chance left me, in spite of my worthlessness. Is it quite out of the question that I should redeem the past?"

Violet sat motionless for the space of several minutes, and Tony felt the throbbing of his heart as he watched her. Then she said very slowly, "I cannot see my duty--and so it would be presumption to show you yours, but I am not the person you have wronged most grievously."

"No. You mean Bernard Appleby? Well, it would be almost too much to expect you to believe in me again; but I can, at least, show you I am sorry for what I have done--and if I brought him back--"

The girl slowly shook her head. "I can make no promise now," she said.

"Still, you would wish me to make it right with him?" and Tony stood still looking at her with a faint gleam of hope in his eyes.

"Not because I wish it, Tony. Can't you realize that you must make him reparation?"

Tony slowly straightened himself, but his face was quietly resolute. "Yes," he said. "I wonder if Miss Harding will tell me where he is? I am going to Cuba. Of course, it can never give me back your esteem. That I threw away--but perhaps as the days go by you will not think of me so bitterly. You will try? That is all I can ask for in the meanwhile."

Violet rose, outwardly very calm and cold, though her heart was throbbing painfully. There was something in the man's face she had never seen there before, and though he spoke very quietly the little thrill in his voice was not without its effect on her.

"I think Miss Harding is here now," she said. "She asked if she might come, and I fancied I heard her voice a little while ago, but I do not know if she will tell you. I am glad you are going, Tony."

Tony looked down on her gravely, with a curious wistfulness in his eyes, and then, before she quite grasped his intentions, laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheeks.

"My only excuse is that I may never see you again," he said. "If Miss Harding will not tell me I will find him myself. I leave for London to- morrow, and go straight to Havana. I will not come back to England unless Bernard Appleby comes with me."

He turned abruptly, as though he feared his resolution might fail him, and it was not until Violet heard the door swing to behind him that she realized she was alone. A minute or two later he was shown into a room where Hester Earle sat with Nettie Harding, and smiled a little when he saw the latter's heightened color.

"I have come to ask you a favor, Miss Harding," he said. "I want you to tell me where to find Bernard Appleby."

"Why?" said the girl chillingly.

Tony made a little deprecatory gesture. "I deserve your suspicions, but I think you can trust me," he said. "I want to repair the wrong I did him, and bring him back to England."

Nettie looked at him steadily, though her face was flushed. "I don't know that he will come," she said. "He has a good deal to do there--and he has good friends in America."

Tony smiled curiously. "I was not asking you to do Appleby a kindness. I was thinking of myself."

Nettie appeared to understand him, for she took out a card and scribbled across it.

"I am sorry--and I think I know what you mean," she said as she handed it him. "If my father is in Cuba now--and I think he is--he will tell you just what to do."

Tony thanked her gravely, and with a little formal goodbye, which included Hester Earle, went out of the room. In another minute they heard the outer door close behind him, and Nettie's color grew a trifle deeper as she glanced at her companion.

"I couldn't help it, but I'm sorry I wasn't quite sure of him now," she said. "There's a great difference in that man since yesterday. He has had a rough shaking up, but it has brought all that's good in him up on top."

Hester nodded. "There is a good deal that's very nice at least in Tony," she said. "It is Violet I am most sorry for. She believed in him. I wouldn't worry her just yet, Nettie."

Violet Wayne in the meanwhile lay very still in her chair. The blow had blunted her susceptibilities, too, and the pain was less intense. She felt numb and passionless, and only realized that the man she had striven to believe in had never existed. The actual Tony had been shown to her, and it was with difficulty she had overcome the sense of disgust and horror which accompanied the revelation. Still, the evident sincerity of his desire to make reparation had touched her, and she was sensible of a curious pity for him. The tenderness was, however, alloyed with contempt, and she wondered vaguely whether that would pass with time. In the meanwhile she was glad he was going to Cuba, for she would be more sure of herself, and where her duty lay, when he came back with his task accomplished, though she realized with a curious unconcern that she might never see him again. Then there was a little tapping at the door, and it was almost a relief to her when Nettie Harding came in.

"I feel horribly mean, and want to ask you to forgive me because I am going away in a day or two," she said. "Still, I felt I had to tell that story, and if it was necessary I think I would tell it again. I knew it would hurt you, but I couldn't help it."

Violet smiled a trifle wearily. "It was a little painful. One can't hide it. Still, I don't think anybody would blame you."

Nettie came forward and seized her hands impulsively. "My dear," she said, "it would almost have killed me, and I'm ever so sorry--but what could I do? And you know you told me when I tried to ask you that it was better to know the truth. Can't you understand that if it was only because you didn't know what kind of man he was I had to tell you?"

"And that was your only reason?"

"No. There was the other man who took the blame! I didn't tell you, but the insurrection has broken out around Santa Marta where he is again, and he has left all he had and gone back to his comrades because he promised he would when they wanted him, though he knew my father would have made him rich if he had stayed with him. When I thought of him, ragged, hungry, and thirsty, and perhaps wounded, too, while Tony Palliser had everything, I could not sit still and say nothing."

Violet's gaze grew steadier as she said, "What is that man to you?"

"Nothing. Only a friend. Oh, of course, you can't understand, but a girl in America can be quite fond of a man without falling in love with him. Bernard Appleby never tried even the mildest flirtation with me, and he'd have been sorry if he had. He's nice, and makes one trust him, but he's 'way behind the man I'm going to marry."

Her tone carried conviction with it, and Violet made a little gesture. "Yes," she said slowly, "it is not astonishing that you believe in him."

Then Nettie yielded to impulse, and made a venture "There was nothing more," she said reflectively. "If I had thrown myself and my money at his feet he wouldn't have had me. I think, though he never told me, there was somebody in England he would always remember."

The big gray eyes were perfectly steady, but a faint trace of color showed in Violet's cheek.

"Well," she said slowly, "Tony is going out to find him."

Nettie felt a little thrill at what she had noticed, but she rose and, somewhat to her companion's astonishment, kissed her.

"I'll feel happier now I know you have forgiven me," she said.

She had gone in another minute, and Violet Wayne lay still with half- closed eyes and a weary face, while Tony drove home up the Northrop valley with a faint hope in his heart.

It was about the same hour next day when he laid several papers down on the table at which he sat in lawyer Craythorne's office with a little smile of content.

"It's all straight now and I'm glad," he said. "I can make Dane Cop over to Appleby because it never was an integral part of the estate, and it is worth a good deal to anybody now. It should, as you know, have been his in any case, while in the event of my dying unmarried he will get a share of the other property. I would have made it more only that Esmond Palliser has nearer claim."

Craythorne folded the will just signed. "It is wise to take precautions, but one would certainly expect you to marry," he said.

Tony rose, and smiled curiously as he straightened himself. "Well," he said, "one can never be sure of anything--and, you see, I am going to Cuba to-morrow. Travelling there must be a trifle risky just now. Still, I fancy I shall find Appleby."

XXII -- MORALES MAKES A PROPOSAL

THE night was clear and hot when Appleby sat with Harper in the Cafe Salamanca looking out upon the plaza at Santa Marta. The big room was open-fronted, and only divided from the pavement by a row of wooden pillars and a balustrade. It was also, as usual, crowded with citizens who assembled there in the evening to discuss politics and the progress of the campaign, which accounted for the fact that Appleby sat quietly in a corner with a little glass of wine on the table in front of him. He realized it was highly desirable that he should obtain some insight into what was going on, for there was then a growing distrust of American imperialism which was perhaps not altogether unwarranted among the Cuban loyalists. Aliens were being watched with a jealous eye, and Appleby, who had already had difficulties with the petty officials, was aware that there was little the Administration contemplated that was not known in the cafes. Most men of Iberian extraction are apt at intrigue, and since the journals for excellent reasons usually maintained a discreet reticence popular discontent and factional bitterness found another vent.

It seemed to him that there was a vague expectancy and uneasiness upon everybody that evening, for the voices were lower than usual, and here and there a group sat silent turning over the latest journals from Spain, though at times a man would express himself with almost passionate vehemence and then stop abruptly, as though uncertain of his audience. It was known that American warships had been sighted on the Cuban coast, and one great vessel was even then lying in Havana harbor, and the men's dark eyes grew suspicious as they asked what it foretided. Appleby heard enough to convince him that if he hoped to carry on the business of the hacienda considerable discretion would be necessary, and then turned his eyes upon the plaza.

The cazadores' band was playing there, and the patter of feet, swish of light dresses, jingle of steel, and murmur of voices broke through the music, for the citizens were as usual taking their evening promenade with their wives and daughters. The plaza was well lighted, and the mixture of broadcloth, uniform, white duck, and diaphanous draperies caught the eye; and Appleby, who had artistic perceptions, found pleasure in watching the concourse stream through the light that shone out from the cafe. Grave merchant, portly senora draped in black, with powdered face, and slim, olive-cheeked senorita went by, smiling not infrequently over a lifted fan at an officer of cazadores with clinking sword, or a youthful exquisite from Havana in costly hat of Panama and toothpick-pointed shoes. Still, even where the press was thickest there was no jostling, for the assembly was good-humored and characterized by a distinguished courtesy. The men were Latins, and they could take their pleasure unconcernedly, though the land lay desolate and strewn with ashes only a few leagues away. Santa Marta was, for the most part, loyal, and, in spite of official corruption, and not infrequent abuse of authority, Spanish domination produced at least an outward decorum and sense of security in the tropics.

By and by the music stopped, and a murmur seemed to run round the plaza. It grew louder, and there was a clamor in one of the streets, then a shout and a bewildering hum of voices broke out. The men in the cafe rose to their feet, but Appleby, who laid his hand on Harper warningly, sat still. Something was evidently happening, and he knew the uncertain temper of the Latins. Then a man who pushed through the crowd sprang into the cafe flourishing what appeared to be a Havana journal and was seized by those about the door. A sudden tense silence, which was heightened by the clamor outside, followed the babel of questions, while one of the men who had grasped the paper opened it. Then he flung disjointed sentences at the rest in a voice which was hoarse with passion and apprehension.

"The American warship sunk at Havana with all her crew!" he said. "No, a few, it seems, were saved. American suggestions that she was destroyed by a torpedo insulting to Spain. It is believed to be an explosion in the magazine. There will be demands for compensation. Attitude of the Americans unreasonable."

Harper rose up suddenly, a tall, commanding figure, with his face very grim, and brought a great fist crashing down upon the table.

"Good Lord!" he said hoarsely. "They've sunk the 'Maine'!"

Then striding forward he rent half of the journal from the man who held it. He thrust it upon Appleby, who followed him, and his face was almost gray with anger as he waved the rest aside.

"Read it! I can't trust my eyes," he said.

Appleby took the journal, and there was once more silence in the cafe, for Harper stood with his big hand clenched on the neck of a heavy decanter while his comrade read aloud in Castilian. The account was brief, and had evidently been written tactfully, but there were mixed with its expression of regret vague hints that in case of unwarranted American demands the Administration would remember what was due to Spanish dignity.

"It's horrible, Harper! Still, it must have been an accident," he said.

Harper stood very straight, with a blaze in his eyes and the veins on his forehead swelling.

"No," he said, and his voice rang through the cafe, so that men swung round and stared at him outside. "The devils sunk her. By the Lord, we'll whip them off the earth!"

He spoke in English, but his voice and attitude were significant, and a slim young officer of cazadores rose up at a table close beside him, and glanced at the rest.

"We shall know how to answer the insolence of these Americans, senores," he said, and held up his wine-glass as he turned to Harper. "It is demanded that you join us--Viva la Espana!"

The table went over, and the glass fell in shivers as Harper sprang. Next moment a frantic clamor broke out, and he had the officer by the waist and arm. A brown hand clutched at the sword, but dropped inert again, and the big gaunt American and slim Latin reeled through the cafe, overturning seats and tables as they went. Then they fell with a crash against the balustrade, and, though even Appleby could not quite understand how his comrade accomplished it, the officer of cazadores was swung from his feet, and went down full-length upon the pavement outside. A roar went up from the crowd, but while Appleby, who set his lips, wondered what the result of Harper's folly would be, two of the lights went out suddenly, and a hand touched his arm.

"It is not advisable to stay here," a low voice said. "There is a door at the back. Come with me."

The place was almost dark now, and Appleby contrived to seize Harper's shoulder and drag him back as the crowd poured in from the plaza. Once more somebody touched him, and a man overturned a larger table, which brought down three or four of those who made at them most fiercely, while in another moment or two he found himself, still clutching Harper, in a shadowy calle behind the cafe. He turned to thank the two men he saw beside him, but one ran up the street, and the other, slipping back into the cafe, slammed the door in his face. Harper stared at him, gasping.

"Let go of me. I'm going back to kill two or three of them," he said.

Appleby thrust him forward into the street. "You are not while I can hold you," he said. "It seems to me you have done quite enough!"

Harper turned and glared at him, but Appleby still clutched his shoulder resolutely, and his face relaxed. "Well," he said more calmly, "I guess I've hurt more than the feelings of one of them. What did that fellow shove us out for, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Appleby. "Perhaps he was afraid of their wrecking the cafe, or he didn't want us hurt. We seem to have more friends than we are aware of in Santa Marta. It is apparently convenient at times to be connected with the Sin Verguenza."

Harper, who shook off his anger, followed him down the street, but he stopped again when they crossed another one that led back to the plaza. They could see the wide opening, with the white walls that hemmed it in cutting against the soft indigo of the sky, and hear the confused murmurs that rose out of it. Then there was a crash of music that rang, as it were, exultantly across the shadowy town until a tumultuous roar of voices drowned the Royal March of Spain.

Harper clenched one hand. "You hear them!" he said. "Well, they'll get their answer by and by, and they're not going to feel like shouting when we're through with them."

Appleby said nothing. He understood the hot Castilian temperament, and the outburst of sentiment was comprehensible, but the news of the disaster had also sent a chill of horror and suspicion through him. Still, he laid his hand with a restraining grasp on Harper's arm, and they went on silently to the "Four Nations," where they had left the vehicle in which they had driven out from the hacienda.

It was, somewhat to Appleby's astonishment, next evening before they heard anything more of the affair, and then, as he sat in the big barely furnished general room at San Cristoval, Pancho, the major-domo, came up to say that the Colonel Morales was waiting below. Appleby bade him bring out cigars and wine, and rose from his seat when Morales came in. He shook hands urbanely, unbuckled his sword, and laid his kepi on the table, and then sat down with an expression of concern in his olive face which Appleby fancied was assumed. It was then about eight o'clock in the evening, and had been dark two hours, but it was very hot, and the door and window lattices which opened on the veranda had been flung wide. There was, however, no moon, and black shadows closed in upon the scanty strip of light that shone outside.

"I have come as a friend on a somewhat delicate business," said Morales, pouring out a glass of wine. "The affair is, as you will realize, a serious one."

Appleby, who fancied he understood his man, smiled. "I scarcely think it is. Nobody attaches much importance to a trifling dispute in a cafe. One has also to make allowances in moments of political excitement."

"It is not a trifle brutally to assault a Spanish officer, as you would have discovered had I not held back the order for your friend's arrest," said Morales dryly.

"Still, one would scarcely fancy the officer in question would wish everybody to hear of it. He had, if I remember correctly, his sword with him. I am only suggesting this because it seems to me that in his case I would prefer the affair arranged quietly."

The color appeared to grow a trifle warmer in Morales' cheek, and there was a faint sparkle in his eyes, but though it seemed to cost him an effort he smiled.

"You have, as I surmised, considerable discretion," he said. "Well, I will admit that the view I urged upon the Teniente Pinillo much resembled yours. In fact, it is conceivable that he would be willing to entertain any honorable amend your comrade should think fit to make him."

Appleby decided that he would gain nothing by showing any special eagerness to straighten out the difficulty, since he had reasons for believing that it was not mere friendliness which had brought Morales there.

"Of course, that is the sensible view," he said. "Still, knowing the delicate pride of your countrymen, I am a trifle astonished that the Teniente Pinillo proved so amenable to reason."

A little grim twinkle crept into Morales' eyes. "It was at my suggestion. When I venture to make a recommendation it is apt to prove convincing."

Appleby knew that this was the case, for the little olive-faced soldier was more dreaded in that country than the Sin Verguenza. He also felt that it was not without a reason the dark eyes were fixed upon him searchingly.

"That is not astonishing," he said. "Well, I fancy the one I intend to make will also be considered by the Senor Harper. I will send for him by and by."

Morales sat still a minute or two fingering his cigar, with his back to the window, and the light upon his face. Appleby had foreseen this when he drew out a chair for him, but he could himself follow the stream of light that shone out across the veranda, and fancied that a shadowy object was crouching just outside it. His ears were also keen, and he had once or twice caught an almost imperceptible sound. Then Morales turned to him.

"Your comrade was concerned in another affair which cannot be arranged so easily," he said. "It is not so very long ago since he was seen carrying arms in the Alturas Pass."

It was only by a strenuous effort that Appleby sat very still, and strove to keep his face expressionless. "That is your contention!" he said. "You do not expect me to admit it?"

The two men looked at each other steadily for almost a minute, and then Morales smiled. "It is of no importance. Here are no witnesses," he said. "He had, however, a companion, Senor Appleby."

Appleby had expected this, and was prepared. He was also by no means as sure as Morales seemed to be that there were no witnesses, but the uncertainty on that point did not trouble him. He had a quiet confidence in Pancho, and the only men the latter allowed near the house had, Appleby felt certain, at least a suspicion of his connection with the Sin Verguenza. He listened intently, and though everything seemed very still, again fancied he heard a very faint sound on the veranda.

"How long have you known this?" he said.

"Since you came to the hacienda, I think," said Morales dryly. "It was a very poor compliment you paid me when you fancied that you had deceived me."

"Then would it be too much to ask exactly how much you know?"

Morales laughed. "I will put my cards on the table. There was the attack on Santa Marta, the affair at Alturas, and the escape of a prisoner the night of the Alcalde's ball. There are, I think, other counts one could urge against you, but those I have mentioned would be sufficient."

Appleby decided to make an experiment. "It seems to me," he said, "that so much knowledge is apt to prove dangerous to the man who possesses it."

"You mean--"

"I have but to raise my voice, and you would find it difficult to get out of the hacienda San Cristoval alive."

It was evident that the little officer's nerves were good, for he smile contemptuously.

"That difficulty has been provided against," he said. "There are two or three files of infantry not very far away, my friend, and two of my officers have precise instructions as to what o do in case I am absent a suspicious time."

Appleby laughed, for, though he fancied there was something behind it, the man's frankness was not without its effect on him. His fearlessness he took as a matter of course, for it was not without a reason Morales bore the title of the Sword.

"Then," he said, "we come to the question what do you want from me?"

"As a commencement it would be pleasanter to mention what I can offer you, and that would be employment on special service by the Administration at a reasonable remuneration. I may admit that you have abilities. Still, should you prefer it, you could be sent to the coast with a permit that would take you safely out of Cuba instead. You are here to make money, which is, however, scarce in Cuba just now, and the revolution is no affair of yours."

"Well," said Appleby, "we will come back to my question."

"Then I ask very little. Certain papers of the Senor Harding's which are in your possession, and the perusal of the communications that pass through your hands."

Appleby was glad he had his back to the light, for he felt his face grow hot, but, though it cost him an effort, he maintained an outward tranquillity, and sat still, rolling in his fingers the cigar he took up. Morales' purpose was plain to him. He was known to be a loyal soldier, but he was also a man with an insatiable greed, and Appleby was aware that Harding, perhaps forecasting an American occupation, had been making overtures to the insurgents. Indeed, though Harding had never entirely taken him into his confidence, he had seen enough to convince him that he was playing a very risky game. Morales, it seemed, suspected it, and apparently desired sufficient proof to bring Harding within his grasp, which, Appleby surmised, would only relax when the American had been largely denuded of his possessions. Then another thought flashed into his mind. He had once or twice seen Morales' dark eyes fixed on Nettie, and knew that he was one who usually obtained what he set his heart upon, while Harding was on his way to Cuba even then. If he proved obdurate, and Morales had anything to support his demands with, it might go hard with him.

This was plain to Appleby, though his perceptions were somewhat blunted by the anger he felt. Morales' suggestion that he was capable of such treachery stung him to the quick, but he was quite aware that the retort incisive would be puerile folly, and that if he was to prove he realized his obligation to Harding he must proceed circumspectly. As affairs stood just then Morales held him beneath his thumb.

"It is a proposal that must have consideration. There are difficulties," he said, and hoped his voice did not betray him.

"I think," said Morales dryly, "that haste would be advisable."

"Still, I must have until this time to-morrow."

Morales rose, put on his kepi, and buckled on his sword. Then he turned to Appleby with a little significant smile.

"Until then, though it is quite unnecessary," he said. "I think a very few minutes' reflection will convince you that my proposal should be acceded to. In that case you will find me at the cuartel any time to- morrow."

Appleby went out with him, and as they descended the stairway the officer stopped.

"I fancy I heard somebody in the shadows yonder," he said.

"Yes," said Appleby dryly, raising his voice a trifle, "it is quite likely that somebody is there. In this country one takes precautions. You, however, have my word that in your case there is no necessity for apprehension."

Morales laughed a little. "It is well that I took mine, but I will ask you for your company as far as the carretera, Senor Appleby. One does not attach too much importance even to the word of a gentleman just now."

They walked through the dusky cane together, and parted with punctilious salutations when they reached the dim white road. Then Appleby went back to the house, and met Harper at the foot of the stairway.

"Colonel Morales came to demand an apology from you, and I promised him that you would make it," he said.

Harper seemed hoarse with anger. "I could scarcely keep my hands off him as it was. It would have pleased me to pound the life out of him."

"Well," said Appleby dryly, "I scarcely think it will be necessary to make the apology now, but I can't tell you anything more until to- morrow. There is a good deal I must think over."

He went up the stairway, and sat for at least an hour staring straight before him with an unlighted cigar in his hand. Then he rose with a little weary smile, and tapped a suspended strip of tin, which rang dissonantly until the major-domo came in.

"You know where Don Maccario is?" he said.

Pancho's eyes twinkled. "I think I could find him."

"Then remember what I tell you," said Appleby, who laid his hand on the man's shoulder, spoke softly and rapidly, until the latter nodded.

"With permission, I will give the message to three other men who can be trusted and start at once," he said.

"Is it necessary?" said Appleby, with a faint trace of astonishment.

Pancho smiled significantly. "I think it is," he said. "Morales makes certain. He leaves nothing to chance."

XXIII -- APPLEBY TAKES A RISK

IT was early next morning when Appleby and Harper sat at breakfast on the veranda. The white wall across the patio already shone dazzlingly against a strip of intense blue, and a patch of brightness grew broader across the veranda, but it was pleasantly cool as yet. From beyond the flat roof there rose the rasping thud of machetes swinging amidst the cane and the musical clink of hoes, with the dull rumble of the crushing machinery as an undertone.

Appleby had apparently not slept very well, for there was weariness in his face, and he lay a trifle more limply than usual in his chair, with a morsel of bread and a very little cup of bitter black coffee in front of him, for in Spanish countries the regular breakfast is served later in the morning. Harper seemed to notice the absence of the major-domo.

"Bread and coffee! Well, when he can't get anything else one can live on them, but if Pancho had been around he'd have found us something more," he said. "Their two meals a day never quite suited me. We have steak and potatoes three times in my country."

"I have seen you comparatively thankful to get one," said Appleby. "I'm not sure that we will even have bread and coffee to fall upon in another day or two."

Harper glanced at him sharply. "Where's Pancho?"

"I sent him away last night with a message for Maccario."

"As the result of Morales coming round?"

Appleby nodded. "Yes," he said. "He made a demand I could not entertain."

"About me?"

"Not exactly. I told him you felt sorry you had wounded the susceptibilities of his officer."

Harper laughed. "Well," he said, "there's only one thing I'm sorry for, and that is that I let up before I'd put the contract through. Still, I guess there's more behind it."

"There is," said Appleby gravely. "If you can keep quiet a minute or two I'll tell you."

He spoke rapidly and concisely, and Harper's face flushed as he listened. "You let him go!" he said. "Pancho and I were hanging round on the stairway."

Appleby smiled a trifle wearily. "I suspected it, but Morales is a good deal too cunning to take any unnecessary risks. If he had not come back we should have had half a company of cazadores turning up to ask what had become of him. Now I want you to understand the position. What are your countrymen likely to do about the 'Maine'?"

