CHAPTER XLV.

THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT.

“Whoa, Rozinante! If thou art as weary of this road as I, good beast, a rest will not go against thy grain, or grass. What say you to a halt of half an hour within the shade of this royal palm?”

It is the afternoon of the third day since Ashley’s return to Santiago, and, having parted with Don Carlos and the escorting party on the edge of Santos, this is the first opportunity Jack has had to ride out to La Quinta de Quesada and pay his respects to Don Manuel’s beautiful daughter; for the last three days have been busy ones for the newspaper man. Truenos has arrived with his fleet from Havana, and the next week promises to be big with the fate of Cuba Libre.

Ashley left Santiago an hour ago, and at the rate he has been traveling—the heat precludes a gait faster than a moderate amble—he judges that he has covered three of the four miles to Santos.

Hitching the amiable Rozinante, he throws himself upon the turf beneath the foliage-massed branches of the royal palm, and lights a cigar; as he smokes he grows thoughtful. And from rumination he drifts into moralizing, addressing himself to Rozinante.

“Look here, Rozinante; if you have any horse sense that you’re not using you might assist your master to extricate himself from somewhat of a quandary. As you know, I came to Cuba principally on business for my paper, incidentally to trail down a murder mystery and again incidentally to follow a fair face belonging to the beautiful Louise Hathaway. A good many chaps in my place would have fallen hopelessly in love with Miss Hathaway at first sight, but I—well, that is not the cause of my quandary. If it were, I could easily dismiss it with a philosophical ‘there is no accounting for the tastes of most women.’ Ah, no, Rozinante; it is something far more serious; for what I want to ask you, Rozinante, is whether you believe that I, in my old age, have been so indiscreet as to fall in love?”

But Rozinante, being a well-bred equine, declines to poke his nose into young people’s affairs and continues his grass-cropping.

“See how the case stands, Rozinante,” continues Jack, tossing a pebble at his four-footed companion to enforce attention. “On the one hand is the Senorita Juanita de Quesada, the acknowledged Pearl of the Antilles, the adored of all the beaux in Santiago; Juanita, the beautiful, the accomplished, and the only child of the wealthy and elderly Don Manuel de Quesada, who is likely to become the president de facto of this cheerful country if the yellow fever continues to wilt the imported flower of the chivalry of Spain. On the other hand, Rozinante, look at me.”

At this moment Rozinante lifts his head and blinks comically at Ashley, who grins back in the best of humors.

“Oh, I know what you are thinking about, Rozinante. You are saying to yourself: ‘What a presumptuous fellow! But he is just like all Americans.’ Well, you are not far from right, Rozzy. We Americans are a bit fresh. But that is a digression. To return to our subject, which is the always agreeable one of myself. Now, I am not a bad-looking chap. You can see that, Roz, with one eye. And I am fairly bright and all that. But hang it! I haven’t a bank account bigger than three figures, and it will require nerve, my grass-eating friend, to step up to the wealthy Don Quesada and say: ‘Don, old boy, I love your daughter. May I ask your blessing?’ No one ever accused me of lacking in nerve, but have I enough to supply the demand of such an occasion? Of course, if Don Quesada becomes president of the republic of Cuba, and makes me his cabinet-premier, I might buy a sugar plantation and become enormously wealthy. But that, Rozinante, as you are probably aware, is a twenty-to-one shot.

“The most perplexing feature of the whole affair is the fact that I have no good reason to suppose that the dark-eyed Juanita returns in the slightest degree the deep interest which I feel in her personal welfare. I know that she likes me—why shouldn’t she?—but her maidenly reserve I do not seem to be able to successfully penetrate. Again, my equine friend, I am not so certain that she is not hopelessly in love with that effeminate, downy-cheeked, pink-and-white and milk-and-water Don Carlos. And how any woman can—But, pshaw! What is the use in quarreling with the chap? And what is the use of my lounging longer here, talking at an unappreciative audience? Ah, Juanita, if you would but encourage me a bit I would soon solve my perplexity. Just a draught from this spring back in the bushes, Rozinante, and then we will jog along toward Santos.”

As Ashley bends over the spring the grating of carriage wheels sounds in the road.

A volante flashes by at what seems reckless speed; but the Cuban volante cannot upset. Two ladies are in the vehicle, and as they sweep by they glance curiously at the tethered horse. An instant later they are gone, and the young man who emerges hastily from the bushes and looks down the dust-veiled road emits a long, low whistle.

