My Hildegarde
Date: 2024-10-06T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure stories; Dime novels; Spouses -- Fiction; Central America -- Fiction

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Title: My Hildegarde

A strange story of adventure in the land of revolutions

Author: St. George Rathborne

Release date: October 6, 2024 [eBook #74522]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith, 1902

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74522

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY HILDEGARDE ***

EAGLE SERIES

NO. 329

MY HILDEGARDE

BY
ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

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327 | — | Was She Wife or Widow? | By Malcolm Bell
326 | — | Parted by Fate | By Laura Jean Libbey
325 | — | The Leighton Homestead (Double Number) | By Mary J. Holmes
324 | — | A Love Match | By Sylvanus Cobb
323 | — | The Little Countess | By S. E. Boggs
322 | — | Mildred | By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
321 | — | Neva’s Three Lovers (Double Number) | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
320 | — | Mynheer Joe | By St. George Rathborne
319 | — | Millbank | By Mary J. Holmes
318 | — | Staunch of Heart | By Charles Garvice
317 | — | Ione | By Laura Jean Libbey
316 | — | Edith Lyle’s Secret (Double Number) | By Mary J. Holmes
315 | — | The Dark Secret | By May Agnes Fleming
314 | — | A Maid’s Fatal Love | By Helen Corwin Pierce
313 | — | A Kinsman’s Sin | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
312 | — | Woven on Fate’s Loom | By Charles Garvice
311 | — | Wedded by Fate (Double Number) | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
310 | — | A Late Repentance | By Mary A. Denison
309 | — | The Heiress of Castle Cliffe | By May Agnes Fleming
308 | — | Lady Ryhope’s Lover | By Emma Garrison Jones
307 | — | The Winning of Isolde | By St. George Rathborne
306 | — | Love’s Golden Rule | By Geraldine Fleming
305 | — | Led by Love | By Charles Garvice
304 | — | Staunch as a Woman | By Charles Garvice.
303 | — | The Queen of the Isle | By May Agnes Fleming.
302 | — | When Man’s Love Fades | By Hazel Wood.
301 | — | The False and the True | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
300 | — | The Spider and the Fly | By Charles Garvice.
299 | — | Little Miss Whirlwind | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
298 | — | Should She Have Left Him? | By William C. Hudson.
297 | — | That Girl from Texas | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
296 | — | The Heir of Vering | By Charles Garvice.
295 | — | A Terrible Secret | By Geraldine Fleming.
294 | — | A Warrior Bold | By St. George Rathborne.
293 | — | For Love of Anne Lambart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
292 | — | For Her Only | By Charles Garvice.
291 | — | A Mysterious Wedding Ring | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
290 | — | A Change of Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
289 | — | Married in Mask | By Mansfield T. Walworth.
288 | — | Sibyl’s Influence | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
287 | — | The Lady of Darracourt | By Charles Garvice.
286 | — | A Debt of Vengeance | By Mrs. E. Burke Collins.
285 | — | Born to Betray | By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
284 | — | Dr. Jack’s Widow | By St. George Rathborne.
283 | — | My Lady Pride | By Charles Garvice.
282 | — | The Forsaken Bride | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
281 | — | For Love Alone | By Wenona Gilman.
280 | — | Love’s Dilemma | By Charles Garvice.
279 | — | Nina’s Peril | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
278 | — | Laura Brayton | By Julia Edwards.
277 | — | Brownie’s Triumph | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
276 | — | So Nearly Lost | By Charles Garvice.
275 | — | Love’s Cruel Whim | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
274 | — | A Romantic Girl | By Evelyn E. Green.
273 | — | At Swords’ Points | By St. George Rathborne.
272 | — | So Fair, So False | By Charles Garvice.
271 | — | With Love’s Laurel Crowned | By W. C. Stiles.
270 | — | Had She Foreseen | By Dora Delmar.
269 | — | Brunette and Blonde | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
268 | — | Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake | By Charles Garvice.
267 | — | Jeanne | By Charles Garvice.
266 | — | The Welfleet Mystery | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
265 | — | First Love is Best | By S. K. Hocking.
264 | — | For Gold or Soul | By Lurana W. Sheldon.
263 | — | An American Nabob | By St. George Rathborne.
262 | — | A Woman’s Faith | By Henry Wallace.
261 | — | A Siren’s Heart | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
260 | — | At a Girl’s Mercy | By Jean Kate Ludlum.
259 | — | By a Golden Cord | By Dora Delmar.
258 | — | An Amazing Marriage | By Mrs. Sumner Hayden.
257 | — | A Martyred Love | By Charles Garvice.
256 | — | Thy Name is Woman | By F. H. Howe.
255 | — | The Little Marplot | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
254 | — | Little Miss Millions | By St. George Rathborne.
253 | — | A Fashionable Marriage | By Mrs. Alex Frazer.
252 | — | A Handsome Sinner | By Dora Delmar.
251 | — | When Love is True | By Mable Collins.
250 | — | A Woman’s Soul | By Charles Garvice.
249 | — | What Love Will Do | By Geraldine Fleming.
248 | — | Jeanne, Countess Du Barry | By H. L. Williams.
247 | — | Within Love’s Portals | By Frank Barrett.
246 | — | True to Herself | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
245 | — | A Modern Marriage | By Clara Lanza.
244 | — | A Hoiden’s Conquest | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
243 | — | His Double Self | By Scott Campbell.
242 | — | A Wounded Heart | By Charles Garvice.
241 | — | Her Love and Trust | By Adeline Sergeant.
240 | — | Saved by the Sword | By St. George Rathborne.
239 | — | Don Cæsar De Bazan | By Victor Hugo.
238 | — | That Other Woman | By Annie Thomas.
237 | — | Woman or Witch? | By Dora Delmar.
235 | — | Gratia’s Trials | By Lucy Randall Comfort.
234 | — | His Mother’s Sin | By Adeline Sergeant.
233 | — | Nora | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
232 | — | A Debt of Honor | By Mabel Collins.
230 | — | A Woman’s Atonement, and A Mother’s Mistake | By Adah M. Howard.
229 | — | For the Sake of the Family | By May Crommelin.
228 | — | His Brother’s Widow | By Mary Grace Halpine.
227 | — | For Love and Honor | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
226 | — | The Roll of Honor | By Annie Thomas.
225 | — | A Miserable Woman | By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
224 | — | A Sister’s Sacrifice | By Geraldine Fleming.
223 | — | Leola Dale’s Fortune | By Charles Garvice.
222 | — | The Lily of Mordaunt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
221 | — | The Honorable Jane | By Annie Thomas.
220 | — | A Fatal Past | By Dora Russell.
219 | — | Lost, A Pearle | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
218 | — | A Life for a Love | By Mrs. L. T. Meade.
217 | — | His Noble Wife | By George Manville Fenn.
216 | — | The Lost Bride | By Clara Augusta.
215 | — | Only a Girl’s Love | By Charles Garvice.
214 | — | Olga’s Crime | By Frank Barrett.
213 | — | The Heiress of Egremont | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis.
212 | — | Doubly Wronged | By Adah M. Howard.
211 | — | As We Forgive | By Lurana W. Sheldon.
210 | — | Wild Oats | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
209 | — | She Loved but Left Him | By Julia Edwards.
208 | — | A Chase for a Bride | By St. George Rathborne.
207 | — | Little Golden’s Daughter | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
206 | — | A Daughter of Maryland | By G. Waldo Browne.
205 | — | If Love Be Love | By D. Cecil Gibbs.
204 | — | With Heart So True | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
203 | — | Only One Love | By Charles Garvice.
202 | — | Marjorie | By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
201 | — | Blind Elsie’s Crime | By Mary Grace Halpine.
200 | — | In God’s Country | By D. Higbee.
199 | — | Geoffrey’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
198 | — | Guy Kenmore’s Wife, and The Rose and the Lily | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
197 | — | A Woman Scorned | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
196 | — | A Sailor’s Sweetheart | By the author of Dr. Jack.
195 | — | Her Faithful Knight | By Gertrude Warden.
194 | — | A Sinless Crime | By Geraldine Fleming.
193 | — | A Vagabond’s Honor | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
192 | — | An Old Man’s Darling, and Jacquelina | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
191 | — | A Harvest of Thorns | By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
190 | — | A Captain of the Kaiser | By St. George Rathborne.
189 | — | Berris | By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
188 | — | Dorothy Arnold’s Escape | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
187 | — | The Black Ball | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
186 | — | Beneath a Spell | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
185 | — | The Adventures of Miss Volney | By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
184 | — | Sunlight and Gloom | By Geraldine Fleming.
183 | — | Quo Vadis | By Henryk Sienkiewicz.
182 | — | A Legal Wreck | By William Gillette.
181 | — | The Baronet’s Bride | By May Agnes Fleming.
180 | — | A Lazy Man’s Work | By Frances Campbell Sparhawk.
179 | — | One Man’s Evil | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
178 | — | A Slave of Circumstances | By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
177 | — | A True Aristocrat | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
176 | — | Jack Gordon, Knight Errant | By William C. Hudson. (Barclay North).
175 | — | For Honor’s Sake | By Laura C. Ford.