Harper's eyes gleamed, and his voice was hoarse. "Make the Spaniards lick our boots or wipe them off the earth!"

"Well," said Appleby dryly, "you may do the last, but, if I know the Spaniards, you will never extort anything from them that would stain their national dignity. Still, I think you are right about your countrymen's temper, and you see what it leads to. Every battalion of Spanish infantry will be wanted on the coast, and that will give the insurgents a free hand. It means they will once more be masters of this district, and that Santa Marta must fall. Believing that, I'm going to take a risk that almost frightens me."

"I don't quite understand," said Harper.

"Harding is on his way to Cuba, and he has large sums sunk in San Cristoval and other places up and down the island. Once he gets here Morales will grind them out of him. Now, it is evident that Harding has as much sympathy with the insurgents as he has with the loyalists, and perhaps rather more, while just now he must stand in with one of them. It seems to me that if your people can't be pacified the Spaniards will be driven out of Cuba."

"Still," said Harper reflectively, "I don't quite see why we should worry about that. Since you can't sell Harding--and that's quite plain-- all we have to do is to light out quietly."

Appleby smiled. "I scarcely think we could manage it; and while I take Harding's money there's an obligation on me to do what I can for him. That is why I'm going to commit him definitely to standing in with the insurgents."

Harper stared at him in astonishment, and then brought his fist down with a bang on the table. "You are going to bluff the Spaniards, and play Sugar Harding's hand?" he said with wondering respect. "You have 'most nerve enough to make a railroad king--but if it doesn't come off, and they patch up peace again?"

"Then," said Appleby very quietly, "what I am going to do will cost Harding every dollar he has in Cuba, though that doesn't count for so much since Morales means to ruin him, anyway. I can only make a guess, and stake everything on it. Your countrymen will ask too much, the Spaniards will offer very little. Still, it's an almost overwhelming decision."

Again Harper looked at him with a faint flush in his face, for the boldness of the venture stirred the blood in him. "It's the biggest thing I've ever had a hand in," he said. "Still, wherever it leads to, I'm going through with you!"

"It is quite likely that it will lead us in front of a firing party," said Appleby. "I have reasons for believing that Maccario is not far away, and I have asked him to occupy the hacienda. It commands the carretera to Santa Marta, and I fancy a handful of determined men could hold it against a battalion, while with it in their possession the Sin Verguenza would dominate this part of the country, in spite of Morales. He has, as you know, been sending troops away. The one thing that troubles me is the uncertainty whether Maccario can get here to-night."

"Well," said Harper, "it's quite an important question, and I don't understand why we're staying here. I'd far sooner light out at once and meet him. If Morales turns up in the meanwhile we're going to have trouble."

Appleby smiled dryly. "I'm afraid we would not get very far," he said. "Still, if it's only to find out whether my notion is correct, we can try it."

Harper picked up what was left of the bread, and with characteristic caution slipped it into his pocket. "It may come in handy. I've been out with the Sin Verguenza before," he said.

They went down the stairway, along the tram-line, and out upon the Santa Marta road, but they had scarcely made half a mile when they came upon a sergeant and several files of cazadores sitting in the shadow by the roadside. Harper stopped abruptly and Appleby smiled.

"The road is closed, then, Sergeant?" he said.

"No, senor," said the man. "Still, it is not very safe."

"Not even as far as Santa Marta?"

The sergeant shook his head. "If you are going there I will send two files with you," he said.

Appleby glanced at Harper, who clenched a big hand, and appeared to have some difficulty in restraining himself. "I don't think we will trouble you," he said. "You had instructions from the Colonel Morales?"

"He seemed anxious about your safety, senores," said the man.

Appleby turned upon his heel, and walked back the way he had come with Harper, murmuring anathemas upon Morales beside him, until the sergeant was out of sight.

"I expected it!" he said.

"Well," said Harper dryly, "this is not the only way out of the place. We'll try another."

They walked back to the hacienda, passed the sugar mill, and followed the little tram-line that wound through the cane until once more Harper came to a standstill, and his face grew a trifle grim. It was very hot, and the rails flung back the light dazzlingly between the tall green blades, but there was another suggestive blink of brightness among the long banana leaves in front of them.

"More of them!" he said hoarsely.

They walked on a few paces, and then a non-commissioned officer of cazadores in dusty white uniform moved out on to the line.

"Well," said Harper brusquely, "what are you wanting here?"

The man made a little deprecatory gesture as he said, "We were sent."

Appleby made as though he would brush past him, but the soldier, moving a trifle, stood in front of him.

"With permission, senor, it is safer about the hacienda," he said. "Still, if you wish to go out into the country I will send a man or two with you."

Appleby laughed. "Then you are not alone?"

The soldier called softly, and three or four men in uniform appeared amidst the banana leaves. "It seems," he said, "the Colonel Morales is anxious about the hacienda."

Harper glanced at his comrade ruefully, but an inspiration dawned on Appleby. "One appreciates his solicitude. It is conceivable that your comrades would know what to do with a bottle or two of cana. A little is beneficial when one has passed the night in the open. There was, I think, a heavy dew."

"With thanks, but it is not permitted," said the man. "We did not, however, leave Santa Marta until there was a little light in the sky."

"Colonel Morales was good enough to send a strong detachment?"

The soldier shook his head. "A section of the Barremeda company," he said. "The Sergeant Hernando was to follow with a few files when he came in from picket duty. One does not understand it, for the country is quiet now, but one asks no questions of an officer."

"It is not usually advisable," said Appleby with a smile. "Still, if you change your mind about the cana you can come up to the hacienda and ask for me."

He swung round, and five minutes later sat down on a truck on the tram- line. Harper leaned against it, and looked at him.

"I guess Morales means to make sure of us," he said. "Well, we can only hope for Maccario. You couldn't ask him if the men you sent got through?"

"I made the venture, and he told me. It was last night I sent the men out, and the cazadores only started this morning. Morales blundered then, but it is rather more than likely he couldn't help himself. Nobody would call him timid, but just now it would have been a risky thing for him to go back to Santa Marta alone."

Harper nodded. "There's not much you don't think of," he said. "Still, it seems to me quite likely that Maccario can't get through."

"Then so far as you and I are concerned I'm afraid the game is played out," said Appleby.

Harper pulled out his cigar case and wrenched it open. "Take a smoke," he said. "I don't feel like talking just now."

He sat down on a sleeper with his back to a wheel, while Appleby lay upon the truck with a cigar, which went out in his hand, gazing across the sunlit cane. It rose about him breast-high, a crude glaring green, luminous in its intensity of color, against the blueness above it, but Appleby scarcely saw it, or the gleaming lizard which lay close by suspiciously regarding him. He had made a very bold venture, and though Harding might yet benefit by it, he could realize the risk that he and his comrade ran.

There was, however, consolation in the thought that Morales could not have known he had sent for the Sin Verguenza, or he would have flung a company of cazadores into the hacienda. A few resolute men could, Appleby fancied, hold it against a battalion, for there were no openings but narrow windows, and those high up, in the outer walls, while, if the defenders tore the veranda stairway up, the patio would be apt to prove a death-trap to the troops that entered it. It also seemed to him that, now the prospect of complications with the Americans would everywhere stir the insurgents to activity, Morales would scarcely have men to spare for a determined assault upon the hacienda.

The longer Appleby reflected the more sure he felt that he had made a wise decision. It had, however, cost him an effort to face the risk, and now he wondered a little at his own fearlessness. He who had hitherto haggled about trifles and pored over musty papers in a country solicitor's office had been driven into playing a bold man's part in the great game of life, and the reflection brought him a curious sense of content. Even if he paid the forfeit of his daring, as it seemed he would in all probability do, he had, at least, proved himself the equal, in boldness of conception and clearness of vision, of men trained to politics and war, and he found the draught he had tasted almost intoxicating.

The exhilaration of it had vanished now, but the vague content remained and blunted the anxieties that commenced to creep upon him. Still, he fell to wondering where Maccario was, and how long it would take him to reach San Cristoval, for Morales would demand his answer soon after nightfall He lay very still while the shadow of the cane grew narrower, until the sun shone hot upon his set brown face, and then slowly stood up.

"I think we will go back and pay the men," he said. "The few pesetas mean a good deal to them, and I would sooner they got them than Morales."

They went back together silently, and the whistle shrieked out its summons when the mill stopped for the men's ten o'clock breakfast. Appleby drew them up as they came flocking in and handed each the little handful of silver due to him.

"You will go back to work until the usual hour," he said. "If all goes well you will begin again to-morrow, but this is a country in which no one knows what may happen."

The men took the money in grave wonder, and Appleby, who did not eat very much, sat down to breakfast, but both he and Harper felt it a relief when the plates were taken away.

"You will keep them busy, if it is only to stop them talking," he said. "I have wasted too much time already, and if I am to straighten up everything by this evening there is a good deal to do."

Harper went out, and Appleby, sitting down in his office, wrote up accounts until the afternoon. He dare leave no word for Harding, but that appeared unnecessary, for if Harding found San Cristoval in the possession of the Sin Verguenza he would, Appleby felt certain, understand and profit by the position. The room resembled an oven, and no more light than served to make writing possible entered the closed lattices; but with the perspiration dripping from him Appleby toiled on, and the last Spanish dollar had been accounted for when Harper and the man who carried the comida came up the stairway. Then it was with a little sigh he laid down his pen and tied the neatly engrossed documents together. The life he led at San Cristoval suited him, and now he was to turn his back on it and go back once more, a homeless and penniless adventurer, to the Sin Verguenza. Glancing up he saw Harper leaning on a bureau and looking at him.

"That's another leaf turned down," he said. "A good deal may happen to both of us before to-morrow."

Harper nodded gravely. "Oh yes," he said. "That's why I'm going to make a kind of special dinner. I don't think I had much breakfast, and I don't quite know when we may get another."

The dinner he had given the cook instructions concerning was rather more elaborate than usual, and flasks of red and amber wine stood among the dishes and the piled-up fruit. Neither of them had much to say, but they ate, and when very little remained on the table Harper leaned back in his chair with a smile of content.

"That's one thing Morales can't take away from me, and I guess it should carry me on quite a while," he said.

They lay still, cigar in hand, for the most part of an hour and then as the sunlight faded from the patio Harper appeared to grow restless. Appleby watched him with a little smile.

"You don't seem quite easy," he said.

Harper stared at him, and then broke into a somewhat hollow laugh. "It's a fact," he said. "I was kind of wondering if it wasn't time Pancho or one of the other men came back. I guess one could see them on the tram- line from the roof. Morales will be here in an hour or two."

He went out, and Appleby sat still, not because that was pleasant, but because he felt the necessity of holding himself in hand. He desired to retain a becoming tranquillity, and now he could only wait found that the tension was growing unendurable. There was no sound in the patio, where the light was failing, but he could hear Harper's footsteps on the flat roof above, and found himself listening eagerly as his comrade paced up and down. He stopped once, and Appleby felt his heart beating, for it seemed that something had seized Harper's attention. The footsteps, however, commenced again, and then Harper, who appeared to stop once more for a second, came hastily down the outside stairway. Appleby felt his fingers trembling, and it was only by effort he sat still instead of moving to the door to question him. If Harper had seen anything it was evident his comrade would hear of it in a moment or two.

He came on down the stairway, and when he reached the veranda Appleby closed one hand as he moved in his chair, but Harper passed on down the lower stairway, and Appleby sat still again, while a curious little shiver ran through him. Half an hour had elapsed before his comrade came in again and flung himself down in the nearest chair. He shook his head disgustedly, and his face was very grim.

"No sign of Pancho, and I'm not going back," he said. "I guess watching for folks who don't come gets kind of worrying. There's another thing. I went prospecting down the tram-line, and found that sergeant had brought his men closer in."

"I could have told you that," said Appleby. "If I had thought we could have got away I would scarcely have been quietly sitting here."

Harper's face flushed. "Well," he said, "it's Maccario or Morales now."

He lighted a cigar and sat still, though his big hands quivered now and then, and the veins showed swollen on his forehead. The light grew rapidly dim, and at last Appleby moved sharply when a man came up the stairway with a lamp. Harper laughed unpleasantly.

"It can't last very long now," he said. "We'll know what's going to happen in the next half-hour."

Appleby glanced at him languidly. "There is," he said, "one thing that would induce Morales to let us slip through his fingers."

Harper stood up and straightened himself, clenching his hands on the chair back as he stared at Appleby.

"If I thought you meant it I'd stop your talking for ever now," he said. "Oh, I've now and then done a smart thing, and nobody expects too much from me, but I haven't sold a countryman to the Spaniards yet--the devils who sunk the 'Maine'!"

Appleby laughed. "I think," he said quietly, "you had better sit down."

Harper said nothing, but when he turned and flung himself into the chair his eyes were eloquent, and there was for almost an hour a tense silence in the room. It seemed interminable to Appleby, but at last there was a tramp of feet outside, and they rose simultaneously, Harper flushed and Appleby a trifle gray in face. Then there were footsteps on the stairway, and Morales came in with two or three files of cazadores behind him. He glanced at the two men, and his face grew a trifle harder, while a little vindictive sparkle crept into his eyes. Still, his voice was coldly even.

"I had the honor of making you a proposal last night, Senor Appleby," he said.

Appleby nodded. "I am sorry that I found I could not entertain it," he said.

Morales let his hand fall on the hilt of his sword. "Then there is only one course open to me. I place these men in your custody, sergeant, and until you hand them over in the guardroom at Santa Marta you will be answerable for them."

The sergeant made a little sign, two men moved forward, and in another minute Appleby and Harper went down the stairway and saw a section of cazadores waiting in the patio.

XXIV -- RESPITED

A FAINT light was creeping in through the narrow window when Appleby awoke in a little upper room in the cuartel at Santa Marta. Worn out by the tense anxiety he had undergone he had at last slept restlessly, and for a moment or two he was only sensible that his surroundings were unfamiliar. Simply as he had lived at San Cristoval the room seemed unusually bare, while his limbs ached a little, and he wondered why he was lying on a thin strip of matting, and what Harper, who lay close beside him, apparently asleep, was doing there.

Then he shook himself into wakefulness as memory came back, and the events of the preceding night arranged themselves before him. He remembered his brief trial by Morales and a handful of officers, who deferred to him--for Santa Marta was under martial law--the written process declaring his offences, and the smile in Morales' dark eyes when he admitted that he had nothing to urge in extenuation. One point alone he contested, and that was that he and Harper had supplied the insurgents with arms from San Cristoval, but the process proved that rifles had been carried into the factory, and his assertion that it was done without his knowledge only called forth a smile of incredulity. Then came the sentence, which Appleby listened to with the unconcern of desperation, and Harper, standing with great hands clenched and face dark with passion, answered with a torrent of furious invective in luminous American and Castilian, until two cazadores dragged him away.

Appleby shivered, and rising softly walked to the window as he remembered that the day that was breaking was the last he would ever see. He flung the lattice open, and his face grew grim as he looked out upon the town. It was as yet, for the most part, dim and shadowy, and two square church towers rose blackly against a sky of paling indigo, but here and there a white wall glimmered faintly, and a pearly lustre suffused the east. While he watched it became streaked with crimson, for in the tropics dawn comes suddenly, and by and by a long shaft of brightness streamed up into the sky. Then the city emerged from the shadow, and once more shone dazzlingly white in the morning sun.

It awoke as suddenly, for men rise early in that country to work while it is cool, and a ringing of bugles rose from beyond the flat roofs clear and musical, while the white walls flung back the patter of feet, and the hum of voices became audible. Appleby listened with a dull hopelessness that was too intense for bitterness to the stir of reawakening life, though the contrast between his lot and that of the men whose voices he heard had its effect on him. They were going out to their toil, and would in due time sleep again, but before that day was over he would be at rest forever. Then as somebody went by below singing a little light-hearted song he turned away with a groan, and saw that Harper was watching him.

"You haven't much use for singing," he said.

Appleby sat down with his back against the wall, and laughed somewhat hollowly. "No," he said. "The only appropriate music would be a requiem."

"Well," said Harper reflectively, "I don't quite know, though I'm free to admit that I'm feeling a good deal more anxious than I care about. I was thinking, and didn't sleep much last night, and it kind of seems to me the Spaniards have about enough on their backs just now."

Appleby shook his head. "The trouble is that Morales will take care that all anybody of consequence knows is that two of the Sin Verguenza were extinguished in Santa Marta," he said.

"Still, there's another point. Morales doesn't let up too easily on anything he means to put through, and he wouldn't get very much out of either of us when we're dead."

Appleby turned upon him almost savagely. "Stop," he said. "You know the thing is decided as well as I do. Yesterday took a good deal of the stiffening out of me--and in another hour or two we shall have a tolerably difficult part to play."

Harper's face grew suddenly grim. "Well," he said a trifle hoarsely, "I guess we can face what is coming as well as a Spaniard can, and--I've got to admit it--nobody could expect any more from any man."

Appleby made no answer, but it was by an effort that, feeling his comrade's eyes upon him, he sat still, when the door opened and a cazadore came in. He laid down a piece of bread and a bottle of thin red wine, and then glanced at them compassionately.

"When will it be?" asked Appleby very quietly.

The man made a little gesture. "Soon, I think. There is a parade fixed in an hour from now."

He went out, and Harper's hands quivered a little as he held up the wine and glanced at Appleby.

"It's not often I don't feel inclined to eat, but I don't seem to have much use for breakfast now," he said. "Here's to the folks who'll wonder what has happened to us back there in the country we came from!"

He drank, and handed the wine to Appleby, who stood up as he put the bottle to his lips. It was, however, not Tony Palliser or Nettie Harding, but a woman with grave gray eyes, that now when the shadows were closing round him he drank to as it were reverently. She would, as Harper had suggested, never even know what had befallen him, but she seemed very near him then, and he felt the influence of her serenity upon him.

He laid down the bottle, and Harper took out two cigars. "Now," he said, "I guess when they come for me I'll be ready."

The hour that followed seemed interminable, but at last there was a tramp of feet on the stairway, and a sergeant of cazadores who came in made a sign to them. They rose in silence, and were thrust amidst a cluster of other prisoners in the patio, while an officer reading from a paper called their names aloud. Then a guard with bayonets fixed closed in about them, and they passed out through an archway into the street. Appleby blinked about him with half-closed eyes, for he had come out of the shadow, and the white walls were dazzlingly bright, while from out of the press of close-packed humanity beneath them came the flash of steel.

Then the crowd opened up, and a company of cazadores, that filed out of another opening halted a moment to wait for the prisoners' guard. Appleby was driven forward and took his place among the rest, there was a ringing of bugles that drowned the hum of voices from the crowd, and they had started on their last journey to the doleful tapping of the drums. Morales, it seemed, understood his countrymen, and meant to gratify the Iberian lust of sensation which finds vent in the bull-ring, and is akin to that which packed the amphitheatres in the days of ancient Rome. Still, Appleby noticed vacantly that the loyalist city seemed curiously unresponsive for the shout that went up when the troops moved forward died away, and the tapping of the drums broke sharply through a brief silence that was almost portentous.

It was followed by a low murmuring that suggested the sound of the sea, and gazing at the rows of intent faces Appleby noticed that hats were swept off as the prisoners passed, and that here and there a man crossed himself. Once a burst of Vivas went up, but the murmurs that answered them were hoarse and angry, and for a space of minutes there was once more a heavy silence that seemed intensified by the beat of marching feet and the tapping of the drums.

Appleby saw the faces at the windows and upon the roofs, swept a glance along the crowd that lined the pavement, and with a little tingling of his nerves turned his eyes away. He felt a horror of these men who had come to watch him die, and set his lips and struggled with an almost overwhelming impulse to fling bitter jibes or anathemas at them as he stared straight before him. Harper was walking quietly at his side, and a pace or two in front were four of their companions in misfortune--a lad who limped, an old man, and two peons who laughed now and then. Beyond them he could see a forest of wavering rifles crested with flashing steel, and the figure of a mounted officer silhouetted sharply against a strip of sky.

Way was made for them, and the march went on. The trampling feet clashed rhythmically upon the stones, the rows of crowded windows and long white walls slid behind, and then while a blast of the bugles rang across the town Appleby found himself plodding into the smaller plaza. There was a long flash of sunlight on steel, the leading company split up and wheeled, and while the files tramped past he and the guard were left standing with a double rank of cazadores behind them at one end of the plaza. In another two or three moments it was lined two deep by men with bayonets holding back the crowd; but the church with the two towers closed the opposite end, and Appleby noticed vacantly how dazzlingly white the empty space shone in the sun, save where the long black shadow of the cross above fell athwart it. The church door was, as usual, open, and the sound of an organ came out from it dolefully. Except for that, there was for almost a minute a silence that grew horribly oppressive.

Then a voice was raised, and read what appeared to be a list of the prisoners' offences, but Appleby could attach no meaning to it, and set his lips when the man with the paper called three names aloud. It was with a revulsion of feeling that left him very cold he realized that none of them was his or Harper's, but next moment he almost wished that they had been included in the summons. He had no hope now, and found the task of standing there unmoved before those swarming faces becoming insuperably difficult.

The lad who limped shuffled forward across the plaza, with the two peons and a guard behind, until they stopped and turned again a foot or two from the church wall. The peons were men with patient brown faces dressed simply in white cotton and unstarched linen, and Appleby fancied that their offence was in all probability the smuggling of arms or communications for the insurgents. Then he became aware by a sudden hum of voices that something unexpected was going on, and turning his eyes saw two priests appear in the porch of the church, and a sergeant standing somewhat sheepishly before them. One was little and portly, in shabby cassock, but he spoke in a shrill vehement voice, and his face was flushed; the other stood on the step above him, a tall man in ornate vestments that made a blaze of color in the porch, and he held one arm up commandingly.

Appleby could not hear what they said, for only his visual senses seemed to have retained their efficiency, but he fancied they were protesting when the sergeant moved slowly back across the plaza. Appleby turned and watched him stop with lifted hand before the colonel, but Morales did what few other men in that country would have ventured on when, making a contemptuous gesture, he sent the sergeant back with his answer, and sat still in his saddle with one hand his hip.

Still, the priests persisted, and would apparently have moved forward from the church, when there was a flash of steel and tramp of feet, and four or five files of infantry who had evidently little liking for their task halted in front of the porch. This time there was a hoarse portentous note in the murmurs of the crowd, and Appleby had another token of Morales' courage when he saw him glance at the hemmed in priests with a little sardonic smile.

He made a sign with his gloved hand, somebody called out sharply, a line of men moved forward a pace or two, and there was a jingle and clatter as the rifles went up to the hip. Appleby saw the lame lad shrink back towards the wall, and one of the peons with bound hands awkwardly pull forward his hat over his eyes, but the other stood bolt upright with his at his side.

Once more a voice rang sharply through the stillness, the rifles went up to the shoulder, and Appleby, who set his lips and clenched his hands, turned his eyes aside. For a second or two it was horribly and intensely still, and then a hoarse, strained voice, one of the peons' Appleby fancied, cried, "Viva la libertad!"

It was followed by a crash, a whisp of smoke drifted past him, there was an inarticulate cry from the crowd, and he dimly saw the firing party moving through the smoke. Beyond them he had a blurred glimpse of a figure that swayed upon its knees, and another lying full length clawing at the stones. Then he shivered and gazed up at the crowded housetops and dazzling sky, and by a grim effort held himself stiffly erect. Harper's voice reached him through the murmur of horror from the crowd.

"Lord!" he said hoarsely. "They've bungled it!"

Again the rifles crashed, and the men came back, two of them, Appleby noticed, walking a trifle unsteadily. The faces of the rest were set and grim, and he braced himself for an effort as the man with the paper moved forward again. His turn and Harper's was coming now, but what he had seen had stirred him to a fierce anger that drove out physical fear, and it was impotent fury he strove to hold in check. Then he saw Morales apparently conferring with one or two of his officers who seemed to be glancing towards him and Harper, while the latter gripped his shoulder until he winced.

"Why can't they be quick?" he said. "I'll take one of those soldiers' rifles and empty the magazine into them in another minute."

Then there was a louder hum of voices and a surging of the crowd, for the men of the firing party, waiting no order, brought their rifles down with a crash. They were young men of the Barremeda company, which, as Appleby had heard, was not above suspicion, though that was, perhaps, why Morales had appointed them the task. A lieutenant appeared to be gesticulating in front of them, but the men stood immovable, with ordered rifles and set brown faces, and there was now a murmur from the ranks behind them, while a great cry went up from the crowd.