“Juanita! And unless my usually correct vision is deceived, her companion is my old friend Isabel Harding. The dove and the serpent! What the deuce is the meaning of this unholy intimacy? By heaven, Rozinante,” mutters Ashley, as he untethers his horse and vaults into the saddle, “the presence of Isabel Harding at Santos augurs no good to the house of Quesada. Don Manuel must be warned at once.” And kicking Rozinante’s ample sides Ashley forces that amiable beast into a violent canter.

The remainder of the journey is quickly covered, and as Jack reins up at La Quinta de Quesada, Don Manuel comes out and greets him cordially.

“Welcome, Senor Ashley. You are quite a stranger. We had begun to fear that the Spanish press censors had suppressed you.” Then, dropping his voice to a cautious undertone: “Any news from the field?”

“Yes, and rather good news. It is reported in Santiago that your yacht, the Pearl of the Antilles, engaged a Spanish ship of war yesterday, and that El Terredo, after lying alongside, fought a desperate and winning battle on the decks of the enemy’s vessel.”

“Bueno!” Don Quesada’s eyes light up with pleasure. “Ah, Senor Ashley, there is a fighter after your own American heart. If we had a thousand such men we should drive the Spanish into the sea and off our loved island forever.”

“I was passed on the road from Santiago by your daughter,” remarks Jack, as he sits down in front of a brimming glass. “Will she be absent long?”

“For the entire evening. Surely you have not overlooked the grand ball to be given to-night by the new captain-general; a gathering of beauty and of chivalry, to express his supreme contempt of the insignificance of the Cuban cause,” says Don Quesada, with faint irony.

“By Jove! I had overlooked it. The senorita was accompanied by another lady. May I inquire her name?”

“Certainly. She is Mrs. Isabel Harding.”

“I thought so,” mutters Jack. Then:

“What is her business here?”

“Mrs. Harding is my guest,” replies Don Quesada, rather curtly.

“She has been here long?”

“About ten days.”

Jack stares and bites his cigar viciously. “You will pardon my questioning, Don Quesada. Believe me, I am not actuated by idle curiosity.”

The Don bows and Jack leans over and asks, earnestly:

“During Mrs. Harding’s stay here has she learned anything that would lead her to suspect that you are identified with the movement to free Cuba?”

“Naturally. She is one of us,” replies the Don, dryly.

“One of us!” repeats Jack, in astonishment.

“Yes. An American, like yourself; she is an enthusiastic adherent of the Cuban cause and is enabled to do us much service.”

“Then you have trusted her with some secrets?”

“She is at this moment the bearer of important dispatches to Captain Francisco Guerra.”

“Great Scott!” Jack jumps to his feet. Don Quesada rises with him and demands:

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I believe Mrs. Harding to be a spy in the employ of the Spanish government, and that you have signed and given into her hands your own death warrant and the utter ruin of your friends!”

It is a cruel blow. Don Quesada staggers under it and sinks helplessly into his chair. Jack pours him out a draught of wine and then paces to and fro on the veranda, his active mind intent on some path of escape from the desperate situation.

“At what hour does the ball begin?” he demands.

“At eight, I believe,” replies Don Quesada, faintly. He is completely crushed.

“It is now nearly six,” muses Jack, glancing at his watch. “And Guerra? Where was he to receive the dispatches?”

“At the ball.”

“Quick! Pen and paper,” requests Jack. And as Don Quesada hurries away to comply the young man murmurs: “There is only one chance in a thousand, but I must take it.”

When the stationery is brought Jack inquires: “In what form were the dispatches sent?”

“In a plain envelope, such as you have there.”

“Good.” Jack writes hurriedly a few moments, passes what he has written over to Don Quesada, and commanding simply, “Copy that,” busies himself over another letter.

Don Quesada follows the directions without question, but as he writes a little of hope comes into his pale face, and he looks admiringly at Jack, with the remark: “Can you do it?”

“Quien sabe? It’s a desperate chance.” Jack glances approvingly at the letter which the Don has sealed, places it in his pocket and then addresses and seals the second letter, which he gives to the Cuban president.

“You must leave here at once. Where is Don Carlos?”

“He is here.”

“He must accompany you. You must make your way with all haste as secretly as possible to Santiago and go aboard the United States cruiser America. This letter will explain all, and make you welcome. Once under the stars and stripes you will be safe when the storm breaks.”

“But my daughter!” cries the Don, suddenly recollecting the beautiful Pearl of the Antilles. Jack’s eyes grow tender, and, gripping the older man by the hand, he says proudly, as their eyes meet.

“Don Quesada, I love your daughter. I will answer for her safety with my life. And now, I’m off. Remember—to Santiago at once. Adios!”

And without waiting to ascertain how his declaration of love affects the father of his loved one, Jack springs into the saddle and clatters away.