174 | — | His Guardian Angel | By Charles Garvice.
173 | — | A Bar Sinister | By the author of Dr. Jack.
172 | — | A King and a Coward | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
171 | — | That Dakota Girl | By Stella Gilman.
170 | — | A Little Radical | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
169 | — | The Trials of an Actress | By Wenona Gilman.
168 | — | Thrice Lost, Thrice Won | By May Agnes Fleming.
167 | — | The Manhattaners | By Edward S. Van Zile.
166 | — | The Masked Bridal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
165 | — | The Road of the Rough | By Maurice M. Minton.
164 | — | Couldn’t Say No | By the author of Helen’s Babies.
163 | — | A Splendid Egotist | By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
162 | — | A Man of the Name of John | By Florence King.
161 | — | Miss Fairfax of Virginia | By the author of Dr. Jack.
160 | — | His Way and Her Will | By Frances Aymar Mathews.
159 | — | A Fair Maid of Marblehead | By Kate Tannatt Woods.
158 | — | Stella, the Star | By Wenona Gilman.
157 | — | Who Wins? | By May Agnes Fleming.
156 | — | A Soldier Lover | By Edward S. Brooks.
155 | — | Nameless Dell | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
154 | — | Husband and Foe | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
153 | — | Her Son’s Wife | By Hazel Wood.
152 | — | A Mute Confessor | By Will N. Harben.
151 | — | The Heiress of Glen Gower | By May Agnes Fleming.
150 | — | Sunset Pass | By General Charles King.
149 | — | The Man She Loved | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
148 | — | Will She Win? | By Emma Garrison Jones.
147 | — | Under Egyptian Skies | By the author of Dr. Jack.
146 | — | Magdalen’s Vow | By May Agnes Fleming.
145 | — | Country Lanes and City Pavements | By Maurice M. Minton.
144 | — | Dorothy’s Jewels | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
143 | — | A Charity Girl | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
142 | — | Her Rescue from the Turks | By the author of Dr. Jack.
141 | — | Lady Evelyn | By May Agnes Fleming.
140 | — | That Girl of Johnson’s | By Jean Kate Ludlum.
139 | — | Little Lady Charles | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
138 | — | A Fatal Wooing | By Laura Jean Libbey.
137 | — | A Wedded Widow | By T. W. Hanshew.
136 | — | The Unseen Bridegroom | By May Agnes Fleming.
135 | — | Cast Up by the Tide | By Dora Delmar.
134 | — | Squire John | By the author of Dr. Jack.
133 | — | Max | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
132 | — | Whose Was the Crime? | By Gertrude Warden.
131 | — | Nerine’s Second Choice | By Adelaide Stirling.
130 | — | A Bitter Bondage | By Bertha M. Clay.
129 | — | In Sight of St. Paul’s | By Sutton Vane.
128 | — | The Scent of the Roses | By Dora Delmar.
127 | — | Nobody’s Daughter | By Clara Augusta.
126 | — | The Girl from Hong Kong | By the author of Dr. Jack.
125 | — | Devil’s Island | By A. D. Hall.
124 | — | Prettiest of All | By Julia Edwards.
123 | — | Northern Lights | By A. D. Hall.
122 | — | Grazia’s Mistake | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
121 | — | Cecile’s Marriage | By Lucy Randall Comfort.
120 | — | The White Squadron | By T. C. Harbaugh.
119 | — | An Ideal Love | By Bertha M. Clay.
118 | — | Saved from the Sea | By Richard Duffy.
117 | — | She Loved Him | By Charles Garvice.
116 | — | The Daughter of the Regiment | By Mary A. Denison.
115 | — | A Fair Revolutionist | By the author of Dr. Jack.
114 | — | Half a Truth | By Dora Delmar.
113 | — | A Crushed Lily | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
112 | — | The Cattle King | By A. D. Hall.
111 | — | Faithful Shirley | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
110 | — | Whose Wife Is She? | By Annie Lisle.
109 | — | A Heart’s Bitterness | By Bertha M. Clay.
108 | — | A Son of Mars | By the author of Dr. Jack.
107 | — | Carla; or, Married at Sight | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
106 | — | Lilian, My Lilian | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
105 | — | When London Sleeps | By Chas. Darrell.
104 | — | A Proud Dishonor | By Genie Holzmeyer.
103 | — | The Span of Life | By Sutton Vane.
102 | — | Fair But Faithless | By Bertha M. Clay.
101 | — | A Goddess of Africa | By the author of Dr. Jack.
100 | — | Alice Blake | By Francis S. Smith.
99 | — | Audrey’s Recompense | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
98 | — | Claire | By Charles Garvice.
97 | — | The War Reporter | By Warren Edwards.
96 | — | The Little Minister | By J. M. Barrie.
95 | — | ’Twixt Love and Hate | By Bertha M. Clay.
94 | — | Darkest Russia | By H. Grattan Donnelly.
93 | — | A Queen of Treachery | By T. W. Hanshew.
92 | — | Humanity | By Sutton Vane.
91 | — | Sweet Violet | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
90 | — | For Fair Virginia | By Russ Whytal.
89 | — | A Gentleman from Gascony | By Bicknell Dudley.
88 | — | Virgie’s Inheritance | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
87 | — | Shenandoah | By J. Perkins Tracy.
86 | — | A Widowed Bride | By Lucy Randall Comfort.
85 | — | Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold | By Charles Garvice.
84 | — | Between Two Hearts | By Bertha M. Clay.
83 | — | The Locksmith of Lyons | By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck.
82 | — | Captain Impudence | By Edwin Milton Royle.
81 | — | Wedded for an Hour | By Emma Garrison Jones.
80 | — | The Fair Maid of Fez | By the author of Dr. Jack.
79 | — | Marjorie Deane | By Bertha M. Clay.
78 | — | The Yankee Champion | By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
77 | — | Tina | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
76 | — | Mavourneen | From the celebrated play.
75 | — | Under Fire | By T. P. James.
74 | — | The Cotton King | By Sutton Vane.
73 | — | The Marquis | By Charles Garvice.
72 | — | Willful Winnie | By Harriet Sherburne.
71 | — | The Spider’s Web | By the author of Dr. Jack.
70 | — | In Love’s Crucible | By Bertha M. Clay.
69 | — | His Perfect Trust | By a popular author.
68 | — | The Little Cuban Rebel | By Edna Winfield.
67 | — | Gismonda | By Victorien Sardou.
66 | — | Witch Hazel | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
65 | — | Won by the Sword | By J. Perkins Tracy.
64 | — | Dora Tenney | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
63 | — | Lawyer Bell from Boston | By Robert Lee Tyler.
62 | — | Stella Stirling | By Julia Edwards.
61 | — | La Tosca | By Victorien Sardou.
60 | — | The County Fair | By Neil Burgess.
59 | — | Gladys Greye | By Bertha M. Clay.
58 | — | Major Matterson of Kentucky | By the author of Dr. Jack.
57 | — | Rosamond | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
56 | — | The Dispatch Bearer | By Warren Edwards.
55 | — | Thrice Wedded | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
54 | — | Cleopatra | By Victorien Sardou.
53 | — | The Old Homestead | By Denman Thompson.
52 | — | Woman Against Woman | By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
51 | — | The Price He Paid | By E. Werner.
50 | — | Her Ransom | By Charles Garvice.
49 | — | None But the Brave | By Robert Lee Tyler.
48 | — | Another Man’s Wife | By Bertha M. Clay.
47 | — | The Colonel by Brevet | By the author of Dr. Jack.
46 | — | Off with the Old Love | By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
45 | — | A Yale Man | By Robert Lee Tyler.
44 | — | That Dowdy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
43 | — | Little Coquette Bonnie | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
42 | — | Another Woman’s Husband | By Bertha M. Clay.
41 | — | Her Heart’s Desire | By Charles Garvice.
40 | — | Monsieur Bob | By the author of Dr. Jack.
39 | — | The Colonel’s Wife | By Warren Edwards.
38 | — | The Nabob of Singapore | By the author of Dr. Jack.
37 | — | The Heart of Virginia | By J. Perkins Tracy.
36 | — | Fedora | By Victorien Sardou.
35 | — | The Great Mogul | By the author of Dr. Jack.
34 | — | Pretty Geraldine | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
33 | — | Mrs. Bob | By the author of Dr. Jack.
32 | — | The Blockade Runner | By J. Perkins Tracy.
31 | — | A Siren’s Love | By Robert Lee Tyler.
30 | — | Baron Sam | By the author of Dr. Jack.
29 | — | Theodora | By Victorien Sardou.
28 | — | Miss Caprice | By the author of Dr. Jack.
27 | — | Estelle’s Millionaire Lover | By Julia Edwards.
26 | — | Captain Tom | By the author of Dr. Jack.
25 | — | Little Southern Beauty | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
24 | — | A Wasted Love | By Charles Garvice.
23 | — | Miss Pauline of New York | By the author of Dr. Jack.
22 | — | Elaine | By Charles Garvice.
21 | — | A Heart’s Idol | By Bertha M. Clay.
20 | — | The Senator’s Bride | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
19 | — | Mr. Lake of Chicago | By Harry DuBois Milman.
18 | — | Dr. Jack’s Wife | By the author of Dr. Jack.
17 | — | Leslie’s Loyalty | By Charles Garvice.
16 | — | The Fatal Card | By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson.
15 | — | Dr. Jack | By St. George Rathborne.
14 | — | Violet Lisle | By Bertha M. Clay.
13 | — | The Little Widow | By Julia Edwards.
12 | — | Edrie’s Legacy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
11 | — | The Gypsy’s Daughter | By Bertha M. Clay.
10 | — | Little Sunshine | By Francis S. Smith.
9 | — | The Virginia Heiress | By May Agnes Fleming.
8 | — | Beautiful But Poor | By Julia Edwards.
7 | — | Two Keys | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
6 | — | The Midnight Marriage | By A. M. Douglas.
5 | — | The Senator’s Favorite | By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
4 | — | For a Woman’s Honor | By Bertha M. Clay.
3 | — | He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not | By Julia Edwards.
2 | — | Ruby’s Reward | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
1 | — | Queen Bess | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.