Santa Marta was a loyalist town, that is, the men who had anything to lose supported the rule of Spain, but they were for that reason mostly men of position and refinement, and what they had seen had proved almost too much for them. The rest who had nothing were, for the most part, insurgents at heart, even if they refrained from actively expressing their sympathies, which was not certain, and the last cry of the butchered peon coupled with the affront put upon the priests had stirred them to fury. When the hot Iberian blood takes fire events are apt to happen somewhat rapidly, and Morales, it seemed, had gone a trifle too far.

He flung himself from the saddle, and moved forward with gleaming sword, which he brandished in front of the flank man of the firing party, but the set faces were resolutely turned upon him, and now the brown fingers were convulsively tightening on the rifles. The tumult was growing louder, and shouts of "Libertad!" and "Viva la revolution!" came out of the clamor. In one place the double line of men with bayonets bent in, and a section of the Barremeda company broke their ranks.

"Lord!" said Harper hoarsely. "With ten of the Sin Verguenza I'd take Santa Marta now."

It was not altogether an empty boast. The Iberian is impulsive and unstable, and a word spoken in season will stir to any rashness a Latin crowd. The troops were disaffected, part of them, at least, openly mutinous, but Morales the Sword could grapple with a crisis. He was in the saddle in a moment, his voice rang clear and commanding above the tumult, and the men who wavered, uncertain what course to take, obeyed. The ranks wheeled, broke up, and grouped again in fours, the bugles rang shrilly, there was a roll of drums, and almost before Appleby quite realized what was happening the head of the leading company was filing out of the plaza, and Morales' swift decision had saved the situation. Then a man touched Appleby's shoulder, and he and Harper and another man stepped into an opening between the files.

"You are to be felicitated. There are few who offend Morales he does not crush," said the sergeant of the guard.

Appleby made no answer. He was a trifle dazed, and his thoughts were in a whirl, but he noticed vacantly that there was a curious portentous silence as the troops marched back to the cuartel, and was glad when they reached it and he and Harper were thrust into the same room again. He sat down, somewhat limply, on the floor.

"It was a trifle horrible--and I'm sorry we drank all the wine. Still, of course, no one could have guessed," he said.

He felt that his face was a little colorless, for his forehead was clammy and his lips were cold, but Harper's was flushed, and he paced up and down the room until he stopped in front of Appleby.

Then he said hoarsely, "I had a notion. That man never meant to wipe us out to-day. We were to taste death, and live with the grit crushed out of us, because he figured we would be of some use to him. If I could get my hands on him I'd kill him."

Appleby had felt much the same anger, but he was calmer now. What he had witnessed had filled him with horror, and while he could have blamed Morales little for his sentence, since his life was a risk of the game, the attempt to crush his manhood by making him taste the anguish of death was unforgivable and an abomination.

"Well," he said very quietly, "our turn may come."

Harper once more strode up and down the room, and then stopped abruptly with a little laugh. "It's kind of senseless talking just now," he said. "We're not going to worry Morales much while he has got us here. I wonder if anybody will remember to bring us our dinner."

Appleby smiled, and the tension relaxed, but his hands were trembling, and it cost him two or three matches to light the cigar Harper threw him.

XXV -- MORALES SITS STILL

IT was late at night when Appleby, who felt no inclination for sleep, looked out into the soft darkness from a window of the cuartel where he had now passed six anxious days Here and there a light blinked dimly in the gulf of blacker shadow that marked the narrow street beneath him, for there was no moon that night, and the steamy dampness the faint warm wind drove before it obscured the stars. A hot, musky smell rose from the silent town.

Still, Appleby, who had keen eyes, fancied he had seen a shadowy form pass twice beneath the nearest light, and then turn as though looking up at the cuartel, and he called Harper softly when it appeared again.

"Can you make out that man?" he said. "This is the third time I have seen him. It is noticeable that he shows himself just under the lamp."

"Well," said Harper reflectively, "I guess you wouldn't have seen him anywhere else."

The shadowy form slipped away into the obscurity, and there was silence for at least five minutes while the pair stood very still, wondering with a vague sense of expectation what it meant, until Appleby said sharply, "There he is again."

"No," said Harper. "That's another one. He's taller, and, so far as I can make out, dressed quite different. Still, he's looking up. It seems to me he means us or somebody else to see him."

Appleby felt his heart throb, and his voice was not quite steady as he said, "Morales has, at least, a half-company in the cuartel."

"Well," said Harper, "I don't quite know. He sent most of the Barremedas away--though there's a section or two here still. They are the men that showed signs of kicking in the plaza, and it's quite likely he figures they'd be safer with Vincente's Peninsular battalion. Then counting up the pickets, outposts, and patrols he'll have on the carretera, there'll scarcely be forty men in this barracks now."

Appleby nodded. "Perhaps you are right," he said. "I have been wondering why nothing has apparently happened to the section which ordered arms. Morales is not the man to let a thing of that kind pass."

Harper was quite aware that his comrade had little interest in the question, and surmised that he desired to conceal the fact that the appearance of the man below had stirred him to a state of tense expectancy.

"No," he said. "Still, I guess he has quite a good reason for holding his hand, and those cazadores will be sorry for themselves when he's through with them. He'll keep them wondering where he's going to hit them until it grinds all the grit out of them, and then start in."

He stopped somewhat abruptly at the sound of feet on the stairway, and had his hand on the lattice when a soldier came in. It was evident that he noticed the half-closed window, and he looked at them curiously.

"The Colonel Morales sends for you," he said, and though there was apparently nobody within hearing dropped his voice a little. "If he asks you questions let him wait for your answer. It is necessary that you should keep him talking at least ten minutes."

Appleby felt a little quiver run through him, and saw that Harper's face had grown suddenly intent.

"Why?" he asked.

The man made a little gesture expressive of indecision. "The guard is changed then--and who knows what may happen? The men who come on duty are my comrades of the Barremedas--and they are afraid. This Morales is most terrible in his quietness. There is also below a merchant of tobacco."

Appleby saw the sudden sparkle in Harper's eyes, but he put a strong constraint upon himself, for he dared not hope too much. He knew Maccario's daring, but it was difficult to believe that he would venture into the cuartel where there were men who could scarcely fail to recognize him. Still, he remembered the signs of disaffection among the troops, and that Cuba was steeped in intrigue.

"We are ready," he said very quietly.

The soldier signed to them, and they followed him--down the outer stairway, and up another, along a corridor where two guards were stationed, and into a room where their guide, who raised his hand and swung round, left them. The room was small, with one lattice in it that apparently opened on to the street and not the patio, and Morales sat alone, with his sword and kepi on the table before him, which was littered with papers. He looked up with expressionless eyes, and then while they stood quivering a little with suspense went on writing for the space of four minutes by the clock behind him. Appleby, who understood his purpose, felt that this would count for a good deal if ever there was a reckoning between them, but seeing the flush of passion in Harper's lean face he once more put a grim constraint upon himself. Knowing the Castilian temperament he also fancied that at this game he could hold his own with Morales. At last the soldier shook a little sand over what he had written, and carefully cleaned his pen before he turned to them.

"It seemed to me you might have concluded that the decision you made was a trifle hasty, Senor Appleby," he said.

"You gave me no opportunity of changing it," said Appleby as quietly as he could, though he realized that his voice was not quite his usual one. "In any case I do not see what I gain. We are under sentence, and one has usually a motive for what he does in Cuba."

Morales glanced at him steadily with keen dark eyes, and Appleby wondered whether he had assumed too great an eagerness by suggesting that he might be willing to treat with a man who had hitherto found him obdurate. Then the officer smiled.

"It is evident that the man who passed the sentence could commute it," he said.

Appleby appeared to reflect. He did not know what was going on below, but he desired at least to hold Morales' attention until the change of the guard.

"Of course!" he said. "Still, he had apparently no intention of doing so. It seems to me we are under no obligation to Colonel Morales in one respect."

"No?" and Morales' smile was sardonic.

Appleby shook his head. "I fancy that we owe rather more to certain disaffected cazadores," he said. "That little display was, of course, unexpected."

He saw the dark eyes flash, but next moment the officer's face was once more expressionless.

"One cannot foresee everything, but I think there will not be another display of the kind," he said. "Well, I will make an admission. Would it astonish you to hear that, in spite of the sentence, it was not intended that you should face the firing party?"

Appleby, who heard a soft crunching under his comrade's foot, glanced at him warningly. Harper's eyes were glowing, and the fingers of one hand were tightly clenched, but meeting Appleby's gaze he controlled himself.

"One would not presume to question the word of Colonel Morales," said Appleby with rather more than a trace of irony. "In this case there was also the fact that your distinguished countrymen have already incurred a serious responsibility. Spain cannot afford to offer any unnecessary provocation to two other nations just now."

The contempt in Morales' little laugh was not assumed. "Pshaw! It is evident you do not understand the Castilians, Senor Appleby. One would almost fancy that you were trifling with me."

"I am afraid you rate my courage too high," said Appleby, who glanced at the clock. "It is, however, difficult to decide. The thing suggested was unpleasant, and you understand that one has prejudices. Perhaps that is because I have not lived very long in Cuba. Still, I admit that what we saw in the plaza was suggestive, but there is the difficulty that I cannot commit my comrade, who may have different notions."

Once more Morales fixed his dark eyes upon him, and Appleby, who could feel his heart throbbing, wondered if he had blundered in not assuming at least a trace of anxiety. He fancied that Morales must suspect that there was something behind his indifferent attitude, but, tingling with suspense as he was, the role was very difficult to play. It was essential that he should lead the officer on with the hope of making terms until the guard was changed. The minute finger of the little clock scarcely seemed to move, while he could feel that the damp was beaded on his forehead.

Morales, however, laughed. "I fancy he could be left you. Still, I wished him to hear--that he should know whom he was indebted to in case we did not arrive at an understanding. Well, I will be frank. We will assume that the offer I made you is open still."

Appleby stood silent for almost half a minute, which appeared interminable, feeling that Morales' eyes never left his face. Then there was a tramp of feet in the patio, followed by a tread on the stairway, and it was only by strenuous effort that he retained his immobility. The guard was being changed a minute or two earlier than he had expected.

A voice rose from outside, somebody tapped at the door and Morales appeared to check an exclamation of impatience when a man came in. He was dressed immaculately in white linen and spotless duck, and carried a costly Panama hat in his hand.

"With many excuses, senor, I venture to do myself this honor," he said. "You may remember you were once pleased to express your approbation of my poor tobacco."

Appleby contrived to smile, though it cost him an effort, but Harper gasped, and there was for a moment a silence they both found it difficult to bear. Appleby in the meanwhile saw the gleam in Morales' eyes, but was quite aware that a Castilian gentleman rates his own dignity too highly to consider it necessary to impress it upon every stranger.

"It is an intrusion," he said quietly. "I do not understand why the sentries admitted you."

The tobacco merchant made a little deprecatory gesture, and Appleby felt his hands tremble as he watched the man move a step nearer the officer's chair.

"It was not their fault. I slipped by when the guard was changed," he said. "One would make excuses for such boldness, but you understand the necessities of business. Now, I have here examples of a most excellent tobacco."

Morales turned, apparently to summon one of the guards. "Still, the man who let you pass will be sorry!"

Then there was a little click-clack that sounded horribly distinct, and as he swung round again a pistol glinted in the tobacco merchant's hand.

"Senor," said the latter, "it would be advisable to sit very still."

Morales became suddenly rigid, but his eyes were very steady as he glanced at the stranger. "One begins to understand," he said. "Are you not, however, a little indiscreet, senor? There is a guard scarcely thirty feet away. A sound also travels far in this building."

The tobacco merchant laughed. "Will you open the door, Senor Harper, that Colonel Morales may see his guard?"

Harper rose, and when he flung the door open the sentry was revealed. He stood in the corridor gazing into the lighted room, but though the situation must have been evident to him, his face was expressionless, and his erect figure showed motionless against the shadow behind him. Then for just a moment a flush of darker color swept into Morales' olive cheek, and Appleby fancied that he winced.

"That man is taking a heavy risk," he said. "There is a half-company of his comrades in the cuartel."

The tobacco merchant smiled. "Then one would fancy, senor, that some of them had mutinied."

Morales said nothing for a moment, and Appleby surmised that he was wondering how many of his men had remained loyal. Then he made a little impatient gesture.

"Well," he said, "what do you want from me?"

"A very little thing, senor. No more than the liberty of a certain peon, Domingo Pereira. I do not ask the freedom of these friends of mine. That, as you can comprehend, is unnecessary."

A little gleam crept into the officer's dark eyes. "It is a trifle difficult to understand why you place yourself under an obligation to me in respect to the peon Pereira. If there is a mutiny in the cuartel, why not take him?"

"It is simple. The affair is one that we wish to arrange quietly, but there are one or two sections who will take no part with us, and the Sergeant Suarez is an obdurate loyalist. All we ask is an order for the handing over of the prisoner to the guard. That, since it will not be known when they mutinied, will cast no discredit upon the Colonel Morales."

"And if I should not think fit to sign it?"

The tobacco merchant shrugged his shoulders. "One would recommend you to reflect," he said. "Between two Spanish gentlemen who have no wish for unpleasantness that should be sufficient. Still, you see before you three determined men and you have proof that your guard has mutinied. It is convenient that you write the order."

"You want nothing more?"

"No, senor. To be frank, my friends have no intention of seizing the cuartel. We are not in a position to hold it just now."

Morales tore a strip of paper from a pad, scribbled upon it and flung it across the table to the tobacco merchant, who passed it to Appleby.

"You will hand that to the soldier outside," he said. "He will come back and report when he has delivered the prisoner to the guard."

Appleby went out, and the tobacco merchant laid the pistol down. "It was an unpleasant necessity," he said. "Still, one can dispense with it now we have arrived at an understanding."

Harper laughed as he clenched his big hands on the back of the chair he leaned upon.

"If the distinguished gentleman tries to get up something will happen to him," he said. "I have been figuring just where I could get him with the leg of this."

Morales made a little gesture of disgust. "The Senor Harper does not understand us. One has objections to anything unseemly, senor. I have a fancy that I have seen you in other places than the hacienda San Cristoval."

"In Alturas Pass--and elsewhere," said the tobacco merchant with a smile. "I once had the honor of meeting the Colonel Morales in the street below us. At that time he had a sword in his hand."

Morales' face grew very grim, but he held himself in hand. "Yes. I remember now," he said. "The leader of the Sin Verguenza--Don Maccario?"

The tobacco merchant made him a little half-ironical inclination. "Colonel Morales will appreciate the consideration I have shown him in coming myself," he said. "The affair might have been arranged differently had I sent one or two of my men who have a little account with him."

Morales said nothing, and there was silence for a space of minutes. What he thought was not apparent, for though his color was a trifle darker now, he sat rigidly still, but Appleby felt himself quivering a little, and saw that Harper's lips were grimly set, while Maccario moved the fingers of one hand in a curious nervous fashion. Appleby scarcely dared wonder what was happening in the patio, though he surmised that if the Sergeant Suarez questioned the order it would go very hard with all of them, for there were, he remembered, fifty men in the cuartel, and only a handful of them had mutinied. He could feel his heart beating, and anathematized the loquaciousness of Maccario and his deference to Castilian decorum which had kept them so long. It was evident to him that any trifling unexpected difficulty would result in their destruction. At last, when every nerve in him was tingling, a man came hastily up the stairway.

"We have Domingo Pereira," he said. "The others are getting impatient, senor!"

Maccario rose and turned to Morales. "Take warning, senor. No one is safe from the Sin Verguenza, and we may not extend you as much consideration when we next meet," he said. "In the meanwhile I ask your word on the faith of a soldier of Spain that you will sit here silent for the next ten minutes."

Again Morales' eyes gleamed. "Now," he said ironically, "comes your difficulty. I will promise nothing--and a pistol is noisy. I am not sure about the extent of the mutiny."

Maccario very suggestively shook his sleeve. "In this country one carries a little implement which is silent and effective, but there is another means of obviating the difficulty. This sash of mine is of ample length and spun from the finest silk, though one would not care to subject a distinguished officer to an indignity."

"Take it off," said Harper. "I'll fix him so half his cazadores couldn't untie him. You're not going to take his word he'll sit there."

Maccario stopped him with a gesture, and turned to Morales. "It would, it seems, be wiser to promise, senor. We ask no more than ten minutes."

For a moment the officer's olive face became suffused, but the blood ebbed from it, leaving it almost pale, and it was very quietly he pledged himself. Then they turned and left him, and Harper gasped when they went out into the corridor.

"Well," he said shortly, "I don't want to go through an thing like that again. It was 'most as hard as what happened in the plaza, and it seems to me the sooner we light out of this place the better."

In another minute they reached the great patio, where a handful of men in uniform were eagerly waiting them. They formed about the released prisoners, and one of them ironically saluted the loyalist sentry who sat in his box with a cloth bound about his head as they passed out into the silent street. The hot walls flung back the tramp of their feet with a horrible distinctness, but the citizen of Santa Marta had grown accustomed to the passing of the rounds, and when Maccario, stopping beneath a light, pulled out his watch they were close to the outside of the town.

"Haste would be advisable, I think," he said.

Then they broke into a run, but Maccario swung round as they sped down a street and flung himself into a shadowy patio. They swept through it into an open door, and out through one at the back of the building, while Appleby gasped with relief as he found himself in a garden with the town at last behind him.

Maccario laughed a little as he touched his shoulder. "There is a path here," he said. "The Sin Verguenza have friends everywhere."

They were quickly clear of the garden, and as they blundered through a grove of trees shadowy objects clustered about them, while when Maccario stopped again there appeared to be a swarm of them. A growing clamor, through which the ringing of the bugles came stridently, rose from the town.

"We will stop and adopt a convenient formation," he said. "You will, I think, find a few of your friends here, Don Bernardino. It is scarcely likely that Morales will risk a pursuit in the darkness."

"If anybody had told me he would have sat there because he promised I guess I wouldn't have believed him," said Harper.

Maccario laughed. "There is apparently still a little you do not understand," he said. "That is a great rascal, but he is also a brave soldier and a Castilian gentleman. Had he not known his own value to Spain it is conceivable that--"

He stopped with a little expressive gesture, and Harper felt something very like a shiver run through him. He, however, said nothing further, but took his place among the rest, for already Appleby was forming the men. Then marching silently they swung through the tobacco fields until they came out upon the carretera that led to San Cristoval.

XXVI -- THE SEIZING OF SAN CRISTOVAL

FOR a time the tramp of marching feet throbbed softly along the carretera that wound, a black thread of shadow, through the dusky cane. The dust was clogged with moisture and deadened the sound, while the Sin Verguenza were not shod after the fashion of British infantry. Some of them, indeed, wore no shoes at all, and as he watched the dim, half-seen figures flit almost silently through the night Appleby could have fancied he was marching with a company of shadows through a land of dreams.

The sensation was, however, by no means new to him. He had felt it now and then before on a long night march when the mind, as it were, released itself from the domination of the worn-out, but it was plainer now than it had ever been. He had during the last few days been living under a heavy strain, and now there crowded upon him vague perplexing fancies and elusive memories which he could almost believe had been transmitted him by the soldiers whose blood was in his veins. It was only by an effort that, plodding along with half-closed eyes, he shook them off and roused himself to attention. Shadowy men moved on into the blackness in front of him, and more were winding out of the gloom behind. Now and then a clump of palms went by, showing a mere patch of obscurity against the clouded sky, and where the road was harder the beat of weary feet rang through the silence hollowly. He did not feel drowsy, but wondered if he was wholly awake when he heard Harper's voice beside him.

"You seem kind of quiet. I guess you're thinking hard," he said.

"No," said Appleby, with a little laugh. "I could scarcely remember clearly what happened yesterday. I don't know, however, that I want to especially."

"Well," said Harper reflectively, "it must be the same kind of thing that is wrong with me. My thoughts keep going round in rings, and bring up at the same place every time, as though somebody had put a peg in. I can see that peon in the plaza clawing at the stones, and the cazadores standing still with ordered rifles. That seems to slide away, and it's the 'Maine' going under, bows down. I wasn't there, but the big swirl in the water is quite plain to me, and I can see the bodies coming up through the green heave by twos and threes. Then I wonder how I came away from the cuartel and left Morales sitting there, and I want to live until I meet him, when he isn't alone, again."

His voice sank into a faint hoarse murmur that was more significant than any declamation, but Appleby, who had his own score against Morales, said nothing. He felt that a time would come when he and the Spanish soldier would once more stand face to face, and that to let his vindictive passions run riot in the meanwhile would be puerile. Then Maccario's voice came sharply across the wavering rifles, and the shuffle of feet grew still. There was a murmur of voices until the head of the column moved again, and the men who left the carretera plodded along a narrow pathway and then flung themselves down among the cane, while Appleby, who did not quite know how he got there, found himself sitting in a little open space with Maccario and two or three of the leaders. There was blackness and silence about them.

"Morales will wait until the dawn," said Maccario. "We have taught him that one gains little by chasing the Sin Verguenza at night, and the men have marched a long way. We will seize the hacienda when the light is just creeping into the sky."

"There are troops there?" asked Appleby.

"A section or two. Morales is a clever man, but one is apt to believe what one wishes to, and it is some little time since he drove out the Sin Verguenza."

"He has spies," said Appleby.

Maccario laughed softly. "It is dangerous to spy upon the Sin Verguenza, and there are men who go out and are not seen again. One also brings a tale of what he has not seen now and then, and when one has friends everywhere it is not difficult to contrive that the cazadores shall find reasons Morales should believe him."

"Pancho brought you my message?" said Appleby.

"Next day. He came in staggering. It was a long way and a mule could scarcely have made the journey faster. Another man came, but where the rest are I do not know. Perhaps the pickets saw them, and they are lying among the cane. It was, however, morning when I had gathered thirty men, and I knew you were in Santa Marta then. We moved slowly until another thirty came up with me, but one could not assault the cuartel with sixty men. So we scattered, and the Sin Verguenza hid where the patrols would not find them, while a merchant of tobacco who has friends there came into Santa Marta. He saw what was happening, and how one might profit by Morales' little blunder."

"I don't quite understand," said Appleby. "Only a handful of men had actually mutinied."

"Morales would have shot them, only he is cunning, and had seen the temper of the people. A dead man cannot feel, but one can hold fear over a living one until he crushes him, and those cazadores knew what to expect. One can, however, be too cunning, my friend."

"The men could have deserted."

"It is also conceivable that, in spite of the pickets, you could have got out of San Cristoval, but what then? There is only the cane to hide in, starving, until the patrols find one. It was when they heard the Sin Verguenza were coming the affair became simple."

"Still, they shot three of your friends."

Maccario's voice sank a little. "That is counted to Morales, and they will have the opportunity of doing a good deal for us in an hour or two. There will be no fighting when we occupy San Cristoval. Comes a patrol with an order from Morales, and no one is very alert at that hour. The patrol is admitted, there is a seizing of rifles, and the Sin Verguenza, who have crept up behind, are in. With a little contrivance there is no difficulty."

"One could hold the hacienda with sixty men."

Maccario laughed. "With six hundred one could be sure; and in a few weeks we shall have a battalion, for our time is coming soon. When the American troops have landed there will be work for those of Spain. You have our felicitations on your clear sight, Don Bernardino. A little thing makes a quarrel when the suspicion and the dislike are there."

There was a murmur from the rest, and Harper stood up among the cane.

"A little thing!" he said hoarsely. "The devils sunk the 'Maine'!"

Appleby said nothing. He was worn out and limp from the strain, and fancied he must have gone to sleep, for when he was next conscious of anything the men about him had risen to their feet. It was a little lighter, and a faint cool breeze was blowing, while he shivered as he stood up with his thin damp garments clinging to his limbs.

Maccario spoke sharply, there was a shuffling of feet, and before Appleby quite realized what was happening the Sin Verguenza were once more plodding down the road to San Cristoval. Then he shook the stiffness and lassitude from him, and braced himself to face the work on hand. Maccario's plan might fail, and he knew it would in that case be no easy task to drive Morales' cazadores out of the hacienda. The sleep had, however, refreshed him, the vague memories had vanished, and his head was clear, while a faint sense of exhilaration came upon him. There was something inspiriting in the tramp of feet that grew brisker now, and in the thin musical jingle of steel. He had, for what seemed a very long time, played a risky game alone, and it was a relief to face actual visible peril with trusty comrades about him and a good rifle in his hand.

By and by there was another brief stoppage, and the handful of cazadores went on alone when the rest plunged into a path among the cane. Maccario, it was evident, did not care to take the risk of blundering upon a picket, and a man led them by twisting paths until at last the hacienda rose blackly before them. Appleby could see it dimly, a blur of shadowy buildings with the ridge of roof parapet alone cutting hard and sharp against the clearing sky. Beyond it rose the gaunt chimney of the sugar mill, a vague spire of blackness that ran up into the night, but though a few lights blinked in the lower windows there was no sound from the house. The men were standing silent and impassively still, so that he could scarcely distinguish them from the cane, but he made out Maccario few paces away from him.

"We will have to wait. It is farther by the road," he said "Can you trust the cazadores? They have already deserted one leader."

Maccario seemed to laugh. "They know what to expect from Morales. It would, of course, not be difficult to warn their comrades, but what then? Comes a sergeant to Morales with a tale that they have led the Sin Verguenza into a trap. Morales is not likely to be grateful, or place much value on the men who change their masters twice in one night. Still, one takes precautions in Cuba, and while they trample down the road a few men who wear no shoes follow close behind them. Then if there is to be another change it is not the cazadores who will walk into the trap."

Appleby said nothing. He had been afforded another glimpse of the complex Spanish character, which is marked by an intellectual astuteness and a swift cunning that is beyond the attainment of the average Englishman or American, and yet rarely avails the Castilian much when pitted against them. He had seen enough in Cuba to realize that it was seldom shortsighted folly and never lack of valor that had blighted the hopes of Spain, but the apathy and indecision when the eventful moment came, and the instability which when the consummation was almost brought about not infrequently changed the plan. Nor were there many Iberians or Cubans like Maccario who seldom overlooked the trifles that make the difference.

The latter made a little sign with his lifted hand, there was a low rustling, and the Sin Verguenza had vanished among the cane. Appleby smiled as he flung himself down, and realized that a battalion of cazadores might march past without seeing one of them. Then the soft rustling and crackling died away, and it became very still. There was no sound yet from the tram-line which ran between them and the hacienda, and he began to wonder how long the cazadores sent on would be, or if they had after all deceived their new friends and eluded the vigilance of those who watched them. The latter, however, appeared very improbable. In the meanwhile the sky was growing a little lighter, the buildings blacker and sharper in outline, while there was a faint illusory brightness in the east. Still, no sound rose from the hacienda, and there was only silence upon the unseen carretera.

Then he started as a faint rhythmic throbbing came out of it. It suggested marching feet, and grew louder while he listened, until he heard the men stumbling among the sleepers of the tram-line. Maccario said something, and the Sin Verguenza moved in nearer the building by little paths among the cane, while when they stopped again Appleby found himself on the verge of the tram-line with the outer wall of the hacienda close in front of him. A few shadowy objects that stumbled among the sleepers were growing into visibility a little farther along the line. They stopped and stood still a moment when a hoarse shout rose from the building, and then moved on again when somebody flung them a low warning from amidst the cane. Then they stopped close in front of the gate of the patio, and Appleby felt a little quiver run through him as he heard the question of the sentry.

The voice of the man who answered reached him distinctly.

"Friends. Orders from the cuartel! We have come from Santa Marta, and it is a long way. Let us in."

There was another question, and an answer. The big iron grille grated on its hinges as it swung open, and Appleby fancied that one dim figure detached itself from the rest as they disappeared into the patio. Discipline is seldom unnecessarily rigid among the troops of Spain, and it was not astonishing that a man should stop a moment and speak to the sentry.

Then for a minute or two there was a silence. Now and then a man moved amidst the cane, and the low rustling sounded horribly distinct, but while Appleby wondered what was taking place within the hacienda Maccario touched his shoulder, and rising softly he slipped across the tram-line and into the gloom beneath the high wall, with Harper and a cluster of crouching men close behind him. Moving circumspectly they crept forward nearer the gate, until there was a shout from the sentry followed by a struggle and the sound of a fall, and a man stood in the opening shouting to them.

Then they went on at a run, and sprang through the gate, stumbling over a man who crawled out from among their feet. There was a clamor in a lighted room close by, and a pistol shot rang out. Then a rifle flashed, and as they swept in through a doorway a wisp of acrid smoke met them in the face. They had a brief glimpse of a few figures in uniform flying through another door, and two men who stood alone in a corner with the mutinous cazadores in front of them. One of the latter was by his emphatic gestures apparently urging them to consider the recommendation he was making.

The two men, however, stood grimly still, one, who was young and slim, with delicate olive-tinted face and the blue eyes one finds now and then among the Castilians, clenching a big pistol, while the dusky, grizzled sergeant beside him held a rifle at his hip. A little blue smoke was still curling from the muzzle, and a man with a red smear growing broader down one leg sat looking at him stupidly in the middle of the room. Appleby grasped the meaning of the scene at a glance, and then he was driven forward as the Sin Verguenza poured into the room. Harper sprang past him.

"It's the fellow I hove over the balustrade at the cafe," he said. "You've got no use for that pistol, senor."

There was a bright flash, and a flake of plaster fell from the wall close behind Appleby's shoulder, but even as the brown fingers tightened on the trigger again Harper gripped the young officer. He hove him bodily off his feet, and there was a yell from the Sin Verguenza as he flung him upon the grizzled sergeant. The man staggered, and the pair went down heavily in the corner. Then Harper, who tore one of his comrade's rifles away from him, stood in front of them.

"I guess you had better keep moving in case the rest light out," he said.

There was an angry murmur, and though some of the men had already swept through the room the rest stared at Harper, who grinned at them.

"Well," he said, "it's not your fault you're not Americans. Rustle. Hay prisa. Adelante! Tell them I'll put this contract through, Appleby."

Those of the Sin Verguenza who had remained appeared a trifle undecided, until Appleby, who had no desire to witness a purposeless piece of butchery, joined his comrade. Then, with the exception of two or three, they turned and went out to head off any of the defenders who might escape by an outer window from the tram-line. Appleby secured the officer's pistol, while Harper, apparently with no great effort, dragged him to his feet, and holding him by the shoulder gravely looked him over.

"Well," he said in English, and his voice expressed approbation, "you have grit in you. Now stand still a little. Nobody's going to hurt you."

The young officer's face was dark with passion, but he writhed futilely in his captor's grasp, while the sergeant, who stood up, handed Appleby his rifle.

"Tell him not to wriggle," said Harper, grinning. "Oh, let up, you senseless devil!"

Then while the Sin Verguenza laughed he backed his captive against the wall and gravely proceeded to pull his tunic straight and dust him. When this had been accomplished to his satisfaction he stepped back a pace or two, and surveyed his work smiling.

"There's not much harm done, senor," he said. "Now, I felt it would have been a pleasure to shake the life out of you a minute or two ago."

The officer stared at him in blank astonishment, and then looked at the sergeant, who gravely laid a finger on his forehead.

"They are born that way, these Americans," he said.

The officer made a curious little gesture, and would apparently have unbuckled his sword, but while the men of the Sin Verguenza, unstable even in their fierceness, laughed, Harper seized him by the shoulder, and, signing to the sergeant, propelled him violently to the door.

"Out you go while you've got the chance!" he said in English.

The officer turned, and stood still a moment as though undecided, and then vanished into the night, while in another second the sergeant sprang after him. Appleby laughed as he turned to Harper.

"I scarcely fancy that was wise," he said. "We could have kept him to play off against any of our men who fall into Morales' hands."

"Well," said Harper reflectively, "I don't quite know why I let him go, but he had grit in him, and it seemed to me that if I hadn't let up on taking a life or two after getting out of the plaza in Santa Marta it would have been mean of me. Anyway, I don't figure we'd have kept him. He has the kind of temper that would have stirred up the Sin Verguenza into sticking knives in him."

Appleby nodded gravely, for he was astonished at very little that Harper did, while though the big skipper's sentiment were crude there was something in his vague notion of thank-offering that appealed to his fancy. Then Maccario came in.

"The cazadores have left two men behind, but the rest got away, except a few who submitted," he said. "We will find a place in the stables for them. It will induce Morales to be more considerate with his prisoners."

Appleby told him about the officer. "It was perhaps a blunder, but we can afford it just now," he said.

Maccario's face grew a trifle grim, but in another moment he made a little gesture of resignation.

"If it was the wish of the Senor Harper! It is sometimes a trifle difficult to understand an American," he said. "Now if we can find any peons they shall cut the cane back from the hacienda. Morales will be here in two or three hours with at least a company."

XXVII -- HARDING'S APPROBATION

THE red sunrise found the Sin Verguenza already toiling with fierce activity about the hacienda. This was significant, because they were not addicted to unnecessary physical effort, but they had reasons for knowing it was advisable for the men who incurred the displeasure of Morales to take precautions, and the cane that rolled close up to the hacienda would in case of an assault afford convenient cover to the cazadores. It went down crackling before the flashing steel, while the perspiration dripped from swarthy faces, and the men gasped as they toiled. Appleby, who stripped himself to shirt and trousers before an hour had passed, wondered how long his arms, unused to labor, would stand the strain as he strove to keep pace with the men he led. Harper, almost naked, led another band, and stirred up the spirit of rivalry by rude badinage in barbarous Castilian. It was characteristic that both found the stress of physical effort bracing, and Maccario, attired in hat of costly Panama and spotless duck, watched them with a little twinkle in his dark eyes. There were, he said, sufficient men to do the work without him, and no gentleman of Iberian extraction toiled with his hands unless it was imperatively necessary.

Pickets came in and took up the machetes, gasping men, dripping with perspiration, flung themselves down in the shadow until their turn came again, the sun climbed higher until it was almost overhead, and the juice exuded hot upon the toilers' hands from the crackling stems, while the faint breeze seemed to have passed through a furnace, and the brightness was bewildering.

Still, while the space where the stalks stood scarcely knee-high widened rapidly there was no sign of Morales, and the men grew silent, and now and then cast wondering glances at one another. They had expected the cazadores several hours ago, and their uneasiness was made apparent by the stoppages that grew more frequent while they gazed across the cane. Morales was, as they knew, not a man who wasted time, and his dilatoriness troubled them, for they felt certain that he would come.

The hour of the siesta arrived, and it was hotter than ever and dazzlingly bright, but no one laid his machete down; and Appleby's hands were bleeding, while his head reeled as he staggered towards the tram- line with great bundles of cane. Morales, it seemed evident, was hatching some cunning plan for their destruction, and though arms and backs ached intolerably they toiled on. It was not until the hour of the comida they desisted, and by then sufficient cane had been cut to leave a space round the hacienda that would be perilous for the cazadores to cross, and those of the Sin Verguenza who had magazine rifles surveyed it with grim complacency. Then bags of soil were placed here and there along the parapet of the roof and piled behind the patio gate, and the men trooped in to eat. When Morales came they would at least be in a position to welcome him fittingly.

Still, he did not come, and when the shadows of the building which lay long and black across the cleared space crept into the growing cane a man walked into the patio. Pancho led him up to where Appleby and Maccario sat upon the roof gazing across the green plain towards the wavy thread of carretera.

"There is little news, senor," he said. "Morales sits close in Santa Marta and has drawn his outposts in. One is not allowed to go into or out of the city without a pass, and the civiles watch the wine-shops."

Maccario appeared thoughtful, but Appleby said, "You had a pass?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "It is not always necessary--to me, but as it happens, I have two or three. There are little persuasive tricks known to the friends of liberty, and one can now and then induce a loyal citizen to part with his."

"In Cuba one does not suggest too much," said Maccario dryly. "Your good offices will be remembered when we have taken Santa Marta. There are dollars in that city, and they are scarce just now at San Cristoval. Morales has been here, you understand. In the meanwhile it is likely that Don Pancho will find you a bottle of wine and a little comida."

The man withdrew, and Maccario contemplated the cigar he lighted. "There is a good deal I do not understand," he said. "Morales does nothing without a motive, and it is quite certain he is not afraid. There is, however, a little defect in his character which has its importance to us."

"One would fancy that there were several," said Appleby.

Maccario smiled, and showed himself, like most men of his nationality, willing to moralize. "Strength comes with unity of purpose," he said. "I am, as an example, anxious only to do what I can to promote Cuban independence, and a very little on behalf of a certain patriot Maccario. The latter, you understand, is permissible, and almost a duty. Morales, one admits, has at heart the upholding of Spanish domination, and it is at least as certain that any opportunity of profiting one Morales is seized by him. It would not, however, become me to censure him, but the defect is this--Morales always remembers the man who has injured him."

"One would fancy it was a shortcoming which is not unknown among the Sin Verguenza!"

Maccario made a little gesture. "In reason, it is scarcely a defect, but with Morales it is a passion which is apt to betray into indiscretions a man who should have nothing at heart but the good of his country and the good of himself."

"I think I understand. You mean---"

"That Morales will endeavor to crush us even if he knows it will cost him a good deal. Cuba is not large enough for a certain three men to live in it together."

"Then his slowness is the more inexplicable."

"I have a notion that there may be an explanation which would not quite please me. It is conceivable that our comrades from beyond the mountains are moving, and he fears an assault upon Santa Marta."

"In that case you could seize the town by joining hands with them."

Maccario smiled. "If we wait a little we can drive Morales out ourselves; and this district belongs to us, you understand. We have watched over it for a long while, and it would not be convenient that others who have done nothing should divide what is to be gained with us when we have secured its liberty."

Appleby laughed, for his companion's naive frankness frequently delighted him. "Then," he said, "the only thing would be a prompt assault upon the town, but that is apparently out of the question."

"Who knows!" said Maccario, with a little expressive movement of his shoulders, and sat thoughtfully silent looking down towards Santa Marta across the cane.

Appleby, who asked no more questions, lay still in his chair vacantly watching the strip of road that was growing dimmer now. He had toiled with fierce activity under the burning sun since early morning, and a pleasant lassitude was creeping over him, while the faint coolness and deepening shadow was curiously refreshing after the scorching heat and glare. The sun had dipped behind a hill shoulder far away, the peaks grew sharp in outline against a gleam of saffron, and the long waves of cane were fading to a soft and dusky green. Still though night comes swiftly in that region, the road still showed faintly white where it wound in sinuous curves across the darkening plain, and held his gaze. What he was watching for he did not know, but he was sensible of a vague expectancy. At last, when the road had faded, and the soft darkness closed down, Maccario raised his head suddenly, for a drumming sound rose from the cane.

"Somebody is coming this way, riding hard," he said.

The sound grew a trifle plainer, sank, and rose again, and the two men strained their ears to listen. The darkness was growing denser, but Appleby glanced at his companion.

"The sound commenced suddenly just beyond the spot where our outer picket is," he said.

Maccario nodded. "Morales will certainly watch the road. It is a friend who has ridden by one of the paths through the cane with news for us," he said.

In another few minutes the beat of hoofs was unmistakable, and when it rang loudly down the unseen road the two descended to the big living- room where Pancho had lighted the lamps. Maccario laughed as he sat down, and lighted a cigarette.

"When one assumes the tranquillity it not infrequently comes to him, and if the news is bad we shall hear it soon enough," he said.

Appleby said nothing, for there were times when he found his comrade's sage reflections a trifle exasperating, and he was glad when there was a trampling of hoofs in the patio, and he heard Harper greeting somebody. Then he sprang to his feet as a man came in.

"Harding!" he said.

Maccario laughed softly. "Now I think you have a little explanation to make, Don Bernardino, and it is conceivable that the Senor Harding may not be grateful to you," he said.

Harding evidently understood him, for he stood still just inside the doorway, dressed in white duck, looking at Appleby with a little grim smile in his eyes. The dust was grimed upon his face, which was almost haggard, and his pose suggested weariness.

"Since I find my hacienda in the possession of the Sin Verguenza I fancy Don Maccario is right, but I can wait a little for the explanation," he said dryly in Castilian. "I have ridden a long way, and as it is twenty- four hours since I had anything worth mentioning to eat, I wonder whether it would be permissable to ask for a little comida?"

Maccario, whose eyes twinkled, summoned Pancho, and sent him for food and wine. Harding ate with an avidity which told its own story, and then turned to Appleby.

"It was not until I reached Havana that I heard about the 'Maine,' and then as I had a good deal of business to put through in this country it seemed advisable to get myself up as a Cuban," he said. "I had evidence that the Administration were watching me, and I would never have got here at all if it hadn't been for the help of a few friends among the Liberationists. Now, I fancy you and Don Maccario have something to tell me."

Appleby sat still a moment looking at him gravely, while Harper, who came in, leaned upon a chair. Then he said slowly: "As you may wish for Don Maccario's corroboration I think I had better tell the story, which is a little involved, in Castilian. You will find patience necessary."

He commenced with his interview with Morales on the night of the Alcaldes' ball, and while Harding watched him with expressionless eyes recounted briefly the two attempts upon the papers made by the spies. Then as he came to Morales' proposition the American's face grew grim.

"That is a clever man," he said. "Go on!"

Appleby proceeded quietly, and while his low voice broke monotonously through the silence of the room Harding's face lost its grimness, and became intent and eager, while a sparkle crept into his eyes.

"So you staked all I had in Cuba on the chance of war and committed me to backing the Sin Verguenza!" he said.

"Yes," said Appleby. "It was a heavy responsibility, but I could think of no other means of overcoming the difficulty. That I should agree to Morales' terms was out of the question."

"Of course!" said Harding simply. "That is, to a man like you."

Appleby flushed a little. "I had no opportunity of warning you, while it seemed to me that it would go very hard with you if you were seized by Morales. That appeared almost inevitable unless you had friends behind you. The only ones that could be of service in this instance are the Sin Verguenza."

"And so you took your chances of Morales shooting you?"

"I think," said Appleby quietly, "there was, under the circumstances, very little else that one could do."

Harding looked at him steadily, and then, nodding gravely, turned to Maccario.

"The Senor Appleby has thrown me on the patriots' hands," he said. "I have already done them several small services, as you perhaps know. They will remember that?"

Maccario's eyes twinkled. "I believe they will. The Senor Harding's generosity is well known," he said. "In this country friends who are liberal with their money are scarce, and one is willing to do a little now and then to retain their good will. That, I think, is comprehensible. One has usually a motive."

"Yet, when two men who had not a dollar between them were in peril, a merchant of tobacco ventured into the cuartel at Santa Marta!" said Appleby quietly.

Maccario lifted one shoulder expressively. "One is not always discreet, my friend. There is, however, an important question. The Senor Harding who knows his own countrymen believes there will be war?"

"I believe it is inevitable," said Harding dryly.

A trace of darker color crept into the Cuban's olive face, while Harper, who slowly straightened himself, tapped him on the back with a big hand.

"Then you'll get your liberty! You're not going to find a Spaniard in Cuba when we're through," he said.

There was a brief silence, but the intentness in the men's eyes and the hardening of their lips were significant. Then Harding, reaching across the table, grasped Appleby's hand. "I am in your debt, and it's not going to hurt me to remember it," he said. "There are not many men who could have taken up my hand, and played it out for me as you have done, but I'm not astonished. I had my notions about you when I left you in charge at San Cristoval. Well, that leads up to something. My affairs in this country are 'most getting too big for me, and I'm open to take a partner and deal with him liberally. It's not money I want, but daring conception, and the nerve to hold on and worry through a risky plan. I guess you know the man who would suit me, Mr. Appleby."

A little gleam crept into Appleby's eyes, but it faded again as he glanced at Maccario.

"It is a tempting offer, but I belong to the Sin Verguenza yet," he said. "Can you leave it open, Mr. Harding?"

"For how long?"

"Until Santa Marta has fallen, and the Sin Verguenza are undisputed masters of this region."

He spoke in Castilian, feeling that Maccario's dark eyes were upon him, and Harding smiled.

"Well," he said a trifle dryly, "I guess you couldn't help it, and I can't afford to let any of the other men who will follow my lead when we're through with the war get hold of you. When you have taken Santa Marta come straight along to me, and if we can't fix up something that will suit both parties it will astonish me. Now, I'm feeling sleepy, and I've a good deal of figuring to go through with you to-morrow."

Appleby rose and went with him to the room Pancho had made ready, while when they reached it Harding sat down wearily.

"I have another thing to tell you, Appleby," he said. "My daughter Nettie seems to think a good deal of you."

"Miss Harding was kind enough to permit me to call upon her once or twice at the banker's house," said Appleby quietly.

Harding's eyes twinkled. "If you had gone there every day it wouldn't have worried me. Your head is tolerably level, and Nettie has rather more sense than most young women, but that is not the point, anyway. When she was leaving England she wrote to me, and told me I might let you know there were people over there, and one, I believe in particular, who had heard the truth about you."

Appleby stood still a moment, with a flush on his forehead and a curious glow in his eyes.

"Miss Harding told you nothing more, sir?" he said.

"No," said Harding reflectively. "It wasn't very explicit but she seemed to fancy it would be sufficient. Now, I don't think you need worry about the thing, Appleby. Nettie has a good deal of discretion, and if she decided to take up your hand it's no more than you did with mine."

Appleby made no answer, but went out, and leaned upon the veranda balustrade looking up into the soft blueness of the night, while once more an alluring vision seemed to materialize before his eyes. He had a curious faith in Nettie Harding's capabilities, and remembered the promise she had made him that what he longed for should be his.

XXVIII -- TONY MAKES AMENDS

THE moon hung low above the clump of cottonwoods that flung their black shadows across the road when Appleby with Harper and four of the Sin Verguenza crept in among the roots which, rising like buttresses, supported the great columnar trunks. Beyond the trees the road wound faintly white towards Santa Marta through the cane that stretched away a vast sweep of dusky blueness, under the moon. The night was hot and almost still, though a little breeze that was heavy with a spicy, steamy smell now and then shook a faint sighing from the cane.

The men sank into the blackest of the shadow with ears strained to catch the slightest sound, while Appleby lay in a hollow with his rifle across his knees where he could follow the strip of road until it twisted sharply. He also fancied that the light was clear enough to make it risky for any of Morales' cazadores to venture round that bend, and there was, he felt tolerably certain, a handful of them not far away, for certain supplies which had been sent the Sin Verguenza had failed to reach the hacienda. Supplies were also necessary, for, as Maccario had predicted, adherents had flocked in daily. They, however, had travelled by paths through the cane, and Appleby had gone out to locate one of the pickets which were watching the road.

It was not exactly his business, and both Maccario and Harding, who had remained at the hacienda because he could not well get away, had protested against his undertaking it, but since the latter had given him Nettie's message Appleby had been curiously restless, and felt that the excitement might help him to shake off the thoughts and fancies that troubled him. It had, however, signally failed to do so as yet, and while he lay with hot fingers clenched on the rifle barrel he once more found himself wondering anxiously what had come about in England.

It was with a thrill of satisfaction, that was mixed with disgust at his own infirmity of purpose, he realized that Nettie Harding must have meant that she had vindicated him in Violet Wayne's eyes, but in that case it was evident that he had gone away in vain, since Nettie could not have proved his innocence without inculpating Tony. It also appeared out of the question that anybody would believe Tony if he told the truth now, and Appleby flushed with anger at himself as he pictured the effect of the blow upon the girl. He knew at last that it was to save her the pain of the discovery he had borne the blame, and yet he could not overcome a curious sense of relief and content at the thought that she had heard he was innocent. Then he wondered what had befallen Tony, and decided with a trace of bitterness that it was no affair of his. Tony had had his chances, and if he had thrown them away had only himself to blame.

At last he shook himself to attention when a distant patter of feet came faintly across the cane. The sound grew plainer as he listened, while here and there a shadowy figure rose up among the roots and sank from sight again. It was evident that two or three men were moving down the road in haste, but the soft patter of their feet did not suggest the approach of the cazadores. Still, it seemed advisable to take precautions, and he sent out two men, who, crossing the road, faded again into invisibility on the edge of the cane.

"Now we're going to find out where that picket is," said Harper. "Those fellows are coming right here, and I guess by the noise they're making they don't belong to the Sin Verguenza."

Appleby repeated the observation in Castilian, and a man unseen among the roots laughed softly.

"The Senor Harper has reason," he said. "Our friends do not travel on a white road with their shoes on when the moon is shining."

In another moment a hoarse cry rose from the cane, the patter of feet quickened suddenly, and Appleby stood up when he heard the sharp ringing of a rifle. Another shot followed, but the men unseen beyond the cane were evidently running still, and there was a little murmur from the Sin Verguenza. Appleby made a restraining gesture with his hand.

"I think the cazadores are coming too," he said.