MY HILDEGARDE

A Strange Story of Adventure in the Land of
Revolutions

BY

ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

AUTHOR OF

“The Winning of Isolde,” “Little Miss Millions,” “Mynheer Joe,”
“Dr. Jack,” “Miss Fairfax of Virginia,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Copyright, 1902
By STREET & SMITH

My Hildegarde

MY HILDEGARDE.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. GAY OLD BOLIVAR.
CHAPTER II. PERHAPS A FOOL’S ERRAND.
CHAPTER III. MAN PROPOSES—FATE DISPOSES.
CHAPTER IV. WORSE THAN STRANGERS NOW.
CHAPTER V. WHERE JEALOUSY CAN LURK, LOVE IS NOT DEAD.
CHAPTER VI. A BAD BLUNDER.
CHAPTER VII. THE LOST KEY.
CHAPTER VIII. MY TURN COMES.
CHAPTER IX. SAVING THE SATCHEL.
CHAPTER X. THE SAME FOOL.
CHAPTER XI. A STERN CHASE.
CHAPTER XII. THE LAST RESORT.
CHAPTER XIII. LIVELY WHILE IT LASTED.
CHAPTER XIV. HILDEGARDE EMBARKS.
CHAPTER XV. THE EMBERS ARE STIRRED.
CHAPTER XVI. PASSING THE FORT.
CHAPTER XVII. AT TWO BELLS.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOCKERY OF FATE.
CHAPTER XIX. “POOR, WEAK, OLD PAPA.”
CHAPTER XX. I TRY TO BRIDGE THE CHASM.
CHAPTER XXI. IN THE GRASP OF A HURRICANE.
CHAPTER XXII. THE HOUR OF PERIL.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WRECK OF THE YACHT.
CHAPTER XXIV. A NIGHT OF TERROR.
CHAPTER XXV. ON THE BRINK OF ETERNITY.
CHAPTER XXVI. THROUGH THE UNDERTOW.
CHAPTER XXVII. STRANDED.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HOSPITALITY OF THE ALCALDE.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE GUARD I LOVED.
CHAPTER XXX. TO THE RESCUE.
CHAPTER XXXI. A REVOLUTIONIST.
CHAPTER XXXII. WE INVESTIGATE THE AZOTEA.
CHAPTER XXXIII. ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.
CHAPTER XXXIV. ONE GOOD TURN AND ANOTHER.
CHAPTER XXXV. HOW I CHARGED THE CITADEL.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAST STRAW.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE AGE OF ENCHANTMENT.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. A PRESIDENT FOR ONE NIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HAND OF THE WIZARD.
CHAPTER XL. WON AT LAST.