Then there was silence among the cottonwoods, but hard brown fingers stiffened on the rifle barrels, and while the patter of feet grew rapidly louder the strip of white road was swept by watchful eyes. Still nothing moved upon it, until a man appeared where it twisted into the cane. A moment later another showed behind him, and then a third, who seemed to reel a little in his stride.

It was evident that they saw the cottonwoods, and hoped to find concealment there, but the Sin Verguenza lay still watching the three blurred shadowy objects with dispassionate curiosity. What befell the strangers was no concern of theirs, but they were doing excellent service in leading on the cazadores. Then there was a very faint murmur as a cluster of men in uniform appeared, for there were rather more of them than the Sin Verguenza had expected, and it became apparent that they were running faster than the fugitives. Appleby could almost see the faces of the latter now, and a moment later Harper, who was crouching close by, dropped his hand on his comrade's arm.

"That last one's not quite like the rest," he said.

Appleby stiffened his fingers on the rifle at his hip, and stared at the last figure with growing astonishment.

"No. The man's complexion is as light as mine," he said.

Then there was another rifle shot, and a little spurt of dust leapt up from the road. The third man swung suddenly round and a pistol twice flashed in his hand, while his companions flung themselves gasping into the shadow of the cottonwoods. Hands were stretched out that seized them and pulled them down, and a little quiver ran through Appleby as he watched the lonely figure that now showed clear in the moonlight by the edge of the road. Close behind it the cazadores were coming on at a run, and there were considerably more of them than there were of the Sin Verguenza.

Still, the fugitive stood tense and immovable. He was dressed simply in white duck, with a wide felt hat on his head, but there was something curiously familiar in his pose that perplexed Appleby, until turning half round suddenly he looked over his shoulder. Then as his face showed white in the moonlight Appleby gasped and flung up his rifle.

"Keep still!" he cried in English.

He felt the jar on his shoulder, there was a thin red flash and the smoke was in his eyes. Then spurts of pale flame blazed out from among the trees, and when the soft vapor slid away the road was empty save for one man, who ran straight in towards the cottonwoods with uneven lurching stride. Then while the Sin Verguenza looked on wondering Appleby stepped out from the shadow.

"Tony!" he said. "By all that's wonderful, Tony!"

The stranger stood still gasping, and stared at him, ignoring his outstretched hand. Then he drew back a pace.

"I have found you at last," he said. "I've a good deal to tell you, but it scarcely seems likely those fellows yonder will give me the opportunity now. It's specially unfortunate, because there does not seem to be many of you, and I'm a trifle lame."

Appleby glanced up the road, and saw enough to convince him that the cazadores were slipping forward circumspectly through the shadow of the cane, while it became evident from their murmurs that his companions had decided it was advisable to retire while the way was open. He slipped his arm through Tony's, and they started down a little path through the cane, while Tony endeavored to shake his grasp off, and finding that he could not do so limped along clumsily, leaning heavily upon him. The cazadores, however, apparently knew the ways of the Sin Verguenza too well to venture far from the open in pursuit of them, and finally they came gasping and perspiring into sight of the hacienda. Maccario stood at the gate of the patio waiting them, and glanced curiously at the stranger.

"A prisoner?" he said.

"No," said Appleby. "A friend of mine!"

Maccario swung off his hat, but when he begged Appleby to explain that any friend of his was welcome there he saw that the stranger winced.

They went up to Appleby's room, where there was an awkward silence for a moment or two, when Tony dropped limply into the nearest chair and averted his eyes from Appleby, who leaned upon the table looking down on him compassionately. He was worn with travel, and his face showed pallid and haggard under the lamplight.

"How did you chance upon the cazadores?" said Appleby, who felt that the question was trivial as he asked it.

"They were watching the road"; and Tony laughed in a curious hollow fashion, though there was apparently no cause for it. "They nearly got me. I was a little lame, you see. Tore my foot with one of those condemned aloe spikes a day or two ago."

"Well," said Appleby, "you were about the last person I expected to come across. What, in the name of wonder, brought you here?"

Tony looked at him a moment and smiled, while Appleby felt the blood rise to his forehead, and grew angry with himself. The constraint that was evidently upon Tony had extended to him, and would not be shaken off. Why this was so he did not know, but he could not greet his comrade with fitting friendliness.

"I came to find you," said Tony hastily. "Landed at Havana with Harding's address as my only guide. He had, I found out, left the city, but I came across two or three men who seemed to know him, and one of them passed me on to his friends, who contrived to get me here. We travelled, for the most part, at night, hiding in the daytime, and got very little to eat, but most of the men I met did what they could for me when I told them that I had business with a leader of the Sin Verguenza."

Appleby laughed a little. "You will find a bath yonder, and I'll send you up some food," he said. "Then come down when you are ready. You will find me on the veranda."

He spent half an hour pacing up and down the veranda before Tony reappeared, and as it happened Harding came out from his room just then. The moon, which had risen higher now, flooded the veranda with silvery light. Harding glanced at the stranger and pointed to a cane chair, while Appleby, who was not sure whether he was glad or displeased to see him at the moment, introduced them. Tony, however, did not shake hands.

"I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter in England, Mr. Harding, and it was only owing to that fact I managed to get here at all," he said. "You have evidently a good many friends in this country."

"I am glad I have been of service," said Harding, with a smile. "In the meanwhile I haven't the slightest doubt that you and Appleby will excuse me."

Tony looked at him gravely. "I understood from Miss Harding that you had reposed a good deal of trust in Appleby and that he had taken you into his confidence respecting something which happened in England."

"You have surmised correctly," said Harding.

"Then I would sooner you sat down and listened to me. It is, I fancy, likely that he has not told you all the story. You are not altogether unconcerned in it, since your daughter was the means of sending me here."

Appleby made a little impatient gesture. "Tony," he said sharply, "is it necessary?"

"I believe it is"; and Tony leaned forward in his chair. "It would be a favor if you sat down, sir."

Harding did so, and for ten minutes Tony, who stared straight in front of him at the blue Bougainvillea on the moonlit wall, spoke with quiet conciseness, while Harding sat in the shadow watching him. At last he turned to Harding.

"I think you will see that your confidence in the man I have injured was fully warranted, sir," he said. "If I have made you understand that, it is, at least, a little in reparation. I can't ask you to forgive, Bernard, but I want to straighten out what I can."

Harding for some reason moved uneasily in his chair, but Appleby, leaning across the table, held out his hand.

"You can't look past it now, Tony," he said. "Can't we still be friends?"

Tony glanced at him, and made a curious little sound which resembled a groan, then a red flush crept into his face as he took Appleby's hand. An unpleasant silence followed until Harding spoke.

"I shall hope for your better acquaintance, Mr. Palliser," he said.

Tony looked at him in wonder. "You realize what I have done, sir?"

Harding nodded gravely. "I have heard how you have tried to make it up," he said. "Well, I guess I've seen and handled a good many men, and there's more hope of those who trip up and get on their feet again than for quite a few of the others who have never fallen at all. Now, I'm glad you've told me, though, so far as my belief in Mr. Appleby goes, it was not by any means necessary."

Tony made a little movement with his head. "I've made over Dane Cop to you, Bernard," he said. "It is yours by right, and you can take it without feeling that you owe anything to me. Godfrey Palliser meant it for you--until I deceived him."

Appleby said nothing, but his set face showed what he was bearing for his comrade, and Harding quietly touched his shoulder.

"It seems to me that Mr. Palliser is right," he said. "The land is yours, anyway, and you would only hurt him by not taking it."

Tony raised his head, and looked at him gratefully. "Thank you, sir," he said. "It would hurt me, Bernard."

Appleby smiled a little, though it apparently cost him an effort. "Well," he said, "I'm not burdened with money yet, and I think you can afford it."

A light crept into Tony's eyes. "That is one thing accomplished. When will you come back?"

"I don't quite know. I may find an opportunity in a year or two."

"You must come now."

"I can't."

"You must," said Tony, almost hoarsely. "Bernard, can't you see that to bring you over, and to prove that I have made amends is the last chance for me?"

"The last chance. You must be more explicit, Tony."

They were both apparently oblivious of the fact that Harding was watching them, and Tony's voice trembled a little with eagerness.

"It's the only way I can make my peace with Violet," he said. "Can't you understand what she is to me? She would promise nothing until I had made all straight with you--and I can't let her go."

Appleby's face was compassionate, but he shook his head. "It is out of the question, Tony. I can't--even for you," he said. "I have got to stay here, and see this trouble through."

"Mr. Appleby is right," said Harding. "He has work to do."

Tony seemed to groan, and sat still a pace. Then he looked up with a little flush in his face.

"Well," he said very quietly, "in that case I'll stay with you."

Appleby laughed. "The thing is palpably absurd. A Palliser of Northrop consorting with the Sin Verguenza!"

"Still," said Tony doggedly, "I'm not going back to leave you in peril here. I couldn't face Violet, and tell her that tale. Nor am I as sure as you seem to be that the thing is so absurd. It's only the moral courage that has been left out of me."

"Try to realize what it is you wish to do," said Appleby almost sternly.

Tony smiled curiously. "It is quite plain to me already. I'm going to stay here and see the affair through with you; then when the insurgents will let you go you'll come with me, if it's only for a week or two, and tell Violet that you have forgiven me. In the meanwhile Craythorne and my agent will take better care of Northrop than ever I could do. There is another point you don't seem to have remembered. I should almost certainly be made a prisoner by the Spaniards if you sent me away."

"There is a good deal of sense in that," said Harding.

Appleby sat silent for almost a minute, and then seeing that Tony was resolute made a little gesture of resignation.

"Well," he said slowly, "we will talk to Maccario. Mr. Harding, I may ask you for a month's leave when we have taken Santa Marta."

"You shall have it," said Harding quietly.

Just then, as it happened, Maccario strolled into the veranda, and Appleby, who stood up, laid his hand on Tony's shoulder.

"I have the honor of presenting you another comrade," he said.

XXIX -- TONY PERSISTS

FOUR of the Sin Verguenza girt with bandoliers were waiting in the patio while Harding made hasty preparations for his journey when Appleby and Tony stood on the veranda. The night was a trifle clearer than any of them desired, though the half-moon had dipped behind the flat roof which was projected sharply against the luminescent blueness of the sky. A stream of light shone out from the open window of Harding's room, and Pancho's voice rose suggestively now and then as he watched him dressing. Harding, who had affairs of importance with the banker, was going into Santa Marta, and since it appeared more than likely that Morales knew he had arrived at San Cristoval, it was essential that, in order to avoid observation, he should be attired correctly in Cuban fashion.

Appleby, however, scarcely heard the major-domo, for he was making another attempt to induce Tony to leave with Harding, who purposed to head for the coast in the hope of finding a steamer there when he had made what arrangements he could respecting his Cuban possessions. Tony listened with a quiet smile, and then resolutely shook his head.

"We have been through it all before, and you are only wasting breath," he said. "I am going home with you when you have taken Santa Marta, but until then I stay here."

Appleby lost his patience. "It's a piece of purposeless folly. What have you to do with the fall of Santa Marta?"

"It is also my last chance," said Tony, with a curious little smile. "You could understand that if you wished to."

"No," said Appleby doggedly. "I don't think I could. Nor do I believe you would convince any reasonable man."

Tony smiled curiously. "One has objections to stripping himself, so to speak, before even a friend's eyes. It really isn't decent, but--since you are persistent--what I went through at Northrop was getting insupportable. The anxiety was crushing the life out of me, and it's out of the question that I should go back there while you are carrying the load that should have been upon my shoulders here. I'm not claiming any virtue I don't possess. Indeed, it's selfishness and what is most likely superstitious cowardice that decides me to stay, but I feel that until I have made all right with you there can be no peace for me."

"I do not want to live in England, and you are taking too personal a view of the thing. Since there is Violet to consider your life is not your own to throw away, and I am not sure you know how much she would forgive you."

Tony's face grew a trifle grim, and the light that streamed from the window showed the weariness in it.

"The trouble is that Violet was never in love with--me," he said very slowly. "I have a gift for deceiving people, even when I don't mean to, and it was not until the truth came out she saw me as I am. It is difficult to admit it, but there the fact is. She gave her heart to the man she supposed me to be, but I loved her for herself, and because I know she is the one woman who could make an honorable man of me. I lose my last hope if I let her go."

He stopped a moment with a little groan, while Appleby regarded him compassionately, and then continued in a low strained voice.

"Now you see the selfishness of it, and why I mean to stay. I must prove I'm not wholly worthless by making amends to you."

Appleby stood silent a moment. He knew Tony's unstable nature well, and that his passion for Violet Wayne, which was almost reverential, might yet lift him to a higher level. It was also evident that in desiring to make amends Tony was wise, and Appleby felt a curious sympathy for the man who clung so desperately to his last hope of vindicating himself in her eyes. That Tony's motive was, as he had admitted, largely selfish, and his contrition by no means of the highest order, did not trouble him. It was his part to help and not censure him, and with a little swift movement he laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Well," he said quietly, "you may be right, and since nothing else will content you, you must stay."

Just then Harding, attired in white duck and a big Panama hat, came out into the veranda, and glanced at them.

"If you are coming with me, Mr. Palliser, you have no time to lose," he said. "You may, however, find my company dangerous, especially if we can't get into Santa Marta and reach the banker's house while it's dark."

Tony smiled. "I'm not coming, sir."

"Well," said Harding, glancing at him curiously, "I guess you know your own affairs best. Maccario sent that fellow word to be ready to smuggle me in, Appleby."

"He will be waiting, and you are not likely to have much difficulty with the patrols when you are inside the town. Still, it is a big risk, sir."

Harding laughed. "I have been taking steep chances all my life, and I have quite a few dollars scattered up and down this country which I can't afford to throw away. They're not exactly mine, since it seems to me that I'm holding them in trust for my daughter Nettie. Now, I guess I've kept those men of yours long enough already."

He shook hands with Tony, and the men below flung up their rifles to the slope when he and Appleby went down the stairway. Maccario walked down the tram-line with them, and then stopped a moment when they reached the road, where Harding laid his hand on Appleby's arm.

"I leave you in charge of San Cristoval and my affairs here with every confidence," he said.

"I shall endeavor to deserve it, sir," said Appleby. "Still, it is not quite out of the question that Morales may burn the hacienda."

Harding smiled. "The hacienda can be built again, and they can't blow up the land. It will stop right there all the time, in spite of them."

"Still, they could seize it."

"Well," said Harding, with quiet confidence, "when we have chased every Spanish soldier out of Cuba I'll get it back again, and that is just what is going to happen before very long. It's quite difficult to freeze a citizen of my country out of his property."

"Unless an American trust casts covetous eyes upon it," said Appleby.

Harding laughed as he shook hands with him and Maccario, and then turned away with a smile still upon his The four Sin Verguenza plodded behind him down the road, and Maccario glanced at his companion.

"One would not have fancied the Senor Harding knew he was taking a heavy risk," he said.

"Still, I think it was quite plain to him."

Maccario glanced across the cane towards Santa Marta. "I had many friends there, and he has one or two at most. Morales is a daring and clever man--but it is his misfortune that in this affair he has others of the same kind against him."

"That is an admission," said Appleby, with a little smile "If you count the Senor Harper, two of them come from America."

Maccario laughed. "And one from England! Men of that kind are not confined to any one country, my friend. Still, they are perhaps more plentiful in the Peninsula--and Cuba--than elsewhere."

Appleby said nothing, and they walked slowly back to the hacienda.

Rather more than a fortnight passed uneventfully, and save for a few affairs between outposts and patrols there was no outbreak of hostilities. Morales lay in Santa Marta with the country rising against him, and Maccario patiently waited his time, for the Sin Verguenza were growing stronger every day. The insurrection was still largely sporadic and indifferently organized, and since each leader acted for the most part independently what was happening elsewhere only concerned the Sin Verguenza indirectly, while the struggle had become almost a personal question between them and Morales. In the meanwhile Appleby heard that Harding had eluded the latter's vigilance and left Santa Marta.

Then late one night a man came gasping up the veranda stairway, and Appleby and Maccario descended half-dressed to meet him in the big living-room. The dust was white upon him, and he blinked at them out of half-closed eyes, while Appleby noticed that he limped a little. Maccario pointed to a chair, and poured him out a glass of wine.

"You have come a long way?" he said.

"From Brena Abajo. I left there in the afternoon the day before yesterday."

"On a mule?"

The man smiled grimly as he pointed to his broken shoes.

"I came on these," he said.

Maccario turned to Appleby. "Our friend walks fast. It is counted a four days' journey. Still, I think he knows that one seldom gains anything by trifling with the Sin Verguenza."

A little gleam crept into the man's dark eyes. "One walks fast when he is eager for vengeance," he said. "I had a little wine-shop, and a comrade who I trusted, four days ago. Comes a column of Candotto's Peninsulares, and there is an asking of questions of the Alcalde, who is not a friend of mine. Andres, it is discovered, has smuggled rifles to the friends of liberty in the mountains."

Maccario made a little gesture. "It went hard with your friend?"

"He died with a jibe at Candotto, who would discover where our comrades were. The wine-shop is a heap of ashes now, but that night the friends of liberty came out from the barrancos and crept in upon Brena Abajo."

"They drove the soldiers out?"

"No," said the man very quietly. "The Peninsulares fought well. There are many dead patriots in the streets of Brena Abajo, and only Candotto's men left to bury them."

Maccario straightened himself suddenly in his chair. "It was a strong column?"

"No, senor. Four companies only. It seems Morales had sent for them."

Maccario turned to Appleby. "Now we know why Morales, who does nothing without a motive, was waiting. Well, they will march slowly, fearing another attack, with a section or two thrown forward in case there were friends of ours waiting them among the cane. The Colonel Candotto would, however, send messengers to Morales."

The man laughed in a curiously grim fashion. "Then they would never reach him. The paths are watched, and the friends of liberty are bold now there is to be war with America."

"I think our friend is right," said Maccario, who stood up with a little smile. "The service he has done us will be remembered in due time. Senor, the major-domo whom you will find below will give you food and show you where you can sleep."

The man went out, and Appleby glanced at his comrade with a little flush in his face.

"I think our time has come," he said.

Maccario's dark eyes sparkled. "We march in an hour. Candotto's men will march circumspectly, and lie behind the walls of an aldea at night. When they reach Santa Marta it will be to-morrow evening, and they will not find Morales then."

"No," said Appleby. "I think we can get in, but it will be a risk. It would have been certain in another week or two. We were growing stronger every day."

Maccario smiled dryly. "There are times when one cannot wait too long, my friend."

He went out upon the veranda, a man called out sharply in the shadows below, there was a hum of voices, and dim figures swarmed into the patio. Then there was a tramp of feet and a jingling of steel, lights flashed in the windows, and Appleby, slipping clear of the bustle, entered Tony's room. He lighted the little lamp, and then sat down on the bed. Tony lay close beside him sleeping quietly, and Appleby felt a curious little thrill as he looked down on him. The man had wronged him grievously, but the bond which had grown strong in happier days bound them together still.

The room was very hot, and the quiet face that was almost boyish yet was beaded with perspiration, but Appleby saw there was a stamp upon it which it had not borne in England. Tony, it seemed, had changed, and Appleby felt that he might still do his work with credit, and be the stronger because of his fall. Then as he struggled with a faint sense of envy and bitterness Tony opened his eyes and smiled.

"You there, Bernard? I was back at Northrop with you and Violet a moment ago," he said drowsily.

"Still, you are in Cuba now," said Appleby.

Tony appeared to be endeavoring to collect his thoughts. "It is difficult to realize it, and I can't quite persuade myself I'm awake yet," he said. "The sun was shining on the lawn, and I could see the red geraniums and the little blue lobelia round the border as clearly as I ever saw anything in my life. You were talking to Violet, and the trouble between us seemed to have gone. Why couldn't you let me sleep on?"

"I felt tempted to," said Appleby gravely. "Still, you see, we are marching to assault Santa Marta almost immediately."

Tony sprang out of bed, and was half dressed when he turned to Appleby again with a sparkle in his eyes.

"I'm taller than most of these Cubans. You'll have to put me at the head of your company," he said.

"No," said Appleby dryly. "We are leaving a handful of men behind us to hold the hacienda, and I mean you to stay with them."

Tony laughed a clear, ringing laugh. "Did you think for a moment that I would? Now, you will gain nothing by insisting, and you don't command. If I can't get your permission I'll get Maccario's."

"There is very grim work on hand, and the rest are more fitted for it than you."

Tony turned with a trace of stiffness which became him. "There was a time when you apparently took pleasure in pointing out my slackness, Bernard," he said. "Still, while I'm willing to admit it, I think it's moral,--and not physical."

"Of course!"

Tony's face relaxed, and he laughed. "That's devilishly complimentary-- but I'm coming. I've never been in a fight, and the sensation will be a pleasant novelty, but there's something else. You see, it may happen that one of us gets hurt."

"It is, I believe, quite likely."

"Well," said Tony very quietly, "that is just why I'm coming. I don't wish to be uncivil--but while Maccario's willing I think it's evident that you can't stop me."

Appleby looked at him a moment with a curious softness in his eyes, and then made a little gesture of resignation, while Maccario, who opened the door quietly, smiled as he glanced at them.

"The Senor Palliser will march with us?" he said.

"Of course!" said Tony lightly, but Appleby, who felt a little shiver run through him, said nothing at all.

Twenty minutes later the Sin Verguenza went stumbling down the tram-line file by file, and when they swung out into the carretera Tony Palliser marched with the leading four at the head of one company. The night was still and dark and the tramp of feet alone rang through the silence of the dusky cane, for the Sin Verguenza knew there was grim work before them, and marched with portentous quietness. Their time had come, but they realized with an unpleasant distinctness that if they failed very few of them would escape the vengeance of Morales.

XXX -- MORALES PRESERVES HIS FAME

THERE was a pale shining in the eastern sky when the Sin Verguenza came into sight of Santa Marta. The town lay, a smear of deeper shadow, upon the dusky levels in front of them, but the transition from darkness to light is swift in that country, and here and there a flat roof higher than those it stood among grew out of the obscurity into definite form. Save for the rhythmic beat of marching feet, there was stillness among the cane, and nothing moved on all the dim levels but the long black column that crawled down the shadowy road.

Then the distant peaks stood out in sharper contour against the paling blueness of the western sky, and Tony, marching outside man of one four, glanced over his shoulder. He could dimly see the lines of men behind him plodding through the dust, and their sloped rifles led his gaze aloft. The sky was now shining with a pearly lustre like the inside of a shell, and low down upon a cane the flush of crimson blazed into brilliancy. The rifles of the rearguard cut against it as they rose and fell, and the faces of the men behind him became suddenly distinguishable. He could also make out Appleby swinging along a few paces away an his right hand. Then he glanced in front of him, and saw that the great peaks were now flushed with a warm pink, until the dust rolled thicker and blotted out everything. It thinned as they swung through a white aldea, and the light which had swept down the hillsides touched Santa Marta when they came out again, so that the city shone immaculately white upon a setting of luminescent green.

He gazed at it in wonder, for the long night march through a silent land, the thrill of excitement, and the unwonted bracing of his nerves to face a physical peril had not been without their effect on him. Tony was usually somewhat materialistic but just then the bodily part of him was under the domination of the spirit, and he was sensible of a curious exaltation Turning his head he glanced at Appleby with a little laugh.

"It is beautiful!" he said. "It came upon one so suddenly out of the night that one could almost fancy it a vision--of the everlasting city."

"The one upon the Tiber?" said Appleby.

"The one seen in Patmos nearly two thousand years ago."

Appleby laughed curiously. "I'm afraid Santa Marta will be much more like the other place before the day is through, and it is not a very appropriate simile, Tony. One cannot storm those gates of precious stones."

"Well," said Tony reflectively, "it's not a subject either of us know very much about, but Nettie Harding seemed to think one could. We were lounging on the lawn at Low Wood that afternoon, and she was so sure about it that she almost convinced me. She said the gates were made of gold and ivory, and she got the fancy from the song you have heard Hester sing--but no doubt it means the same thing!"

Appleby glanced at him sharply, for the light was clearer now, and saw a look in Tony's face which was new to him. It was curiously quiet in spite of his little smile. Still, he made no answer, and there was silence, until from beyond the dust cloud rose the strident crackle of riflery.

"The advance guard are driving in the pickets. We'll be in the thick of it directly," he said, and a murmur passed along the company, while the rhythmic tread swelled in a sharp staccato.