CHAPTER I.

GAY OLD BOLIVAR.

I was tremendously jaded, weary of knocking about the world in the vain hope that a succession of strange sights, and rubbing elbows with queer people, might cause me to forget some very unpleasant events in my past; but which obstinately persisted in clinging to me with a zeal I could not appreciate. So it chanced that in my earnest endeavor to run away from the phantom that seemed to pursue me, I managed to double on my trail and actually overtook it.

It was in Bolivar, one of those semi-tropical cities on the great gulf to the South of our American republic. Of course, Bolivar was not the real name, but it will answer the purpose just as well, especially since a narration of the remarkable events that came under my observation there might stir up a hornet’s nest in the gay little republic, should the bare truth be set forth.

Somehow I quite fancied the place.

There was a bustle in the air rather unusual in Latin-American capitals, as though the good people had imbibed some Yankee ambition from their near contact with the States.

Particularly was this the case at this festal season of the year when, in common with most Spanish-speaking people, the citizens of Bolivar entered with heart and soul into the festival of flowers.

There must always be an attraction in a great concourse of merrymaking people absolutely given over to enjoyment; and as I witnessed this mad festival for the first time, I allowed myself to enter into its riotous fun—anything to blot out the memory of the canker worm that had so long held possession in my heart.

Flowers were everywhere—people in all manner of vehicles, gayly decorated, pelted the pedestrians, and were themselves overwhelmed with an avalanche of roses.

Mischievous damsels, lurking in every conceivable balcony or second-story window took great delight in dropping handfuls of rice upon those who passed beneath. Merry laughter sounded on all sides, and it was hard for me to imagine that this gay city was really Bolivar, the mysterious capital, queen of the romantic Gulf, where half the dark conspiracies that startled the Spanish-American republics were hatched; home of revolutionists exiled for the time being from their native shores, and as wicked a place for its size in all probability as might be found upon the entire terrestrial ball.

And when night came the fun waxed more furious than ever—there is always an inspiration about the gloaming to these citizens of semi-tropical marts—the heat of the day gives place to a delicious, cool air that steals in mayhap over the sparkling blue waters of a glorious bay, bringing the odor of sweet incense as of fragment spices—sounds lose their harsh clang and become strangely mellowed; wonderful fireflies flash their electric lanterns abroad, music steals upon the senses from over many a garden wall, where languorous swains thrum upon mandolin or guitar and sing sentimental serenades to dark-eyed maidens.

All these and more greeted eye and ear in the gay capital when the day of frolic was spent, and night drew her dark mantle about the scene.

I wondered at myself for not having long since wearied of the racket, and taken my last look—some unusual nervous tension appeared to have possession of me, and I could not shake it off; looking back, with the knowledge gained by experience, I am fain to believe it must have been a mysterious case of “coming events casting their shadow before.”

At any rate, I continued to roam aimlessly about the streets where the crowds gathered most densely, where the colored lanterns hung in bewildering profusion, and the fun waxed furious. I even laughed heartily at some ridiculous exhibition on the part of young students dressed in wonderful costumes—the whole town had given itself up to mad enjoyment for the time being, and why should not I forget?

To-morrow would be time enough to remember.

Such an impression did the tinkling music, the merry songs, the laughter and cries of the crowd make upon me that it would long haunt my memory as one of the few nights when the miserable past could be utterly forgotten.

And yet I had never been so near the phantom as during those hours.

While I looked and allowed myself to drift with the idle crowd, content to be an atom in the swirling torrent, I suddenly set eyes on a face that gave me the first genuine thrill of pleasure known for many a long, weary day. My languor was gone, as one might cast aside a useless mantle, and eagerly I began to buffet and push a passage through the crowd in the direction of the man who clung to the equestrian statue of the Liberator and surveyed the wonderful scene with marked interest.

More than one black scowl followed my rather rude passage; perhaps, in my eagerness to advance I was not as polite as these good people would like; and they had no especial love for a Yankee at any time.

All the while I kept my eyes riveted upon the man who occupied the exalted perch, and finally, panting from my exertions, I was in a position to pull at his coat.

He looked down curiously.

“Hello!”

There was nothing of recognition in the exclamation—it was rather in the shape of an interrogative, such as might be expected from a man whose attention has been so unceremoniously attracted.

“Robbins—old fellow—awful glad to see you.”

Again he said, “Hello!” but this time with just-awakened interest, bending his head to peer down at me, and finally dropping to the ground, where he could look into my face.

As he suddenly recognized me he gave a shout that sprang straight from the heart, and immediately seized upon my extended hand, squeezing it until I was almost fain to wince under the pressure.

“Morgan Kenneth, and alive! This is the land of enchantment, sure enough. I can scarce believe my eyes. You, that I believed had found a grave under the wild waves in that hurricane at Samoa! God bless you, my boy! I’m delighted to see you again. If it had been my own brother I don’t believe I’d have grieved more. And you’re really alive?”

I tried to convince him, as well as I was able, by begging him to have a little mercy on my poor digits, so he linked arms with me, in order, as I believed, to hold me close to him, for Mate Robbins, like all sailors, had a grain of superstition in his composition, and secretly feared, as he afterward confessed, that I might vanish from his presence if he failed to keep a tight hold upon me.

We stood there and talked, utterly unmindful of the surging, noisy crowd, wholly given over to the pursuit of pleasure.

When last I saw Milo Robbins, he was clinging to the wreck of the good ship Pathfinder, going to pieces upon the Samoan shore, with the hurricane howling like a pack of fiends from Tophet. Men of war were wrecked in that awful tempest, and scores of valiant bluejackets found a grave beneath the waves, or were later cast upon the shore.

I remember as though it were but yesterday how one British war vessel managed to get up steam and crawl slowly out to sea and safety, and how the brave Yankee bluejackets on the other doomed warships, being dragged mercilessly to their awful fate, gave the fortunate English vessel a roaring cheer as she went by—it was a specimen of pluck such as might proceed from no other people.

How I escaped the threatening doom would make a story in itself, and has no place here. I recovered my senses in the hut of a Samoan chief, where I had lain some days, and it was two weeks ere I felt able to go abroad.

Meanwhile Robbins had sailed away on a ship that chanced to be short-handed, and during the years that had elapsed we had believed each other dead.

It seemed a strange and very inappropriate place to exchange such confidences, bringing to mind, as they did, the terrible scenes of storm and disaster; but for the time I utterly ignored the music and laughter, and was once again clinging to that frail bit of wreck, the sport and plaything of the crashing waves, while around me great warships were breaking to pieces on that cruel shore.

How my heart warmed toward this big manly fellow. Secretly I swore in my soul he should not get away from me again, since his coming had brought the first glimpse of sunshine I had known for many a long day.

I noticed that the sturdy mate of the ill-fated Pathfinder eyed me curiously from time to time, nor could I wonder at it.

Time had made many changes in me since last we met, and I had much to tell him when the opportunity offered, that would almost shake his credulity, so like Aladdin’s tale or the story of Fortunatus would it appear.

Robbins still followed the sea, and his arrival at Bolivar on the night of the “festa” was in the nature of an accident—a lucky one I deemed it, since it brought me once again in contact with a valiant, honest spirit I had always greatly admired in the past.

The romance that once infested the ocean is not yet wholly dead; some miserable Lascars in his crew had conspired together, secretly overwhelmed the faithful sailors, and made prisoners of them, put the mate—the captain was killed in the mêlée adrift in a jollyboat and sailed away to perdition, for the vessel was never heard of again.

Robbins’ luck still pursued him, for he was picked up some days later by an English tramp steamer bound for the gulf ports in search of a cargo of bananas and cocoanuts. So he landed in Bolivar without a picayune in his pocket beyond the few dollars loaned him by the English captain of the tramp. I could have shouted when I heard this; he belonged to me, this valorous son of Neptune, and I was pleased to believe my fortune had, indeed, taken a turn for the better; the sea that had snatched him away at Samoa now restored him to me at Bolivar.

Time surely brings its compensations; but there are some things that can never be remedied on earth—at least, I believed so then.

I could picture his honest joy when, later on, I found time to relate my marvelous story of the great spoils that had fallen into my hands, which had brought me happiness for a time and then the blackest misery known on earth—that of being deserted.

How his eyes would shine when I pointed out the trim little steam yacht in the bay and told him that was to be his charge for all time to come.

The thought was so full of pleasure that I yearned for daylight in order to overwhelm him with this surprise; faculties awoke to life that had lain dormant very, very long, and I was surprised to find that I could actually derive pleasure from anticipation.

It must have been all of two hours we stood there by the statue, with the rollicking citizens holding high carnival around us, as though determined to outdo all previous experiences. Our talk was wholly of the past, for I meant to keep my good news until I could point out the gay little craft from my window in the hotel and ask Robbins how he would like to cruise around the universe in her as master, knocking at the door of every celebrated seaport as we went along and drowning dull care in the life of luxurious ease to be found only on board such a trim vessel.

It was hard to restrain myself, but I took a singular pleasure in thinking what a treat I had in store for the morning.

So when Robbins spoke of looking for a new berth on the following day I begged him to leave it with me, as I thought I knew of an opening, and though he must have been more or less mystified by my chuckles and hints, he readily agreed to do so.

“Do they keep this up all night?” he asked, finally, as a fresh outburst occurred and pandemonium reigned for the time being.

“I really don’t know, but it looks that way. Have you seen enough of the nonsense? If so, let’s adjourn to my hotel, where we may find a little quiet and get some sleep. I have more to tell you in the morning—something you might not believe in the midst of all the riot and romance.”

“Wait, shipmate. There’s a little native girl over yonder who’s been gazing at us this ten minutes past. I think she wants to say something and is afraid.”

As he spoke he smiled in his benign way; rough sailor that he was, Mate Robbins certainly had a face that won confidence, and when he thus allowed his bronzed features to relax, his expression was so inviting that the child hesitated no longer, but darted forward.

Of course, I supposed she was only a beggar, better garbed than the general run of them in Bolivar, and so confident did I feel with regard to this thing that I put my hand instinctively into the pocket where I was accustomed to keeping copper coins, to be used on such occasions.

There I paused, for the child, looking up in Robbins’ still smiling face, said quickly:

“You Amer-i-cano, señor?”

Robbins nodded. He was not the man to deny his country, no matter what trouble might be in ambush.

“You read Amer-i-cano?” asked the waif, still more impressively, her bright, black eyes all the while fixed on his own.

“Passably well,” with a double nod.

“It is for you, then,” she said, suddenly thrusting a paper into his hands, and uttering more words in Spanish, among which I detected thanks to her patron saint that she had found such a thing as an American in the hot old town of Bolivar.

CHAPTER II.

PERHAPS A FOOL’S ERRAND.

Curiosity may have had something to do with my leaning over Robbins’ shoulder as he unfolded the paper. I, too, was an American, and had as much right as he to enter into the spirit of the game; besides, if it proved to be a begging epistle, cunningly contrived, as I suspected was the case, I was better able to stand the racket than poor Robbins, just rescued from the sea.

When he had straightened out the paper and held it so that the light from neighboring lamps fell upon its face, I was surprised at two things—the writing was plain English, and it was in a decidedly feminine hand. My eyes read the heading: “To any American in Bolivar,” and somehow it seemed to strike me as an appeal quite out of the ordinary.

Further down I found this idea strengthened and in a manner calculated to touch whatever of manliness there might be in a fellow.

Here, then, is what I read. I write it verbatim, for I have preserved the original as a precious link in the wonderful chain of events that had so much to do with my whole existence, that bound me to the past with its keen pleasure and pain, and connected me with a future:

“I am an American lady in trouble, kept a prisoner against my will by those who conspire to rob me of my liberty and my fortune. I charge you, in the name of high Heaven, you into whose hands this note may chance to fall, to either take this child to the house of the American Consul, and let her tell him where I am, or else endeavor to save me at once. If money is any object, I will pay ten thousand dollars to be placed on board any English or American steamer. I dare not sign my name, but you can trust the child, who is as true as steel. May God deal with you as you listen to the appeal of

“One in Distress.”

That was a remarkable document, surely.

Robbins looked around at me when he had finished, and I could see that not a single doubt occurred to him.

On my part, more suspicious, I had even wondered what sort of a mantrap might be back of this note, for the possession of wealth makes a man more cautious than when he was a penniless voyager on life’s ocean.

Robbins whistled his astonishment.

“Did you ever know such a thing?” he demanded of me.

“Yes; on the stage, an old story. Sometimes the poor fool escaped, but as often he was sandbagged and robbed.”

“You don’t believe it, then?”

“Oh, I won’t say that I’m willing to go as far as any man to test it,” carelessly.

“That’s more like your old self, Morgan, my boy,” he said, heartily; and I wondered whether he would continue to address me in that delightful old familiar way when he learned what a mighty nabob I had become since the hurricane that separated us at Samoa.

I looked at the girl.

She was still watching his face with an eagerness that baffled description.

There could be no doubt that she was wholly devoted to the cause of the author of that wonderful appeal, whether trickery lay back of it or not.

“Come, you know where the consul lives—we’ll take the child to him,” he cried, eager to dip into the adventure.

“Softly there; the thing’s impossible,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“It happens the consul is away on a junketing trip. I was invited, but lacked the nerve to try the awful conveyances to the interior of this healthy young republic.”

Robbins was never cast down; no matter when the masts went by the board, and the gigantic billows swept everything movable from the deck, his cheery voice was wont to bellow out words of hope, and with him there was always another chance.

“Well, then, it devolves on us, sure enough,” was what he said, lightly.

“You seem to count me in,” I said, with a smile.

“Because I know you too well to believe you could ever refuse to respond to such an appeal for help. Am I right, Morgan?”

“I guess you are—at least I’m quite fool enough to risk a broken head in such a mad adventure. There’s something in the air that urges one on; this is the land of romance and strange happenings, and I’m in a humor for anything to-night. Oh, yes, if you intend going with the girl, I’m at your side, though I rather imagine we may have a brawl of it before we finish the game.”