It was evident to the Sin Verguenza that they had difficult work before them, while a direct attack in daylight was not a manoeuvre they had any great liking for. In this case, however, there was no evading it, for while they knew adherents would flock in from every aldea once they held Santa Marta, it was equally clear that should Candotto's Peninsulares join hands with Morales they could never seize the town. Haste was also advisable since he would know that an attack was imminent now, and when Maccario's voice rang out of the dust the pace grew faster while the column drew out in length.

Twice a half-company swung clear and vanished amidst the scattered gardens, and at last the rest flung themselves into the little enclosures between the aloe hedges close outside Santa Marta. Then there was a flashing of pale flame from the crest of every white wall, and Tony stared in astonishment when he saw none of the Sin Verguenza beyond the little handful of men about him in a garden. They were crouching beneath a low wall apparently made of blocks of sun-baked soil, while Appleby lay behind a clump of aloes close in front of him.

Beyond the aloes, the white walls rose glaringly bright with smears of bluish vapor drifting from every opening, though the smoke was thickest about one wide gap between them. As he watched it, oblivious of the rifle in his hand, there was a thin whirling of flame in the midst of the vapor, and a sound that resembled a rapid hammering came sharply through the din. Then a strip of the mud wall crumbled into dust, which made a haze about the garden, and a spurt of flung-up soil struck him in the face. A man behind him screamed, and while there was a pattering among the bananas close on his right Appleby crawled past him.

"A quick-firer! Morales has two of them, and he has found our range. We'll get on," he said.

Tony said nothing, but he could still see the portentous flashing amidst the smoke, and next moment felt the jar of his rifle upon his shoulder. He did not remember pressing the trigger but he could shoot well, and his fingers seemed to move without any prompting from him, for he saw the empty shell flung out and heard the snap of the lever as another cartridge slid into the chamber. Then while he pressed his cheek down on the stock and stiffened his left hand on the barrel he heard Appleby's voice raised in Castilian, and saw that his comrades were flitting forward. The rifle muzzle tilted upwards, and in another moment he was on his feet, and clambering over a low wall, ran past several small houses, and then dropped behind an aloe screen again.

Appleby, who knelt on one knee close beside him with a pair of glasses which had once belonged to an officer of cazadores in his hand, was still speaking sharply in Castilian, and Tony fancied that the men about them were all gazing towards the gap in the high walls where the carretera entered Santa Marta. Then there was a blast of riflery that set the aloes quivering and rolled away to the right of him, while, when a minute or two later nothing followed the click of the striker, he found the magazine was empty and the rifle barrel hot in his hand It was an American Marlin, and while he dropped fresh cartridges in through the slide Appleby rose to his feet and the Sin Verguenza were once more scrambling through enclosures nearer to the town.

The cluster Tony was attached to stopped among tall shrubs with crimson flowers of a heavy scent, with nothing between them and the white houses but a bare strip of dusty soil, and it became evident that they were waiting for something, for the firing slackened. Then further away to the right men sprang out into the open, straggling by twos and threes as they ran towards the town. The smoke grew thicker along the white walls, and some went down, while the dust they fell in splashed and spurted as a still pool would do under a driving hail. Still, more came on behind them, and Tony was struggling with an impulse to shout aloud when, from the whole front of the Sin Verguenza, there broke out a crash of riflery. He gasped as the smoke rolled down, for his desire to see had become almost overwhelming, and then as the firing slackened again it became evident that the little white forms were running still.

There were, however, not many of them now, and Tony grasped their purpose when they swept in close beneath the dazzling wall, while Appleby, who stood upright, with the glasses at his eyes, said something hoarsely in evident approbation. Once more there was a crackle of firing, and the smoke grew thick, while when it cleared the dusty strip was empty save for the white objects which lay still here and there. Tony surmised that the others had found entrance into the town by a narrow lane, or through the house of a friendly citizen.

A minute or two later this became evident, for the crash of firing grew furious on the roofs above the gap, and Appleby, who thrust his glasses into their case, was shouting hoarsely. Rising by twos and threes the men sprang out from among the flowering shrubs, and Tony saw the low walls and clumps of aloes become alive with scurrying forms. They seemed to move independently and without formation, though Appleby, with hand swung up, was shouting in Castilian, and Maccario went by pointing with a Spanish infantry officer's sword. The gleam of it in the intense sunlight dazzled Tony's eyes, and he stood still, uncertain what was going on, and gasping with excitement, when Appleby's hand fell on his shoulder.

"I can't tell you to hold off now we're going in," he said. "Still, it's devilishly risky. You'll not be unnecessarily rash, Tony."

He sprang forward with three or four more at his heels, and Tony found himself running a few yards behind him. He could see that the Sin Verguenza were following, but save that they ran with wide spaces between them they seemed to keep no order, and to have only one purpose, to cross the perilous bare space as rapidly as they could.

The time that cost them appeared interminable, but it became evident that a few at least of those who had gained an entry into the town were firing on the cazadores who held the mouth of the carretera, and in another minute or two they swept up to it and stopped again, gasping in the smoke, with high white walls above them, and a mound of soil and torn-up pavement meshed with wires close in front of them. Tony remembered he had heard that in these days of magazine rifles and hopper-fed guns an attack of the kind was foredoomed to fail, but it seemed that the Sin Verguenza meant to try it, for already Maccario was half-way up the slope, with Appleby, pistol in hand, close behind him, and while a savage cry went up a wave of scrambling men seemed to toss together and roll on. It swept up to the crest of the barrier, and plunged into the smoke, and the cazadores wavered, turned, and fled. They were outnumbered, and, as it transpired later, had been galled by a fire from the roofs above, while Appleby eventually discovered a cartridge partly torn to pieces stuck immovably in the chamber of their quick-firing gun.

In the meanwhile Appleby was grimed with perspiration, smoke, and dust, while his hand was blackened by the fouling from the pistol. Strung to a tension that was too great for nervous excitement, he moved, as it were, with an automatic precision and collectedness, grasping the import of each turn of the struggle with a dispassionate perspicacity, which in less eventful moments he would have been incapable of. The faculty of swift deduction and decision may have been born in him, but it was, at least, evident to the Sin Verguenza, for even then in the stress of desperate effort they seemed to comprehend and obey him. Now and then Maccario had shouted hoarse questions to him, and though the answers apparently came without reflection the leader of the Sin Verguenza concurred when he grasped their purport.

It was by his order the shattered leading company flung itself into the houses when the Sin Verguenza were met by an enfilading volley as they reeled into the calle. The street might have proved a death-trap while the cazadores held the windows, but one could pass along the roofs, and the troops came out headlong when the Sin Verguenza descended upon them from above. Then they in turn found the calle too hot to hold them when they faced the fire of the second company which had taken shelter in the doorways. It was strewn with huddled objects lying upon the hot stones when they fled out of it, and a few minutes later Appleby stopped close by where Tony stood in the larger plaza. Tony's face was set and white, though there was a curious gleam in his eyes, and he seemed to shiver a little as he glanced back up the glaring street. It was very still now, a narrow gap between the white walls that were ridged with shattered green lattices, but filmy wisps of vapor still drifted out of the doorways.

"We have got in, but it has cost you a good deal," he said.

Appleby said nothing, but Maccario, who came up, and following Tony's gaze glanced at the huddled figures on the stones, made a little comprehensive gesture.

"There is a price to everything, but in this case it would have been heavier had not your countryman been quick to copy Morales' plan," he said. "Still, I think by the firing our friends who went on in front are also in, and as they will close the way out Morales will be waiting us in the cuartel."

"It stands alone," said Appleby. "One cannot get in by the roofs."

He pointed to a ridge of flat roof that, rising above the others, cut the blue of the sky. A streak of gold and crimson flaunted above it from a towering staff.

"We have perhaps four hours," said Maccario; "but if that flag is flying when the Peninsulares march in it may never come down again."

"I think one will be enough," said Appleby quietly. "We will wait two or three minutes until the rest come up."

The stragglers were formed into their companies in the plaza, and Maccario, impressing a citizen whom he dragged out of his dwelling, sent him on with a scribbled summons to Morales to deliver up the cuartel. The message was terse and laconic, and Maccario smiled dryly when the man departed very much against his wishes bearing a white handkerchief on a cane.

"One complies with civilized customs; it is required of him. And a rest of a few minutes will not hurt my men," he said. "Still, it is a waste of courtesy when it is known beforehand what Morales' answer will be."

While they waited there was a little derisive laughter as, with Harper on the flank of the first four, another band of the Sin Verguenza tramped into the plaza. They had, he explained disgustedly, found a feebly defended entrance by a narrow alley, and had lost their way during the pursuit of the handful of cazadores who had attempted to hold it. He had already left the ranks, and grinned at Maccario suggestively as he laid a bottle of red wine in Tony's hands.

"The boys struck a place where they sell it, and you're not an officer, anyway," he said. "It might come in handy, and if the others are stuck on discipline they needn't have any."

The men had refilled the magazines by this time, and were growing impatient when the citizen came back again. He carried a strip of paper torn across the middle, and made a little deprecatory gesture as he passed it to Maccario.

"That is the only answer the Colonel Morales sends," he said.

Appleby smiled dryly, but a faint flush crept into Maccario's face.

"It is what one would have expected--and it is evident he understands," he said. "There is no room in Cuba for him and the Sin Verguenza."

Then he spoke sharply, there was a passing of orders, and the Sin Verguenza swung forward down the broad highway that led to the cuartel. The street was silent and empty under the scorching sun, with green lattices closed, and doors shut, but the men could see the square mass of the building towering white and grim, with the crimson and gold of Spain flaunting over it on the faint hot breeze. They marched in due formation now, but behind them came a rabble long held down by terror, men with bitter wrongs who carried rifles torn from the fallen cazadores, machetes, and iron bars. They had also a long score against Morales, and their time had come.

They were close on the cuartel, and still the white building was silent, when the Sin Verguenza stopped a moment or two and men with iron bars beat down the door of a house Maccario pointed to. Then the most part of one company vanished within it, and it was not until they poured out on the flat roof the rest went on. It seemed to Appleby that save for the tramp of feet the street was curiously still, though he noticed that now a green lattice was open every here and there.

Then the silence was suddenly broken by a crash of riflery, and the front of the houses was smeared by drifting smoke! Morales, it was evident, did not mean to hold his hand until they reached the cuartel. Here and there a man staggered and reeled from the ranks, there was a sharp snapping upon the stones, but Maccario's voice rang through the din, and the Sin Verguenza went on at a furious run. They were met by the flash of a volley when they swept into the open space in front of the cuartel, shrank back, and reeled into the sliding smoke again, while the rifles of their comrades swept the windows from the houses opposite. Twice they beat the great door in the archway almost down, but those who swung the hammers and machetes melted away under the rifle flame, and then Harper went shouting at the door with a great iron bar. There were, however, men with grim faces from the alleys of Santa Marta behind him now, striking with torn-up railings, pounding with paving stones, while from roof and windows the rifles crashed.

Then the door bent inwards, and with a shout of triumph and execration the Sin Verguenza poured in across the barricade of stones and soil in cases. The din had grown bewildering, and the men seemed oblivious of sight and sound in their passion, while Appleby, who shouldered his way through the press, noticed only the closed inner door of the patio, and the ruins of the torn-up veranda stairway. Again it cost the Sin Verguenza a heavy price to break that door down, but nothing would have stopped them or those who followed them now, and they fought their way up the wide stairway, driving the cazadores back until they poured out on to the higher veranda where Morales stood with a bright sword in his hand at the foot of the big flagstaff. There was a little cluster of cazadores about him, but Appleby did not know where the rest had gone, for the struggle had become general, and scattered handfuls of men were fighting independently all over the building. He, however, fancied by the shouts and the confused din that most of them and the Sin Verguenza had swept on up the higher stairway to the roof above, for he and Maccario and Tony were almost alone.

Maccario stopped suddenly and swung off his hat.

"The cuartel is ours how, and it would serve no purpose to waste more men. Your sword, senor," he said.

Morales made him a little punctilious salutation, and glanced at the bright blade in his hand. Then he turned to the men about him, and smiled grimly, as though in answer to the murmur that rose from them.

"Never while I live. It belongs to Spain," he said.

The little drama scarcely lasted a minute, but it forced itself into Appleby's memory, and he could long afterwards picture Morales standing very straight with set lips and a gleam in his dark eyes, the handful of men with rifles behind him, and the grim face of the slim young officer Harper had spared at the hacienda. Tony was gasping close at his side, and the flag of Spain streamed, a strip of gold and crimson, above them all.

Then more men grimed with dust and smoke poured into the veranda, and Maccario, who made a little deprecatory gesture, raised his sword.

"Then, with excuses, senor! Comrades, we must have that flag," he said.

A man beside Morales whose head was bound with a crusted bandage flung up his rifle, there was a flash, and one of the Sin Verguenza reeled and plunged down from the shattered stairway into the patio. Then there was a shout, a crash, and a whirling haze of smoke, and as Appleby sprang towards the flagstaff a cazador lunged at him with his bayonet. His finger closed on the pistol trigger, but there was no answering flash, and another shadowy figure seemed to slip in between him and the soldier. The latter went down with a man upon him, while Appleby pressed on through the acrid haze. A man whom he recognized as Harper seemed to reach the staff simultaneously with himself, a knife flashed, and a hoarse voice cried in English as a rope was thrust into his hand.

"Haul!" it said. "Down she comes."

A moment or two later the limp folds of red and gold fell into Appleby's hands, and it was evident that other men on the roofs and in the patio had seen the flag come down, for a shout of exultation rolled across the town. Then Appleby who flung the flag from him, turned and glanced along the veranda with a little shiver.

Save for two or three who lay still in the glaring sunlight the cazadores had melted away, and he fancied they had been driven through the gap in the torn-up balustrade or had flung themselves into the patio. The slim young lieutenant held himself up by a railing, with his face horribly awry, while Maccario stood still looking down on the olive-faced officer who lay close in front of him. His kepi had fallen off, but his brown fingers were still clenched upon his sword, and he stared back at the leader of the Sin Verguenza with sightless eyes. Maccario, who apparently saw Appleby, stooped, and pointed to a little blue mark on the side of the officer's head.

"It is what one would have expected. A brave soldier!" he said.

Appleby said nothing, but looked round for Tony, and felt suddenly chilly when he did not see him. Then with horrible misgivings he turned towards a man who lay partly upon a fallen cazador with a rifle beside him. Just then the man lifted his head, and it was with a gasp he recognized the drawn, white face as Tony Palliser's.

"Tony, you're not hurt?" he said, with hoarse anxiety.

Tony smiled wryly. "I think I am," he said. "This fellow got his bayonet into me, and I have a notion that I'm bleeding internally. I suppose there is a doctor in Santa Marta."

Appleby turned and seized Maccario by the shoulder. The latter, leaning over the balustrade, called out sharply, and in a moment or two three or four of the Sin Verguenza came up and lifted Tony. As they moved away with him Maccario stooped and laid Morales' kepi over his face. Then he touched Appleby gently.

"I have seen a good many wounds, and I think the Senor Palliser will not fight again," he said.

XXXI -- STRUCK OFF THE ROLL

IT was with difficulty a handful of the Sin Verguenza cleared a way for Tony's bearers through the clamorous mob below, and an hour had passed when Appleby, who had seen his comrade safely bestowed there, came out, grave in face, from the Spanish banker's house. The doctor Maccario sent had, it was evident, no great hope of his patient's recovery, though he insisted that he should be left in quietness.

A messenger from Maccario was waiting when Appleby reached the patio, and it was a relief to find that he had in the meanwhile work to do. Still, he stood almost a minute blinking about him with eyes that were dazzled by the change from the dimness of the hot room behind the closed lattices where Tony lay. The patio was flooded with glaring sunlight, and a confused din rose from every corner of Santa Marta. The hot walls flung back the tramp of feet and the exultant vivas of the mob, while from the tall church towers the clash of jangling bells rang across the town drowning the occasional crackle of riflery, for it was evident that scattered handfuls of the cazadores were fighting still.

Then the brown-faced man beside him made a little gesture of impatience when there was a crash of firing louder than the rest.

"Those cazadores are obstinate, and Don Maccario waits," he said.

Appleby went with him vacantly, for now the strain had slackened he felt limp and his thoughts were in a whirl. Tony, it seemed, was dying, and the almost brotherly affection Appleby had once cherished for his comrade came back to him. As yet he could only realize the one painful fact with a poignant sense of regret.

Maccario, however, had work waiting him, and the day dragged through, though Appleby never remembered clearly all that happened during it. It was noon when they had cleared the town of the last of the cazadores, and bestowed those who had the wisdom to yield themselves in the cuartel. The rest leapt to destruction from windows and roofs, or went down, grimly clenching their hot rifles, in barricaded patios and on slippery stairways. Appleby was thankful when the work was done, though he had taken no part in it for Maccario, with a wisdom his comrade had not expected, bade him organize a guard, and see that there was no purposeless destruction of property. It was not, he said, a foray the Sin Verguenza had made, but an occupation they had effected, and there was nothing to be gained by pushing the wealthy loyalists to desperation. He also observed dryly that their dollars might fail to reach the insurgent treasury at all if collected independently by the rank and file.

The task was more to Appleby's liking than the one he had anticipated, and it was necessary, since the smaller merchants in Cuba and also in parts of Peninsular Spain have no great confidence in bankers, and prefer a packet of golden onzas or a bag of pesetas to the best accredited check. He also contrived to accomplish it with success, somewhat to the astonishment of those whose property he secured to them, when they found he demanded nothing for himself, while he fancied there was reason in his companion's observation as they went back to report to Maccario when there was quietness in the town. Harper sighed as they came out of the last loyalist's house.

"I guess Maccario knew what he was about when he sent you to see this contract through," he said.

"Well," said Appleby, "it was a trifle more pleasant than turning out the cazadores."

Harper grinned somewhat ruefully. "That's not quite what I mean. Any one else with our opportunities would have been rich for life. Now, you didn't seem to notice the diamond brooch the senora took out from her laces when she asked you to keep the rabble out of the house. It would have brought two hundred dollars in New York."

Appleby looked at him with a little dry smile. "I have asked you no questions, but your pockets are suspiciously bulky."

"Cigars," said Harper disgustedly, pulling out a handful.

"Worth a dollar a piece in my country by the smell of them, but I'm not setting up a tobacco store! If I ever get hold of another contract of this kind I'll take somebody else along."

Appleby laughed a little, but his face grew grave again as they turned towards the banker's house to inquire how Tony was progressing. There was no change, they were told, but the doctor, who was busy elsewhere, had left imperative instructions that no one was to see him.

Appleby was glad he had little leisure for reflection during the rest of the day, which was passed in strenuous activity. There were defences to be improvised, and ambulance corps to organize, barricades built, and men driven to their posts from the wine-shops, for Candotto's Peninsulares would shortly arrive. They never came, however, but instead of them two hundred dusty men with rifles from Brena Abajo marched in, and a horde of peons from every aldea in the vicinity armed with staves and machetes followed them when dusk was closing down. Then once more the bells clashed exultantly above the clamorous town.

The soft darkness had descended upon Santa Marta, and there was quietness again, when Appleby and Harper took their places at the banquet in the Alcalde's house where Maccario had decided he would establish the provisional administration. The great room blazed with light, the tables were piled with such luxuries as could be found in the city, fruits and flasks of wine, and Appleby, who was seated at Maccario's right hand, gazed with a vague interest down the long rows of faces. They were exultant, eager, inscrutable, and anxious, for the loyalist citizens had evidently considered it advisable to comply with the leader of the Sin Verguenza's invitation.

Maccario was now dressed immaculately, and the handful of loyalists with Castilian taste and precision, but there were also men with the grime of conflict still upon their brown faces, and garments foul with smoke and dust. It seemed to Appleby that he would never again sit down with so incongruous a company. At last, when all had eaten or made a pretence of it, there was a curious stillness as Maccario stood up at the head of the table. Every eye was turned upon him, and the olive-tinted faces grew intent, for among those who watched him were men who knew that their ruin or prosperity depended upon what he had to say.

"What we have accomplished to-day will last," he said "The flag of Spain will never float over Santa Marta again."

There was a murmur from the Sin Verguenza, and Appleby saw the faces of one or two of the loyalists harden, while the rest grew anxious. Maccario, however, smiled as he proceeded.

"A wise man yields to the inevitable," he said. "The Sin Verguenza hold this town, and you have seen that from here to the mountains the country has declared for liberty. Men are flocking in, and there are rifles to arm the battalions we are raising in the cuartel. War with the Americans is now certain, and there can be only one result of that war, my friends, while Santa Marta stands alone, a place of no importance to the Spanish generals, who will be too busy to trouble about what happens there. Now you comprehend the position."

He stopped, and it was evident that none of the loyalists could controvert him, though one rose to his feet.

"It is admitted, senor," he said gravely. "What follows?"

"That," said Maccario, "is for you and the others to decide. Martial law that will grind those who rebel against it into the dust, or, I think, prosperity, with due submission to a provisional administration. You see before you the head of it, and, at least, there will not be anarchy while he has two or three strong battalions to do his bidding. In the meanwhile the direction of affairs will be placed in the hands of ten men. Five will be nominated by myself, and I will ask your Alcalde to summon four others when he has consulted the wishes of the citizens."

There was a murmur of relief and astonishment, for this was apparently the last thing the loyalists had expected, while Appleby, who glanced at Maccario, was sensible of a slight embarrassment, when he saw the little dry smile on his comrade's face. The leader of the Sin Verguenza had, it seemed, guessed his thoughts, and he was glad when the Alcalde, a gray- haired, courtly man, stood up.

"It is not what we looked for, senor, and on behalf of Santa Marta you have our gratitude," he said. "Still, while others may be willing, I, at least, can hold no office under an insurgent usurpation."

There was an angry murmur from the Sin Verguenza, but the Alcalde stood very erect, gazing at them disdainfully, and Maccario raised his hand.

"The Alcalde is, I think, scarcely wise, but he is a loyal gentleman," he said. "We will pass over him. The Senor Sanchez who, I am told, is regarded with respect in Santa Marta, will, perhaps, recommend five citizens of integrity."

A slight, olive-faced gentleman in white duck stood up. "Since we have been beaten I agree," he said. "One has, however, questions to ask. There will be an amnesty to those who have supported Morales, and their possessions will be made secure to them?"

A little grim twinkle crept into Maccario's eyes. "Every citizen of means will be required to contribute to the equipment of the new battalions to be raised and the cost of administration, in proportion to his income, as the council shall decide. If there are any who desire to show their contrition for past hostility by being generous now they will have an opportunity. There are also one or two to whom such a course is recommended."

More than one of the company glanced at his neighbor uneasily, but the man who had spoken turned to Maccario with a little expressive gesture. "Then I will go now to consult with and spread the good news among the citizens," he said.

Maccario laughed softly. "They will no doubt be astonished. To them the Sin Verguenza have been as wolves, but that was the fault of Morales, who made them so. Now they are the bloodhounds who, while the household sleep in peace, keep watch in the patio. Still, the bloodhound is a beast that one would do well to beware of, my friend. Well, I will not keep the gentlemen who have honored us with their company, but there is a toast to drink, and you who have made plantations and built warehouses, and we who have marched and fought, can join in it equally. To the prosperity of Cuba!"

The men rose as one, the loyalists with evident relief that nothing more had been asked of them, and as they swung, up their glasses the building rang with the shout.

Then in the silence that followed the Alcalde filled his glass again.

"And," he said, "to Spain!"

Maccario made him a little ceremonious inclination. "Senor," he said, "with ten such men on the council one would have no fear concerning the prosperity of Santa Marta."

Then the citizens went out, and Maccario smiled as he turned to Appleby.

"It seems that the time of the friends of liberty has come," he said. "There will no doubt be preferment for those who have fought well, but the promise you made us was to hold only until Santa Marta had fallen."

Appleby was almost astonished to find himself troubled by a keen sense of regret. "I take it back," he said quietly. "You will now find plenty of other men willing to take my place with the Sin Verguenza."

"It is likely, but none that one could trust so well. Still, you will not be hasty. It is a good life, Bernardino--ours of the march and bivouac. Would you be happier counting the dollars in American cities than watching the Cuban highways or lying on the hillsides by the red fires? To gain one thing one must always give up another, and would not such a man as you are prefer to decide the fate of cities and battalions than haggle over a bargain? It is command, the stress of effort, and the untrammelled joy of life, sunshine, and wine, we offer you, while one lives in bonds and sadly in your Northern cities."