“Well, what of it? We are two, and in a good cause able to hold our own against a legion of these miserable Greasers. But—if you feel doubtful about it, Morgan, I hope what I’ve said won’t move you to take up arms against your good judgment. If it’s a fool’s errand, better that only one head be broken.”

“Nonsense. Don’t you understand that I’m in a humor to do anything to-night—that I even welcome this adventure as something calculated to break the horrid monotony of my existence? Besides, something draws me on, and I don’t believe I could hold back now, no matter if I were sure of hard knocks.”

He looked relieved.

“Well, that ought to settle it. But see here, didn’t you say you talked Spanish?”

I confessed that I could manage to fairly hold up my end of a conversation, provided the other party were something of a mind reader.

“Suppose you question her, then?”

That appeared to be a bright thought, and I proceeded to carry it out; but my success was hardly flattering, since the child either would not or could not understand my fearfully constructed sentences, and made answer always in about the same vein, her stock of English being as limited as was my supply of Spanish.

“You come—good lady—she cry mucho—me love lady—show Amer-i-cano casa—bueno—you come—me glad.”

At length I desisted.

“We must take our chances, Robbins. The girl is here to lead us. Shall we make a start?” I asked, for since I was in the game, the sooner I saw what I had to face the better.

“Immediately. You won’t reconsider, Morgan?” he said; perhaps a little lingering doubt assailing him.

“Reconsider! No, indeed! Just remember this is my funeral as well as yours. So trot along, my hearty, and keep one eye out for breakers ahead.”

Robbins laughed at my warning, said something in his kindly voice to the dark-faced little peon girl, who at once took hold of his big fist and walked at his side.

So we threaded the crowded, noisy thoroughfares of Bolivar, like knights of old, in quest of adventure; indeed, it struck me there was something very Quixotic in our astonishing mission, but Robbins seemed to be so deeply in earnest, I dismissed all idea of laughing at the matter, and resolved to see it through, no matter where the caprice of fortune might drift me.

Once I allowed my hand to rest lightly on the faithful little revolver I made it a point to always carry, though before this treasure trove had fallen to my share I had scorned to go armed save with nature’s weapons. Reassured by its presence, I transferred it to a side pocket of my blouse, and then felt better able to face a sudden emergency.

Everywhere the scene was pretty nearly the same; houses were illuminated, and crowds jostled us on the narrow pave; but we were in no hurry, and avoided the crush as much as possible.

One thing pleased me—we were not as yet headed for the meaner portion of the capital, but rather sought the better part, where the mansions of the wealthy lay. So my faith began to take root, and I even dared to mentally picture the poor American lady so far from her native land, who had evidently fallen into some trap, perhaps betrayed by those she trusted.

In and out we wound our way, attracting as little attention as possible, and finally the small guide drew up in front of a large building, the like of which was not to be found in all Bolivar.

“What! not this casa?” I exclaimed, aghast.

“Si, Señor Amer-i-cano, this casa,” she said with a serious nod.

I think I muttered something under my breath, something that implied disgust, for I knew that remarkable building was the residence of the august alcalde, the high and mighty mayor of Bolivar.

CHAPTER III.

MAN PROPOSES—FATE DISPOSES.

Robbins saw there was something wrong with me, and demanded to know the cause. Strange to say, when I had given him the information, he did not seem to think it a very serious matter, at least declared he could not see how it was to cut any particular figure in our affair.

“If anything it favors us,” he said, stoutly.

Perhaps my miserable suspicions made me uncommonly dull of comprehension, for I considered that the mariner had certainly taken a wrong view of the situation, and begged him to explain why he felt so positive.

“You say this is the palace of the big mogul of the place, the alcalde?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly—the girl will say as much. See, she nods her head in the affirmative when you mention the name.”

“All right, his worship is going to have visitors to-night, then.”

“Umph! He already has them, if what we see and hear is any indication,” for the big casa was illuminated, and the sounds of music, together with the murmur of many voices, told of a social gathering.

“Then he’s about to have a couple not down on the list.”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“Well, I guess not, except to grow more positive. This doesn’t bear the earmarks of a trap; if the girl had led us to some low den or rookery, we might expect such a thing; but here it’s different. The house of the mayor. Then you can wager it was a lady wrote that, and she’s in trouble.”

I surrendered.

His reasoning was so clear, his manner so confiding, that he carried me with him.

“No doubt you’re right—I withdraw all my objections, and stand ready to back you in anything, even to facing the alcalde before his guests and demanding our fair countrywoman.”

“How d’ye know she’s fair?”

“Know? Oh, I guessed it; they always are on the stage, you know. Besides,” clutching at a straw, “the girl said something about the beautiful lady.”

“Well, I don’t think it’ll come to facing the old fox among his guests, and taking him by the nose. This girleen has other aims in view, or I’ll eat my hat. Say when, and she’ll show us a way in.”

“Vamos,” I said, which, being interpreted, means “let us go,” and the girl, who had been watching us eagerly during the brief discussion, at once clutched my hand. Perhaps it had suddenly dawned upon her mind that I was a power in the land, or it may be my knowledge of a little Spanish led her to believe I was head and shoulders to the front in the expedition.

Robbins grunted his satisfaction at this turn of affairs, and I really suspect the fellow had an idea the child feared lest I might spoil all by backing out and meant to cling fast to me, so that I would come under her influence.

When we began to move around to the rear of the great wall that inclosed the gardens of the alcalde, I realized that Robbins had guessed one thing right, and that in that quarter there must be some secret door through which we were to enter.

It proved exactly so, and when five minutes had gone by we stood among palms and ferns and tropical shrubs that grew in rank luxuriance.

With colored lanterns hung here and there, the garden was a scene of enchantment, and music stealing from some concealed orchestra within the house added to the charm.

Luckily, few persons were abroad, and these the girl managed to avoid by following a path that was not often used, leading as it did, to the toolhouse, where the gardener kept the implements of his calling.

By this time I awoke to the fact that this little affair had all the earmarks of an adventure far above the common, and I even began to forget my cynical distrust of all who wore petticoats, and felt the honest thrill of satisfaction that must always accompany any effort to assist a woman in distress.

We cautiously entered the house.

Now, not being accustomed to sneaking in at the back way, I experienced a cold chill at the possibility of our being taken for common burglars, with suspicious designs upon the worthy alcalde’s silver. It was not a pleasant thought, and the possible consequences loomed up before me with startling distinctness; but, having come thus far, nothing on earth could force me to back out. So I permitted the girl to draw me along just as she willed, while the big mate came at my heels.

I was quite taken with the amazing dexterity shown by the little guide in avoiding anything that threatened discovery. Several times voices told of persons approaching, and on such occasions she hustled the two of us into a convenient room until the danger had passed.

Once we were even jammed into a closet, where we almost suffocated; but the movement was a brilliant success, for the party went by without a suspicion that two skulkers stood within arm’s length of them.

I saw they were ladies handsomely dressed and wearing flashing jewels, doubtless the wives of the leading business men of Bolivar; and the sight of those sparkling gems made me chuckle as I remembered that we were apparently sustaining the character of rogues, for who else would enter a worthy mayor’s house in the secret fashion we had done?

And the thought occurred to me that we were bound to have considerable trouble in leaving the building, even though we succeeded in accomplishing our design of reaching the fair prisoner.

Another startling thought occurred to me—somehow, these brave ideas are apt to leap into existence after one has gone too far to retreat—what if, after all, this lady who wrote such a touching appeal for aid should turn out to be some member of the alcalde’s own family circle, with a singular hallucination, sending out these letters by wholesale under fortune hunter’s zeal—in short, crazy?

Were we the only ones victimized?

Then my common sense arose and throttled this base suspicion; it was an American woman appealing to the chivalry of her countrymen, and I was a fool to believe anything to the contrary. The fact of the house owner being the alcalde did not prevent him from meriting the name of a rascal. I had known governors whose hand itched for spoils, and who were not above the common follies of life. Well, at any-rate, we would soon know. All seemed to be going smoothly, and presently we would be able to meet the writer of the note face to face.

Various reflections came to me as we skulked along, now creeping up a back flight of stairs, seldom found in a Bolivar house, and anon scouring a dark corridor that turned and twisted in a manner positively confusing.

Once we came out upon a narrow porch that looked down upon the patio or court always found in the dwellings of well-to-do Spanish-Americans, and fashioned after the Moorish type, from which it was copied centuries ago, when those people overran Southern Spain.

Here plashed the fountain amid luxuriant flowers and cosy seats, where I could see a number of couples taking their ease. But there was danger of discovery here, and we did not linger, but once more entered the corridor.

Finally the girl stopped before a door, and I knew we had reached the climax of our adventure. Presently we would see our countrywoman, in whose interest Robbins and myself had entered upon this Quixotic cruise. Really, it was quite exciting and would doubtless arouse a languid interest upon future occasions when I smoked my cigar and pondered upon this night’s work. I turned to look at my good comrade. The light was not of the best, but I could see that Robbins was looking as serious as an owl; this sort of thing appealed to his chivalrous nature; he should have lived in the days of the crusades, and my word for it, he would have won renown as a model knight, ever ready to flash his sword in beauty’s cause.

For Robbins, I was fain to believe, had never as yet had an affair of the heart and was full of old-fashioned ideas about womankind that were in vogue during our great grandmothers’ time, but seem woefully out of date among the butterflies of society’s swirl to-day.

The girl knew where the key was hung, and I wondered why she had not ere now attempted to lead the beautiful prisoner from the house to the calle, where in due time she might have reached the protection of the Stars and Stripes over the door of our consul’s office.

So she opened the door, and in a whisper bade us enter. Perhaps Robbins was more eager than myself; somehow I stepped aside and allowed him to enter first.

Was it a sense of chivalry? If any romance was to grow out of this escapade of the night, I was just then quite willing that he should carry off all the honors. For myself, that sort of thing had, I believed, lost all its attraction, since it is said the burned child dreads the fire, and I had been singed.

As I passed beyond the door the girl cautiously closed and locked it; but suspicion had now ceased to worry me, and I looked upon this simply in the light of prudence. For I had already discovered there was a lady in the room.

The lamp, shaded with a crimson globe, was burning with less than full power, but the light was sufficient to show me that the apartment was handsomely and sumptuously furnished. Robbins was just ahead, and his big bulk allowed me only that fleeting glimpse of a lady rising in haste from her chair, but even then I seemed to grasp the idea that she was a charming personality.

Ah! Perhaps our mission was not fated to be such a fool’s errand, after all.

I was content for the time being to let Robbins play first fiddle, ready to back him up should he need assistance in words or deeds. The mate, thrown upon his resources, was bowing, hat in hand.

“Madam, I am an American, and you can trust us,” he managed to say, boldly. Then I heard her utter a cry of delight.

“At last—it has come. I shall leave these hateful scenes, never to return. Oh, Carmecita, blessed child, what do I not owe to you!”

I believe you could have knocked me down with a feather when that voice fell upon my hearing, for it aroused all the memories I had thought buried in the dead past.

Yet it seemed so preposterous, so incredible, that I could not trust to my ears alone, but pushed up alongside of Robbins, where nothing could come between my vision and the lady of the alcalde’s casa.

It was not so singular that I should turn white and stand there as though suddenly stricken dumb, wondering at the world’s smallness after all, for I found myself looking upon the face that had haunted me, sleeping or waking, these two years, which I had roamed the world over in the endeavor to forget, yet without success, the fair countenance of one whom, in the fondness of my heart, I had once called my wife—my Hildegarde!

CHAPTER IV.

WORSE THAN STRANGERS NOW.

It was a decidedly unpleasant sensation that so nearly overcame me when I made this remarkable discovery in the lordly casa of the worthy alcalde.

Surprise and consternation about constituted the whole, for had I not often vowed never again to set eyes on that fair face, once madly loved, and here a perverse fate had actually taken me by the neck and forced me into her presence.

I hated her—yes, I felt certain I did—not so much because of the wrong she had done me as for the fact that, strange paradox, I could not cease to love her!

This weakness, how often I had cursed it, and then dreamed that once again my Hildegarde and I were Maying, making love among the flowers, dead to all the world, only to wake up furious with myself because I could not bruise my heart sufficiently to stamp out her false image.

And there I was looking upon the same maddening beauty that had once made a fool of me. By Heaven! she was prettier than ever and I ground my teeth with rage when I felt my miserable traitor heart throbbing like a triphammer against my ribs.

She knew me, too, despite the fact that I had grown a mustache and Vandyke beard since last we parted, and looked ten years older.

I saw her eyes dilate as though she were unable to believe her senses; what the various emotions that chased each other over her pink and white face meant I was unable to decide.

But she must have seen from my cold and haughty manner that I had not come to sue for her queenly pardon; my wrongs still rankled in my breast, or something did that answered the same purpose, and there was no sign of yielding in my appearance.

And yet, God knows I had difficulty in fighting down the mad longing to rush forward and seize upon her, to crush her to my heart as I had once been wont to do, and, casting aside all doubt, and pride, and hateful memories, call her again, “my Hildegarde.”

Her voice aroused me from the half stupor into which I had been thrown by the very violence of these various warring emotions.

“So, it is you?” she said, coldly.

That killed every bud of promise, even as a frost blights those of vegetation, and I was immediately thrown on my guard.

If she could be hateful, there was no good reason why I might not match her.

“Yes, I believe it is. My friend Robbins induced me to join him in this affair. I did not dream of meeting you, though.”

“Perhaps you might not have come if you had seen my name in the note?”

The scorn of her words lashed me. How she hated me, who had once been all the world to her.

“It would have made no difference; a woman in distress needed help—that should be enough for any one calling himself a man.”

“I am glad to hear you subscribe to such lofty sentiments; there was a time when you hardly thought the same.”

“Pardon me, I don’t care to discuss the past. That is buried beyond recall. I have forgotten it.”

I lied when I said that; what man can ever forget who has lived a year or two in Paradise, even though kicked out finally? But no matter, it served my purpose, for she took especial pains to show how she hated me, and I was not the one to be outdone by a woman.

There was some more play of the emotions upon her face; I saw a hand pressed against her heart, but of course it was only because my cold-blooded words had cut her pride, and she hardly knew just how to answer me.

Then she arose to the occasion, and I could see her blue eyes flash as they had flashed that day we had the nasty quarrel ending in my abandoning the palace I called home.

“You are a brute, Morgan Kenneth! Oh, how I detest you!” she said, hotly.