Appleby sighed a little, for the temptation was alluring, but he knew the shadowy side of the life the Sin Verguenza led, and he kept his head.

"I have made my decision, and the Senor Harding waits for me," he said.

Maccario smiled. "Then I shall gain nothing by objecting. After all, it is of no great importance whether a man trades as a merchant or fights as a soldier. That will be as fate arranges it for him. He is born what he is."

"The Senor Appleby will leave us?" asked one of the men.

"Yes," said Maccario, who stood up, "when it pleases him, and I think it is scarcely likely we shall sit at meat with him again. You will pledge a faithful comrade and a valiant soldier, without whom we might never have been the masters of Santa Marta."

The men were on their feet in a moment, and Appleby felt his heart throb as he glanced down the long row of faces. Many were still grimed with dust, and the brown hands that held the glasses stained with the black fouling from the rifles, but there was no mistaking the good will in the dark eyes. Then the glasses went up with a shout that filled the great room and rang out through the open windows across the silent town, and Appleby, who never remembered what he said, found himself speaking hoarsely.

He sat down while the shouting broke out again, and saw a man in the doorway signing to him.

"The Senor Palliser is permitted to see you. It is recommended that you lose no time," he said when there was silence.

Maccario laid his hand sympathetically upon Appleby's arm. "It is well to be prepared," he said. "I am afraid that by to-morrow there will be another of your countrymen struck off the roll of the Sin Verguenza."

Appleby rose and followed the man with his heart beating painfully, and it was only by an effort he retained his tranquillity when he was led into a room in the banker's house where a lamp was burning. Its flame flickered in the draught, for the lattices were open wide, but it showed the drawn white face that was turned expectantly towards the door.

"I am glad you have come," said the wounded man. "I don't think I realized what was going to happen, or where I was, until an hour ago, and then I was horribly afraid the man wouldn't find you. You see, I don't suppose there's more than another hour or two left me now."

Appleby set his lips as he glanced down at the white face, and felt that this was true. Then his eyes grew a trifle dim as he laid his hand on Tony's arm.

"Why," he said hoarsely, "did I ever let you go?"

Tony smiled. "There is no necessity to reproach yourself. You know just as well as I do that you could not have stopped me, and I'm not sure that after all I'm very sorry. There is nobody who will not get on just as well without me."

"You are wrong. There is not a man at Northrop who will not feel the blow--and there is Violet."

Tony's fingers seemed to quiver. "Still!" he said very slowly, "I think she will get over it."

Appleby said nothing for a few moments, for there was something he could not understand in his comrade's face Then he said softly, "How did it happen, Tony?"

Tony shook his head. "I can't quite remember. I saw that cazador with the bayonet, and went for him with the butt," he said. "The only thing I am sure about is that he got me instead."

Appleby gasped as the vague memories of the struggle on the veranda grew clearer. "Tony, you thrust yourself in between him and me?"

Tony smiled a little. "Well," he said slowly, "it seemed even chances that I could reach him with the butt, and I owed you a good deal, you see."

Appleby clenched one hand, and turned his face away, and there was for a full minute silence in the dimly lighted room while he looked out through the square of open casement at the dusky blueness of the night. Then through the hum of voices in the street below there came a rhythmic tramp of feet and a thin jingle of steel, while as it grew louder the glare of waving torches shone into the room. Tony watched it flicker upon the wall.

"What is going on?" he said.

"They are carrying Morales to his burial," said Appleby. "Maccario has sent a half-company of the Sin Verguenza."

Tony smiled curiously. "That man has good taste. I liked him," he said. "Well, there is one of the Sin Verguenza who will never march again. I wonder if you remember that two of our family once fought with the Legitimatists in Spain. Still, I think they would have looked down upon the Sin Verguenza."

Again Appleby, struggling with tense emotion, found words failed him, and sat silent until Tony laid his hand on his.

"It might have been better if I had never fallen in love with Violet," he said.

"Why?" said Appleby, who fancied that Tony was watching him curiously. "She was in love with you."

"I think not," and Tony feebly shook his head. "It isn't necessary to discuss that again."

He stopped with a little shiver, and Appleby's fingers closed tightly on his hand.

"If I could only bring you back to her you would find out how mistaken you are."

"That is evidently out of the question. Nobody could, and I think if a little longer life had been granted me I would have tried to give her up. I know now that she would never have been happy with me. Still, you will tell her, Bernard--what has happened to me."

Appleby only pressed his hand, and it was a minute or two later when Tony spoke again.

"There is one man who would please Violet--and I don't think I would mind," he said.

Again Appleby felt the blood in his forehead. "She never thought of me, and I have nothing to offer her," he said.

"No," said Tony with a visible effort. "Still, I think, Bernard--if you saw much of her she would. You have both done a good deal for me."

He stopped with a gasp, and seemed to sink into sleep or partial stupor, while Appleby sat very still listening to the voices in the street below while half an hour dragged by. Then Tony opened his eyes, and looked about him vacantly.

"I think I've been dreaming, and that song Hester was fond of is running in my head," he said. "The one about the gates--it got hold of my fancy--I think they were of precious stones. She and Violet were out on the lawn of Low Wood--where you look down into the valley, you know--and Nettie was trying to convince the vicar those gates could be stormed. There was something I couldn't quite understand about the marble knight in Northrop church."

Appleby saw that Tony's thoughts were wandering.

"Of course!" he said soothingly, though his voice was strained. "I wouldn't worry about it, Tony."

Tony looked at him as though he scarcely recognized him, and smiled.

"I think you're wrong, and perhaps it isn't necessary. That song is jingling in my head again. 'If you but touch with your finger tips those ivory gates and golden.' It sounds easy," he said.

His head sank back on the pillow, and for five long minutes there was silence in the room. Then Tony sighed, and his fingers closed feebly on Appleby's hand.

"It's very hot in the sun here, and it was yesterday when I had a meal," he said. "Still, I shall find Bernard. Now they're marching on Santa Marta in open fours. They're going in--nothing could stop the Sin Verguenza--but you can't open those gates with a volley. It isn't necessary."

He said nothing more, and when another half-hour had dragged by Appleby rose, and with gentle force drew his hand away. Then he went out, shivering a little and treading softly, for he knew that the soul of Tony Palliser, who had sinned and made such reparation as was permitted him, was knocking at the gates which are made of precious stones.

XXXII -- APPLEBY LEAVES SANTA MARTA

THE sun was low, and the town lay in grateful shadow when Appleby walked slowly down the calle that leads out of Santa Marta. He was dressed plainly in white duck, and no longer carried a rifle, while he scarcely seemed to hear the observations of Harper, who walked at his side. His brown face was a trifle grave, and Maccario, who went with them, smiled dryly when he noticed that once or twice he sighed.

Stone pavements and white walls were hot still, but the dazzling glare had faded, and the street was thronged with citizens enjoying the faint coolness of the evening. Here and there one of them greeted the little group with signs of respect, but Appleby scarcely noticed them. Looking straight before him he saw the shattered lattices, and the scars and stains of smoke on the white walls which marked the scene of the last grim struggle with Morales. Morales lay at rest in the little campo santo, and in a few more minutes Appleby would in all probability have turned his back forever on Santa Marta. It was with confused feelings, through which there ran a keen regret, he remembered what had befallen him there.

Then, as they approached the strip of uneven pavement hastily flung down on the spot where the Sin Verguenza had only a few days ago swept over the barricade, he stopped a moment as brown-faced men with rifles, regardless of discipline--which was, however, seldom much in evidence among the Sin Verguenza--thronged about him. Amidst cries and gesticulations they thumped his shoulders and wrung his hands, while once more Appleby wondered whether he had decided wisely as he recognized the sincerity of the good will in their dark eyes. He had fought with them, faced imminent peril, borne with anxiety and short- comings, and feasted riotously, in their company, and now he found it harder to part from them than it would have been from more estimable men.

Maccario, it seemed, understood what he was thinking, for his face was sympathetic as he glanced at his companion.

"One would fancy that they were sorry to let you go," he said. "It is a good life, a man's life, the one you are leaving. Will you find better comrades in your smoky cities?"

Appleby smiled a trifle wistfully, and did not answer for a moment. The vivid, untrammelled life appealed to him, and for a time he had found delight in it, but he was wise, and knew that once peace was established there would be no room in Cuba for the Sin Verguenza. They must once more become toilers, or descend to intrigue and conspiracy, and he knew the Castilian jealousy of the alien, and that past services are lightly remembered in the day of prosperity. He and his comrades had borne the stress and the strain, and it seemed wiser to leave them now before the distrust and dissension came.

"None better to face peril or adversity with, but a change is coming, and one cannot always wear the bandolier," he said. "If I go now they will only think well of me."

A little gleam of comprehension came into Maccario's dark eyes. "Still," he said slowly, "the Sin Verguenza will be remembered, and you with them."

Then a man leading two mules on which their baggage was strapped came up, and Maccario held out his hand.

"Good-bye," said Appleby simply. "I shall hope for your prosperity."

He laid his foot in the stirrup, and Maccario swept off his hat.

"While there is one of the Sin Verguenza left you will never be without a friend in Cuba," he said.

Appleby swung himself to the saddle, Harper mounted clumsily, and there was a beat of hoofs; but in a minute or two Appleby drew bridle, and twisted himself round in his saddle. With the two church towers rising high above it against the paling sky Santa Marta lay, still gleaming faintly white, upon the dusky plain behind him, and he fancied he could see Maccario standing motionless in the gap between the houses where the last fight had been. A cheerful hum of voices and a tinkle of guitars drifted out with a hot and musky smell from the close-packed town, and he turned his eyes away and glanced at the tall black cross on a rise outside the walls. Anthony Palliser of Northrop slept beneath it among the Sin Verguenza.

Then the crash of the sunset gun rose from the cuartel, and there was a roll of drums, the drums of the cazadores beaten by insurgent hands, and with a little sigh Appleby shook his bridle. He could picture his comrades laughing over their wine in the cafes, or mingling with the light-hearted crowd in the plaza, but he would never meet their badinage or see them sweeping through the smoke and dust again.

"It was pleasant while it lasted, and who knows what is in front of us now?" he said.

Harper, lurching in his saddle, laughed a little. "Well," he said, "one gets accustomed to changes in this country, and I can hear the sea."

"Then you have good ears. We may have trouble before we reach it," said Appleby dryly.

They pushed on through the coolness of the night until the stars were growing dim in the eastern sky, and then rested in a little aldea until dusk came round again. The Sin Verguenza were masters of the country round Santa Marta, but sympathies were as yet divided in the region between it and the sea, and Appleby decided that it was advisable to travel circumspectly. Events proved him right, for two days later they narrowly avoided an encounter with a company of loyalist troops, and spent the next week lying close by day, and plodding by bypaths through the cane at night, while it became evident to both of them that they would never have reached the coast without the credentials with which Maccario had supplied them.

They found it was watched by gunboats when at last they reached a lagoon among the mangrove swamps, and were assured that it would be perilous to attempt to get on board a steamer in any of the ports. A small vessel with arms was expected, but when Appleby heard that she might not arrive for a month, and perhaps land her freight somewhere else, he decided to buy a fishing barquillo and put to sea at once. Harper concurred in this, and said there was little doubt that they would intercept one of the steamers from Havana.

The night was clearer than they cared about when with the big latine set they slipped out of the lagoon, but the land breeze which was blowing fresh, drove steamy vapors across the moon and it was almost dark when they reeled into the white surf on the bar. They went through it shipping water at every plunge, Harper sitting high on the boat's quarter with his hand on the tiller and the sheet of the latine round his other wrist, while Appleby crouched among the ballast and bailed. Then the sea grew smooth again, save for the little white ripples made by the hot breeze, and Appleby, standing up ankle-deep in water, looked about him.

The mangroves lay behind him, a dusky blur streaked with a thick white steam which trailed out in long wisps across the sea that heaved blackly beneath the boat. Then the trees were blotted out as she ran into a denser belt of mist that was heavy with a hot, sour smell, and there was nothing to be seen but a strip of shining water shut in by sliding haze when she came out again. Appleby glanced at the froth that swirled past the gunwale, and turned to Harper.

"She is travelling fast, and we should be clear of the land by sunrise," he said.

Harper glanced up at the moon. "If it had been darker it would have suited me just as well," he said. "The trouble is that if a gunboat came along you wouldn't see her in the mist."

"Still, that should cut both ways."

Harper shook his head. "It's not easy to make a boat out until you're close up with her, but you can see a steamer quite a long way off," he said.

Appleby said nothing further for a while, and the boat's gunwale became level with the froth that splashed about it, for the breeze freshened as they drew out from the land. A thin wisp of haze had stretched across the moon and dimmed the silvery light, but there was a wide strip of faintly shining water in front of them when he fancied he caught a faint, pulsating sound.

"You hear it?" he said.

"Oh yes," said Harper dryly. "It's a steamer's engines. I kind of fancy she's outside of us."

They strained their ears to listen, but it is difficult to locate a sound among belts of haze, and when at last the measured throbbing was unpleasantly distinct Harper held up his hand.

"They're shoving her along, and she's not far away, but that's 'bout all I know," he said. "Get forward, and drop the latine."

Appleby did as he was bidden, and stood staring forward in the bows when the sail came down. The boat lay plunging on the heave that was streaked with flecks of froth, and there was a long trail of sliding haze not far away from them. From out of it came the sound of water parting under iron bows. Then two tall spars that swung a little rose out of the vapor, and next moment a blur of shadowy hull grew into visibility. It lengthened rapidly, a smear of smoke streamed across the sea, but there was no blink of light beneath it, and with the froth piled up at her bows the vessel came down upon them, portentous in her blackness and silence.

"A gunboat sure!" said Harper. "Lie down."

Appleby crouched at the foot of the mast with straining eyes. He could see the long black strip of hull swing with the heave until all the deck, which caught a flash of the dim moonlight, was visible. Then it swung back with slanted spars and funnel, and there was a white frothing about the tip of the lifted screw. It was evident that the gunboat would pass them unpleasantly close, and already the black shape of the man upon her forecastle was discernible against the sky, while hazy figures upon her slanting bridge grew into sharper form, and it seemed to Appleby that they could scarcely escape observation. Still, a boat lying low on the dusky water is difficult to see, and while he held his breath the war vessel drew abreast of them.

The roar of flung-up water and the pounding of engines throbbed about him, he could see a man upon the inclined deck clutch at something as she rolled, and now the funnel was level with him and a strip of streaming plates was lifted from the brine. It swept by, there was a swirl and a thudding beneath the lifted stern, and then the steamer grew dimmer while the boat lurched on the wake of throbbing screw.

"Now," said Harper with a little gasp, "when you can get the latine up we'll go on again."

It cost Appleby an effort to hoist the thrashing sail, but when it was set and the sheet hauled aft Harper laughed softly as the boat swung away buoyantly with her gunwales dipping in the foam.

"We'll be in the steamboat track by sun-up, and there'll be no wind then," he said. "Considering that each time you see a trail of smoke you may have to pull two or three miles, it would be kind of sensible to sleep when you can."

Appleby lay down on the wet floorings with an old sail over him, and for a time felt the swift swing of the little craft, and heard the gurgling swirl of brine, for the breeze she sped before was now breaking the heave into splashing seas. Then he became oblivious to everything save when a little shower of spray blew into his face. At last he fancied that Harper was trying to stir him with his foot, and blinked at him vacantly, until Harper kicked him harder.

"Get up!" he said.

There was a tone in his voice which roused Appleby suddenly, and standing up he stared about him.

"Another gunboat?" he said.

"Look!" said Harper, pointing with his hand. "It can't do much good, but you may as well get the sail off her."

Appleby swung round, and saw that the moon was dim and low, though a faint light still shone down upon the white-flecked sea. Then he made out a black smear that moved across it amidst a turmoil of foam and a haze of smoke. It grew larger while he watched it, and there was a red streak of flame from one of the two funnels that took shape rapidly, but he could see no masts or hull, and the speed with which the smoke haze was coming on appeared incredible. Then he sprang forward, and lowered the latine into the boat.

"A big torpedo boat, or a destroyer," said Harper. "She'll pass 'bout quarter of a mile off, and we're going to make nothing by running away from her. It's just a question whether they see us or not."

The dim shape had grown clearer while he spoke, and a strip of something black appeared between the smoke cloud and the piled-up froth. Then a slender whip of mast stood out against the sky, and from the crown of the after funnel there poured another gush of flame. The craft was almost level with them now, but it was evident that in another minute or two she would have passed and be fading again, and Appleby felt his heart throb painfully as he watched her. Then the white wash about her seemed to swirl higher, funnels and mast slanted sharply, and the half- seen hull shortened. Appleby looked at Harper, who made a little gesture of resignation.

"Yes," he said. "They've seen us. She's coming round."

A moment later a whistle rang out, and while Appleby sat down grim in face the white wave that frothed about the stranger's hull grew less noticeable. The smoke cloud also sank a little, and in a minute or two more a strip of lean black hull slid smoothly past them. Then he gasped as a voice came down across the waters.

"Boat ahoy? Get your oars out, and pull up alongside," it said.

They had the balanced sweeps out in a moment, and pulled with a will, while when they reached the craft that lay waiting them an officer stood by an opening in her rail. He spoke to them in Castilian, but Harper laughed, for he had recognized his uniform.

"I've no use for that talk," he said. "Get your ladder over!"

It was done, and in another moment he and Appleby stood on the torpedo boat's deck, where a couple of officers stared at them.

"Since you're not Cubans, where were you going in that boat?" said one.

"I guess you'd better take us right along to your commander," said Harper. "Aren't you going to shake hands with a countryman, anyway?"

The officer laughed. "I'll wait," he said dryly, "until I've heard what you have to say. Didn't you make your boat fast before you left her?"

"No, sir," said Harper. "We have no more use for her. We're coming along with you."

"Well, I guess we can pick her up again if that doesn't suit our commander," said the officer.

He led them aft to a little cabin, and left them there until a young officer came in. He sat down on the opposite side of the little table and looked at them.

"You haven't the appearance of Cubans, in spite of your clothes," he said. "Now, I'll ask you for a straight tale. What brought you off the land in a boat of that kind?"

"A wish to get as far away from Cuba by sunrise as we could," said Appleby.

"What did you want to get out of Cuba for?"

"Is there any special reason why I should tell you?" asked Appleby, who was a trifle nettled.

"It seems to me there is. Anyway, back you go into your boat unless you satisfy me."

Appleby looked at the man a moment, and was pleasantly impressed, in spite of the abruptness of his manner. He had a quiet bronzed face and steady eyes, while the faint ring of command in his voice did not seem out of keeping with them.

"Then if you will listen for a minute or two I will try to tell you," he said.

"Quick as you can!"

Appleby spoke rapidly, disregarding Harper, who seemed anxious to tell the story too, and the commander nodded.

"Who is the American that employed you?" he said.

"Cyrus P. Harding."

The commander, who started, cast a swift glance at him, and then rising abruptly signed to a man at the door.

"Tell Lieutenant Stalker he may go ahead, as we were steering, full speed," he said.

The man went away, and in another moment or two the frail hull quivered until the deck beams rattled above them. Then while the splash of flung- off water swelled into a deep pulsating sound it seemed to leap onward under them, and the commander sat down again, looking at Appleby with a curious little smile in his eyes.

"I haven't asked your name yet, and scarcely think it's necessary," he said. "So far as my duty permits, you can count upon my doing everything I can to meet your wishes, Mr. Appleby."

Appleby stared at him. "I appreciate your offer, though I don't quite understand it yet," he said.

"Well," said the commander with a pleasant laugh, "my name is Julian Savine, and I have been hoping that I should come across you for a long while. It is quite likely you have heard Miss Harding mention me."

Appleby felt the blood creep into his face, and recognized that this was the last thing he could have wished for, but he met Savine's gaze steadily.

"I have," he said slowly. "I fancy Miss Harding has shown herself a good friend to me."

Savine stretched out a brown hand. "Well," he said, "I hope you will also count me in. And now, if you will excuse me, I have something to tell my lieutenant. In the meanwhile I'll send the steward along."

He went out, and Harper grinned at Appleby. "That," he said reflectively, "is the kind of man we raise in my country. He has heard about the night you took her in. The question is how much did Miss Harding know or think fit to tell him?"

"Yes," said Appleby grimly, "it is just that point which is worrying me."

The steward brought them in a meal, but it was a little while before Savine appeared again. He opened a box of cigars, and though he said nothing that seemed to indicate that Harper's company was not altogether necessary the latter rose.

"I guess I'll go out and see how she's getting along," he said.

Then there was a little silence, until Appleby glanced at the commander.

"I have been thinking hard during the last half-hour, and I am now going to tell you exactly what happened on the night I met Miss Harding in Santa Marta," he said. "I scarcely think you have heard it in quite the same shape before, and I was not sure that it would have been altogether advisable a little while ago."

"I don't know that it is necessary. Still, you might go on."

Appleby told his story with almost brutal frankness, and then looked the commander in the eyes.

"If you have the slightest doubt on any point you may never have such an opportunity of getting rid of it again," he said.

Savine smiled a little, though there was the faintest tinge of darker color in his bronzed cheek.

"I never had any, and now there is nothing I could do which would quite wipe out the obligation I feel I am under to you," he said.

He stopped with a curious little gleam in his eyes, and Appleby felt that he had made another friend who would not fail him. Then he turned the conversation, and Savine told him that he was engaged on special service on the Cuban coast when he saw the boat and decided to intercept her in the hope of acquiring information. Hostilities were certain, but he hoped to put his guests on board a steamer he expected to fall in with on the morrow.

XXXIII -- VIOLET REGAINS HER LIBERTY

THE light was fading when Violet Wayne lay in a low chair by the fire in Hester Earle's drawing-room. A bitter wind wailed dolefully outside among the swaying trees, and the room was growing dusky, but now and then a flickering blaze from the hearth forced up the girl's face out of the shadow. It was, so Hester who sat opposite her fancied, curiously weary, and there was a suggestive listlessness in her attitude. She had, though few of those who met her would have suspected it, been living under a constant strain during the last two or three months, and it was a relief to feel that for the time at least she could relax her efforts to preserve her customary serenity. Hester evidently understood this, for she was a young woman of discernment, and the two were close friends.

"I am glad you have asked the Cochrane girls to stay with you, Violet," she said. "I think you need stirring up, and though there is not a great deal in Lily Cochrane or her sister, nobody could accuse them of undue quietness. They are coming?"

"I believe so, but Lily seemed uncertain whether she could get away, and was to telegraph us to-night. Still, I almost fancy I would rather be without them. There are times when one scarcely feels equal to entertaining anybody."

Hester nodded sympathetically. "Of course, but it is in just such cases the effort is most likely to prove beneficial," she said. "Have you had any word from Tony since he left?"

"Two or three lines written in pencil from Havana. He was going into the country to find Mr. Appleby."

Hester gazed thoughtfully at the fire for awhile, and then suddenly fixed her eyes upon her companion's face.

"We have been friends since the time we wore short frocks, and that implies a good deal," she said. "Now, it is a little more difficult to deceive me than the rest--and I have been concerned about you lately. I wonder if I dare ask you if you have quite forgiven Tony?"

"I don't know"; and Violet's voice was a trifle strained. "I feel that I should--but it is difficult, and I can't convince myself. It may be a little easier by and by."

Hester made a little sympathetic gesture, though she was almost astonished, for it was seldom that Violet Wayne revealed her feelings.

"Still, we understood that you would marry him when he came back," she said.

Her companion sat still for almost a minute, while the flickering firelight showed the pain in her face. Ever since the shock of Nettie Harding's disclosure had passed she had grappled with the question Hester had suggested, and striven to reconcile herself to the answer. Tony had been suddenly revealed to her as he was, and the love she had once cherished had not survived her belief in him, but there was in her a depth of almost maternal tenderness and compassion which few suspected, and the man's feebleness appealed to it. She knew how he clung to her, and that if she cast him off he would inevitably sink. There was a trace of contempt in her compassion as she realized it, and yet she had been fond of him, and he had many lovable qualities. She had also made him a promise, and his ring was still upon her hand, while she reflected with a tinge of bitterness that it is not wise to expect too much, and that men of stainless character were doubtless singularly scarce. The joy of life had vanished, but she felt that Tony's fate was in her hands, and the duty, at least, remained.

"Yes," she said very slowly. "If he still wishes it when he comes back."

Hester nodded gravely. "I think you are right," she said. "Tony will wipe the blunder out when he has you to prompt him, but I think he would go to pieces if you sent him away. Of course, it is not everybody who would feel it--but it is--a responsibility. You can, you see, make whatever you wish of him."

"One would esteem a man with the qualities which make that easy?" said Violet, with a little weary smile.

"They might occasionally prove convenient in one's husband," said Hester, with a faint twinkle in her eyes.

Her companion seemed to shiver. "I wonder what Tony is doing now," she said. "It is, at least, hot and bright in Cuba, and if I had only known when he was coming back we would have gone away to the Riviera." Then she straightened herself a little. "Isn't it time your father arrived?"

Hester smiled, and wondered if Violet was already sorry that she had unbent so far.

"He should be here at any minute unless the train is late," she said, and, feeling that her companion would prefer it, plunged into a discussion of Northrop affairs.

While she made the most of each triviality there was a rattle of wheels outside, and Mr. Earle came in. He shook hands with Violet, and stood a moment or two by the fire.

"I had expected to find your mother here," he said.

"It was a bitter afternoon, and I persuaded her to stay at home."

The man took a pink envelope out of his pocket, and handed it her.

"I passed the post-office lad walking his bicycle over a very soft piece of road, and pulled up to ask if he had anything for me," he said. "When I found he had only a telegram for your mother I offered to bring it on, and he seemed quite willing to let me. The vicar hasn't turned up yet, Hester?"

"No," said Hester. "I am expecting him."

Earle went out, and Hester proceeded with the account of a recent dance which she had been engaged in when he came in, while Violet turned over the telegram.

"It will be from Lily Cochrane to tell us she is coming, and I think I'll open it," she said.

Hester nodded. "Ada Whittingham in green--there are people who really have no sense of fitness," she said. "The effect was positively startling."

Violet tore open the envelope, and gasped, while the words she read grew blurred before her eyes. For a moment or two she could scarcely grasp their meaning, and sat staring at the message, and trying vainly to read it again. The branch of a trailer rose rapped upon the window as it swayed in the moaning wind, and Hester ran on.

"Lottie had out her diamonds, the whole of them--somewhat defective taste considering the character of the affair. Mrs. Pechereau was there with Muriel in a black gown I've seen already--one would never fancy she was that girl's mother."

Violet closed her fingers tight upon the telegram, for her companion's prolixity was growing unendurable, and she wanted quietness to realize what had befallen her. The firelight had died away, and, now her senses were rallying, she could not read the message. Then a faint flicker sprang up again, and Hester, glancing round, saw the tension in her face.

"You're not listening," she said. "Why, what is the matter? Isn't Lily coming?"

Violet rose up with a curious slow movement, and her face showed almost as pallid as the white marble of the mantle she leaned against. Then a little quiver ran through her, and the fingers of one hand trembled upon the stone.

"I don't know," she said. "Let me be quiet for a moment, Hester!"

Hester rose, and laid a hand restrainingly upon her arm. "Can't you tell me? What has gone wrong?"

Violet let the telegram fall, and turned a cold, still face towards her.

"Tony is dead," she said, and sank back, shivering, into her chair.

"Oh," said Hester, "I am so sorry!"

The words were sincere enough, but just then the conventionality of them appeared incongruous, and when Violet made no answer Hester picked up the telegram and held it near the fire.

"Anthony Palliser killed in action, Santa Marta, Cuba. Particulars personally. Sailing New York Saturday, Bernard Appleby," she read.

Then for the space of minutes there was silence in the room save for the wail of the bitter wind outside, and Violet lay staring at the fire with vacant eyes. Hester found it becoming unendurable, and touched her companion gently.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she said.

"No," said Violet, with a visible effort as she rose. "I think I will go home. You will tell your father and the vicar, Hester. I can get my hat and wraps myself. I don't wish you to come with me."

She straightened herself slowly and passed out of the room, while when she entered it again dressed for the drive Mr. Earle laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"You have our sincere sympathy, but I can't help fancying that it is not altogether hopeless yet," he said.

The girl looked up at him with incredulity in her eyes. "You must know it is. What do you mean?" she said.

"Well," said Earle, with a glance at the vicar, who had come in and heard the news, "it is a little difficult to make clear. Still, you see, my dear, that men who do not answer to the roll after a battle now and then turn up again. A blunder may have been made in the confusion, while we do not after all know anything very much to the credit of Mr. Appleby. I would suggest that your mother ask lawyer Craythorne to meet him. Men are apt to believe what they wish to now and then."

"I don't in the least understand you."

Earle appeared disconcerted. "If this distressful news were true Appleby would be the gainer."

Once more the girl looked up with a chilling serenity that unpleasantly affected him.

"There is no hope left," she said. "The man who sent the message made absolutely certain or he would never have written it."

Earle glanced at the vicar, who nodded gravely.

"I wish I had not to admit it, but I feel that Violet is right," he said. "Would you like me to drive over with you, my dear?"

"No," said the girl quietly. "I would much sooner be alone."

She passed out from among them, and Earle turned to the vicar again.

"It does not sound charitable, and I fancy you and Hester know rather more about the affair than I do, but I can't help believing that Tony could not have done Violet a greater kindness," he said. "I am, however, a trifle astonished that you seem to participate in the curious belief she evidently has in Appleby. You can't be well acquainted with him, and he is taking a serious risk in coming here since there is still a warrant out for him."

The vicar smiled. "I have heard a little about him, and I scarcely think he would let the fact you mention stop him carrying out what he felt was his duty."

The vicar's faith was warranted, for while Violet Wayne was driven home that evening with her thoughts in a whirl, and a remorseful tenderness which overlooked the dead man's shortcomings bringing a mist to her eyes, Appleby sat under the electric lights in a room of a great New York building. He felt the pulsations of a vast activity about him, for the thick doors and maple partitions could not shut out the whir of the elevators, tinkle of telephone bells, murmur of voices, and patter of hasty feet, though his eyes were on the agreement bond he was attaching his name to.

Harding, who sat opposite him, smiled as he laid down the pen.

"Now I guess that's all fixed up, and I don't think I'm going to be sorry I took you into the business," he said. "You'll draw 'most enough already to live out on the Hudson if it pleases you, and, so far as I can figure, we'll roll in money once we get the sugar trade going again. You'll go right back and straighten up when we've whipped the Spaniards out of Cuba."

"I'm afraid I have scarcely deserved all you have offered me, sir," said Appleby, whose fingers trembled a little as he took up the document. "Nobody could have anticipated this result when I came across you on board the 'Aurania.'"

Harding rose, and opening a cupboard took out a bottle and two glasses, which he filled to the brim.

"I've no great use for this kind of thing in business hours as a rule, but the occasion warrants it, and I believe only Austrian princes and their ministers drink that wine," he said. "Well, here's my partner's prosperity!"

They touched glasses, and a flush crept to Appleby's forehead, while there was a little kindly gleam in Harding's eyes.

"I'm grateful, sir," said Appleby, and stopped abruptly.

Harding laughed. "Now, don't worry," he said. "I've no use for speeches, and am going to get my money out of you. This is a business deal, and there's something else to go into. You have quite fixed to sail in the 'Cunarder' on Saturday?"

"Yes. Still, I should not be much more than three weeks away."

"Well," said Harding a trifle dryly, "I don't quite know. I think Nettie told me there was a warrant out for you, and I believe it's quite difficult to get round the police in your country."

"I must take my chances. There is a woman in England that Tony Palliser was to have married. He expected me to go."

Harding looked at him curiously. "Oh, yes," he said.

"Nettie told me about her. Well, I guess if you feel that way I have got to let you go, and I don't quite know I'm sorry you have these notions. They're a kind of warranty, and it wasn't altogether because you've got in you the snap and grit that makes a man who can handle big affairs I made you my partner. Still, time's getting on, and Nettie is expecting us at Glenwood."

He summoned two clerks, who attested the agreement, and in another ten minutes they were waiting for the elevator, while late that night Appleby contrived to find Nettie Harding, who had been very gracious to him, alone. She was standing by the marble hearth in the great drawing- room where snapping logs of scented wood diffused a warmth and brightness which would, however, scarcely have kept the frost out but for the big furnace in the basement.

"What happened to-day has your approbation?" he said.

Nettie smiled. "Now, I think that is quite unnecessary when you know it has," she said.

"Perhaps it is. I can't help fancying you were not greatly astonished at your father's decision."

"Still," said the girl quietly, "I don't think I could coax Cyrus P. Harding into making a bad bargain. Besides, if I had a finger in it, is it more than any one would have expected?"

"I don't quite understand."

"No?" and Nettie smiled incredulously. "Well, you picked me up one night when I might have gone out over the rail on the 'Aurania.'"

"I don't think you could have managed it had you tried."

Nettie stood silent a moment, and then a little flush crept into her face, as she glanced down at the diamonds on her white wrists, and her long trailing dress. It was, Appleby fancied, of as costly fabric as the looms in Europe could produce.

"Well," she said with a curious little sparkle in her eyes, "there was another night I met you when I wasn't got up like this, and you were dressed in rags. Still, I knew that I could trust you. Do you believe that I should have been here, with everything that a woman could wish for, now, if I had not had that confidence?"

Appleby turned his eyes away, for certain fancies which had once or twice troubled him became certainties, and he recognized that the regard the girl had for him alone warranted the almost daring speech.

"I really don't remember very much about the night in question," he said. "Nobody in my place could. I was wounded slightly and almost dazed, you see."

Nettie smiled curiously. "That is, of course, just what one would have expected from you."

Appleby showed a faint trace of embarrassment. "I have been waiting most of the night to ask you a question," he said. "What did you say to Tony Palliser and Miss Wayne about me in England?"

"You will never find out--unless she tells you."

"That is most unlikely."

Nettie smiled in a curious fashion, and then looked him in the eyes.

"Well," she said reflectively, "I don't quite know. You have already got more than you ever expected, Mr. Appleby. Anyway, it is getting late, and you will excuse me now."

She moved away, and then, turning, stood smiling at him a moment by the door.

"Can't you tell me what you mean?" said Appleby, moving towards her with a little flush of color in his cheeks.

"You are going to England on Saturday," said Nettie, and slipped out of the door.

XXXIV -- THE RIGHT MAN

IT was on the Saturday morning the "Cunarder's" passengers disembarked at Liverpool, and within an hour of the time the answer to the telegrams he despatched came to hand Appleby had started for Darsley. It was, however, late in the afternoon when he arrived there, and proceeded straight to Craythorne's office. The clerk's manner made it evident that he was expected, but he was a trifle astonished to find two other men beside the lawyer waiting him when he was shown into a lighted room.

Craythorne closed a little sliding window before he shook hands with him, and then turned to the others.

"This is Colonel Melton, appointed joint trustee with me by the will Anthony Palliser made the night he left for Cuba," he said. "I think you have met Mr. Earle. He came here with the sanction of Colonel Melton, and Esmond Palliser, on behalf of Miss Wayne, in case anything you have to tell us concerns her. He will, of course, withdraw if you wish it, though both he and Colonel Melton have long been confidential friends of the Palliser family."

Appleby greeted the two men, and then sat down with a little gleam in his eyes when Craythorne pointed to a chair.

"I should like to tell you that I left my business in New York and came here against my partner's wishes because I felt it was a duty I owed Miss Wayne and my late comrade's relatives," he said. "That was my only motive, and it seems to me desirable that you should realize it."

"You apparently do not know that you are a legatee under Anthony Palliser's will," said Craythorne.

"I was not even aware that he had made one, though he told me that he had made over Dane Cop to me."

Colonel Melton looked at Earle, and Craythorne, who took a document from a drawer, passed it to Appleby.

"Then you will be astonished to hear that the personal estate scheduled here was bequeathed to you?"

"I certainly am. I am also not sure that Tony had exactly the right to leave this property to me. Traditionally, and, I think, ethically, it belongs to the estate, and should revert to Esmond Palliser."

Colonel Melton appeared a trifle astonished, but Craythorne smiled dryly. "That is also Esmond Palliser's opinion, and he informed me that he intends to act upon it."

"He is, of course, at liberty"; and Appleby showed a trace of impatience. "His intentions do not, however, in the least concern me. Now, gentlemen, I have come here to tell you of my comrade's death, and I have another appointment to keep this evening."

Melton glanced at Craythorne, who nodded. "We will ask you to be as explicit as you can," he said.

Appleby spoke for rather more than ten minutes, and when he came to the assault upon Santa Marta it was evident that Colonel Melton was listening with eager interest. He turned to Appleby abruptly with a trace of embarrassment.

"I knew your father, Mr. Appleby," he said. "In fact, I once offended Godfrey Palliser by expressing my opinion of the fashion in which he treated him, and now I can only hope you will excuse the attitude I thought necessary when you came in. You did a thing not many drilled troops would have accomplished. A frontal attack in daylight, with a coverless strip to cross! They would have swept you out of existence with shrapnel."

"They hadn't any"; and Appleby laughed.

"Still, they had two quick-firers, and your attack was directed at one narrow entrance," said Melton. "Now--"

Craythorne raised his hand. "I fancy it would be advisable to discuss these points later on," he said. "What we are immediately concerned with is the proof of Anthony Palliser's death."

"Precisely!" said Earle.

Melton flashed an angry glance at the lawyer, and Appleby's face became a trifle grim.

"I have here the depositions of two men who saw him buried attested by a Spanish notary, and am willing to make another now before a commissioner for oaths," he said. "My partner in New York will also testify to Tony's connection with the Sin Verguenza."

"And Miss Wayne, that he told her he was leaving for Cuba to find Mr. Appleby, if Craythorne is unwilling," said Melton.

Craythorne smiled and opened the little window. "Ask Mr. Gordon, the notary, to come here at once," he said.

"May we ask your partner's name?" said Earle.

"Cyrus P. Harding, New York," said Appleby.

Earle appeared astonished, and almost disconcerted. "I think that fact is sufficiently convincing," he said. "I am sure you will understand that it was necessary for us to proceed circumspectly, Mr. Appleby."

Again Craythorne smiled curiously. "I think Mr. Appleby understands the obligation placed on a trustee. In that respect alone our attitude was necessary."

Appleby flushed a trifle. "Still," he said, "I am glad you sent for a notary."

"Well," said Craythorne. "Dane Cop was not bequeathed to you in the event of his death by Anthony Palliser, but made over to you before he left for Cuba. It is yours absolutely, but in regard to the legacy it will be necessary to prove the will, and Esmond Palliser requested me to inform you that he purposed to contest your claim. I should suggest that you instruct a lawyer to confer with me."

"It will not be necessary, since I waive any right I may have. I do not intend to live in England, but to go back to New York almost immediately."

There was a murmur of astonishment, and Melton said, "I think that is unreasonably generous."

"No," said Appleby. "I scarcely fancy it is. Dane Cop is mine, and I shall hold on to it, but it would be difficult to get anything worth while out of the other property, which is after all of no great value, without personal supervision, and you may remember that there is still a warrant out for my apprehension."

Melton looked at his companions, and it was evident that they concurred with Craythorne when he said, "In the event of a trial you could clear yourself."

"Yes," said Appleby quietly, "I believe I could, but I have reasons for deciding not to run any risk of being compelled to do so. My partner, who is acquainted with them, does not consider it necessary, and it is more than probable that the police have no longer any expectations of tracing me."

"You understand what you are purposing to do?" said Craythorne.

"It is, of course, quite clear to me. Still, I intend to remain in America."

There was a curious silence, and then Melton, moving forward, shook hands with Appleby.

"I have seldom heard of a finer thing than your decision, though after what I had seen of your father's life I should have expected it from you," he said. "With all respect to the Pallisers, none of them ever made so good a match as the one who married the ranker. While you remain at Northrop you will stay with me."

Earle smiled a little. "I must tell you, Mr. Appleby, that we understand your reasons--and appreciate them. Colonel Melton has, however, anticipated my intentions of offering you hospitality."

"You have evidently heard more than I hoped you would have done," said Appleby quietly.

"No," said Melton. "I, at least, know nothing, but I surmise a good deal. If I had not been your father's friend I should, however, never have grasped your motive."

Then the notary was shown in, and Earle rose. "We will wait in the other room," he said. "Mr. Appleby will no doubt have affairs to talk over with Craythorne."

It was half an hour later when Appleby came out, and found them waiting still. "I understand you are going on to see Miss Wayne, and I should be glad to drive you over," said Melton. "Then as you can't get back here to-night you will have to decide which of us shall have the pleasure of entertaining you. I don't wish to be unfair to Earle, but I think I am entitled to a preference."

Appleby felt curiously grateful to the gray-haired officer, but he smiled a little.

"I wonder if you realize what you are taking upon yourself, sir?" he said.

"If everybody at Northrop heard you were staying with me I should be especially pleased," said Melton gravely.

"Still, in case you did not consider that convenient we will contrive to arrange it differently."

Appleby went with him, and an hour or two later was shown into Mrs. Wayne's drawing-room. He waited a little, with unpleasant misgivings, and his heart beating a trifle more rapidly than usual, and then felt a slight relief when Violet and her mother came in. The girl was dressed in a long robe of black that emphasized her pallor, but Appleby was reassured when he noticed her quiet composure.

"I felt that you would wish to see me, though I am afraid I can only cause you distress," he said.

Mrs. Wayne pointed to a chair. "You have come a long way," she said. "We appreciate the consideration for us that brought you."

"I had business with Mr. Craythorne," said Appleby, with a trace of embarrassment.

Then there was a silence he felt horribly unpleasant until Violet Wayne turned her eyes upon him.

"Will you tell us--everything--from the time you met Tony in Cuba? There is so much we wish to know," she said quietly.

Appleby, who wished that the obligation had not been laid on him, commenced abruptly in disjointed sentences, but the memories crowded upon him as he proceeded, and he became oblivious of everything but the necessity of making the most of Tony's part in them. The scenes he pictured became almost more real to him than when they were happening. He was once more in Cuba, and made his listeners see the sun-scorched hacienda, the long column crawling in the moonlight down the dim white road, the waves of dusky cane, and the glaring streets of Santa Marta. He felt they realized with him the tension of the silence until the rifles flashed, the flitting shadow that brushed through the cane, the tramp of weary feet, and the exultant shouts of the Sin Verguenza.

In the meanwhile the color appeared and faded in the girl's face, while now and then her lips would tremble and again set tight. Then as he came to the last struggle on the veranda he saw a glow in her eyes, and felt her intent gaze draw the picture out of him. At last she sank back in her chair with a little gasp, and Appleby, who knew he had never spoken in that fashion before, felt suddenly nerveless and embarrassed. For almost a minute he sat staring vacantly in front of him, and then straightened himself with a little abrupt movement.

"I am afraid I have distressed you--but it seemed due to Tony that I should tell you this," he said.

Violet slowly raised her head, and looked at him with hazy eyes. "I think we shall always be grateful--and you must have felt it--you were his friend," she said. "I can't ask the questions I wish to know--you will come back again?"

Appleby rose, and Mrs. Wayne, who went out with him, turned to him in the hall.

"Are you staying any time at Darsley, Mr. Appleby?" she said. "We shall be pleased to see you."

"It was good of you to permit me to come once, madame," said Appleby. "It will be a week, at least, before I can get away, but I think a little reflection will convince you that it would be better if I did not come here again."

Mrs. Wayne looked at him quietly. "There is no reason why you should not. You will, of course, understand that Violet told me Miss Harding's story."

Appleby did not remember what he answered, but he drove away with a curious feeling of content, and Mrs. Wayne went back to the room where her daughter sat very still in her chair. Stooping down she kissed her gently.

"Did it hurt very much, Violet?" she said.

The girl seemed to shiver. "No," she said in a strained voice. "Not so much as I expected--in the way you mean. It was a splendid reparation Tony made."

Mrs. Wayne laid her hand caressingly on her daughter's hair. "You have told me very little, Violet--and people with your reserve find their troubles the harder to bear."

For a moment or two the girl gazed at the fire. "Mother. I must talk at last. I have almost a horror of myself," she said. "I was wickedly hard to Tony when Nettie Harding told me, and I felt very bitter against him when he went away. I could not overcome the feeling, though I tried--and now when I should ask it of him--he cannot forgive me."

Mrs. Wayne did not appear altogether astonished. "And yet I think he understood that you would marry him when he came back."

"I made him an implied promise--and I would have kept it. I am glad I did so now."

"It would have been difficult? Still, you loved him once."

Violet turned her eyes away, and once more seemed to shiver. "No," she said with a little quaver in her voice. "I seem to have realized since he went away that I never did. Still, until Nettie Harding told me, I fancied I did--and I believed in him. He was so generous, and light- hearted--and, though I am wickedly exacting, I am not hard all through. I can't shake off the horror I feel because I am not more sorry now."

Mrs. Wayne bent down and kissed her again. "My dear, I do not think the right man would find you hard," she said. "Still, I am afraid you will die single. You expect too much."

Appleby, who saw Violet and her mother twice before the week was out, found that the negotiations for an extension of building sites and water rights at Dane Cop which Craythorne had undertaken would delay him another week. The lawyer had urged him to wait in London, and pointed out the risk of recognition or an encounter with Sergeant Stitt; but Colonel Melton lived at a distance of several miles from Northrop, and Appleby for no very apparent reason preferred that vicinity. Then when the affair was decided, and there was nothing to delay his sailing for New York, he set out on foot on a farewell visit to Mrs. Wayne's house, and, as it happened, did not find her or her daughter in. He went on to Low Wood, and discovering that Hester Earle half expected Violet spent an hour there in fierce impatience. The afternoon was rapidly wearing through, and as he had taken his passage by the "Cunarder" to sail from Liverpool on the following day it was essential that he should leave Darsley that night.

Still, Violet did not come, and he was proceeding ruefully towards Colonel Melton's when he overtook her walking home. The light was growing dim, but he almost fancied that she started when she saw him. Her voice was, however, as quiet and low as usual when she greeted him.

"I am very glad I met you, because I could not find you at home, and I am going away to-night," he said.

There was the slightest trace of astonishment and concern in the girl's eyes. "Then you will come back with me," she said.

"I'm afraid I can't," said Appleby, with a glance at his watch. "Still, with your permission, I will walk a little of the way with you."

They went on together, and it was not because they desired it that Tony Palliser held a leading place in their thoughts, and twice at least Appleby mentioned him. Then the girl said slowly, "I have heard from Mr. Earle that you do not mean to clear yourself. That is very generous but-- one must mention it--is it wise?"

Appleby showed a trace of disconcertion. "I do not know why he told you, but as I shall, I think, spend most of my life in America it could do me little good to vindicate myself," he said. "Only a few people know the truth, and they will keep my confidence, while the rest would not believe it. Tony made reparation for the wrong he did me, and if he had not risked the cazador's bayonet I do not think I should be here now."

"Still, did it never occur to you that you might marry?"

Appleby stopped without intending it, and both stood still. The saffron and green of the sunset was shining low down between the bare branches of a copse close by, and there was still a little light in the sky, and the man, lifting his eyes, looked at his companion. It was evident that she had spoken without reflection and was sorry for it, for he could see a tinge of color in her face, but it was the vague apprehension in her eyes that seized his attention. For a moment he stood silent, and felt his heart beating. Then an impulse which rose from the depth of his nature swept restraint away.

"Yes," he said almost grimly. "Still, that may never happen. I have too great aspirations, you see--and if it ever came about the woman would understand my motives."

"Then you have seen her--she is not a fancy?"

Violet had not meant to say this, but the words seemed forced on her, and it was almost with a sense of confusion she realized that they had escaped her. Still, she stood looking at the man quietly, and saw the little quiver that ran through him. Then it was with a strenuous effort she preserved her tranquillity, for she knew.

"Yes," he said in a strained voice, "I have seen her. Her face was with me on many a weary march in Cuba--though I tried to drive it away."

The color was a trifle more evident in the girl's cheeks. "You found it difficult? But would not the stain of an offence you did not commit prove an insuperable barrier?"

"No," said Appleby with a quietness that cost him an effort, "I do not think it would. The story would not be known in America."

There was silence for a space, and while both stood very still the truth was plain between them. Then it was the girl who spoke.

"You have great faith," she said.

Appleby made a little forceful gesture. "It is warranted," he said. "I am going away to-morrow. You know why it is necessary--but if I come back again will you listen to what I shall have to tell you?"

Violet Wayne regarded him with eyes that shone softly.

"Yes," she said very quietly.

Then with a grasp of her hand Appleby turned away, and Violet went on slowly down the dusky lane.

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistencies in application of accents and hyphenation have been preserved as in the original.]