I smiled in derision; knowing that she hated me anyway, there was no reason why I should cringe to hear her say so; and yet, despite that sarcastic smile, deep down in my heart, I quailed under her scorn.

“I beg of you to ignore the past, at least until we are in other quarters than this. You have appealed for assistance. I confess I haven’t an iota of understanding as to how you came here, with whom, or what manner of danger you wish to avoid. It does not matter. We have come, and we are at your service. Where would you go to seek an asylum from your enemies?”

I spoke as calmly as might be expected of a man under such remarkable conditions.

She had become so nervous that, unable to stand still, she walked up and down with her fingers locking both hands together.

Heavens! what punishment for a man who had wrestled for two years to forget this queenly creature, and now to meet her thus!

Finally she said:

“I hoped to find safety at the home of the consul.”

“But he has gone out of town and will not be back short of a week; perhaps he may be killed on that wretched little railway.”

“Then an American or English vessel might give me a refuge,” she continued.

“Robbins, is the steamer you came on still in port?” I asked.

“I am sorry to say that it is not. The captain found a letter awaiting him to start for Guayamas without delay and load bananas there.”

“Then there is not an American or British vessel in the harbor?”

“I saw only one—a little steam yacht that flew the Stars and Stripes,” he answered, quickly.

I turned to my lady.

“That steam yacht is mine—you can find an asylum on board and will be taken wherever you wish.”

Then her eyes blazed again—so far as I knew I had not said anything uncivil, or calculated to arouse her temper, and yet she seemed to look upon my proposition in the light of an affront.

She even stamped her little foot in anger.

“Thank you, I prefer remaining here, and enduring all things, to going aboard that hateful yacht.”

Now what was there about the beautiful boat to incur her anger, save that it had been my lonely floating home for a long time, and must in that way be associated with my hateful personality that it had to come in for a share of her obloquy?

“Oh, if you object to my presence, I shall remain ashore and let Robbins take charge of the boat while you are aboard,” I said, quickly.

She gave me a look as of daggers drawn, but I could not interpret it, stupid that I was.

“Pray, give yourself no concern about the matter. If I had dreamed it would cause you this trouble I would have died rather than send that note for help. It was all a dreadful mistake.”

“Yes, a dreadful mistake,” I murmured.

Again she gave me a quick look, and then resumed her theatrical air that made her seem so irresistibly charming that I found it extremely difficult to keep on hating her.

“I am sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr.—a—Robbins, but, after all, I have decided that there are situations more painful than the one I am now in under this roof, and that I must change my mind and remain here.”

CHAPTER V.

WHERE JEALOUSY CAN LURK, LOVE IS NOT DEAD.

Of course they say a woman has a perfect right to change her mind, and that we lords of creation must submit with a good grace; but occasions may arise when such a face-about seems too exasperating to endure.

Such a sensation overwhelmed me when I heard Hildegarde positively declare that, much as she desired to escape from the old alcalde’s roof, she preferred remaining there, face to face with some evil that had heretofore frightened her, to owing her freedom to me.

It was not at all flattering, and cut me like a two-edged dagger; but, all the same, I was more than ever determined she should escape from her prison, even though I were compelled to use force in the transaction.

Really, it was a situation that seemed fast bordering on the ridiculous rather than the tragic.

“A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still,” and who could say that, should we insist on rescuing her, Hildegarde, who could be perverse when she wished, might not come back again to the miserable old alcalde’s, just to spite me? But my mind was made up.

“Really, we can’t allow you to change your intentions. We have come here for a purpose, and don’t mean to give it up,” I said, as firmly yet as gently as I could.

She looked at me queerly.

“You mean that you intend to rescue me, whether I wish it or not?” she breathed.

“I mean that I wish you for the time being to forget you ever knew me, to forget that you hate me, and only consider that I am a gentleman desirous of assisting you. When you are safe from this peril, which I can’t for the life of me understand, then I will quickly sink once more into oblivion and trouble you no longer.”

“I—did not know the world was so small,” she said, musingly.

“Nor I. Until I saw you here I thought you in the gay whirl of Paris or at least in New York.”

“And I thought you—but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters any longer. Do you really mean to say you won’t let me change my mind?”

“Pardon me, not in this case, because I am sure you don’t mean it, and only do so through pique.”

“Oh, this is very romantic,” she laughed in a sarcastic way; “a pretty woman rescued even against her will. How finely it would read.”

“I am done with romance, madam.”

“Indeed? That is news to me. But what if I choose to call out and bring the alcalde and his people to prevent your carrying me off?”

She only said it to tantalize me—the very idea of such a thing was monstrous; but it gave me an opportunity for some little heroics.

“Then it would be a bad thing for our friend the alcalde and his friends,” I returned.

“Would you fight—you?” she cried, her eyes sparkling with new animation, as though the situation appealed to her irresistibly.

“It was agreed between Robbins and myself that we would never be taken alive. Perhaps your hatred of me would be satisfied and the past fully avenged if you saw me lying here at your feet covered with wounds and dying,” I said, solemnly, for a touch of the old witchery was upon me—the sheen of her golden hair, the glow of her bonnie blue eyes, the very scent of her garments, united to create a riot in my treacherous heart that I only subdued with an iron grip.

She shivered at my foreboding words and I fancied turned pale.

Then she smiled to conceal her perturbation.

When I look back upon this scene I feel sad to think what cheap theatrical business I bordered upon when I so graphically pictured my forlorn fate; but to the best of my belief I spoke just what I felt as I stood there and found my grand resolutions to hate and scorn trembling in the balance in the presence of the lady who was now, alas! no longer—my Hildegarde.

“Oh, your argument overwhelms me. It would be too sad a fate for one to whom the gods have given the face and figure of an Apollo together with the fortune of a Crœsus. I see I must surrender against my will.”

In her words and manner there was an air of scorn, which I could not but feel.

What would I give to prove my manhood in the eyes of this woman, who persisted in believing me a weakling, when God knows that if any such spirit animated me in the old days, it had been completely annihilated during my two years of lonely wanderings.

Nevertheless, I was really delighted to hear her give in to my authority for once; perhaps had I been more steadfast in the past—— But what was the use of lamenting what was beyond recall?

“Then we are to be permitted the pleasure of saving you from this strange peril that hangs over you?” I asked, trying to appear quite calm.

“I will leave this house with you,” she replied.

It would have pleased me better had she shown fuller confidence in my willingness and ability to protect her, but the old spirit appeared to be still strong within her heart, the long-harbored doubt concerning my strength of purpose.

With that I had to be content.

It would be folly for me to deny that I had a strange tremor in the region of my heart when I took an outer garment from her hands and folded it about her.

She looked up in one of her old coquettish ways that stirred the sluggish depths in my heart, and then coldly thanked me as she might her maid.

I knew too well how useless it would be for me to make glowing promises; another might hear me with satisfaction, but this woman believed she knew me too well to dream there was the least drop of heroic blood in my veins.

Well, my appearance on the scene in answer to her appeal for help must have been the first blow at this barrier.

Please Heaven, there might yet be others.

Yes, I longed for an opportunity to show, by silent deeds, what she would never believe in words.

After such a wonderful meeting between estranged souls, anything was possible, and who could say that I might not yet be given the chance for which I prayed?

You may be sure that Robbins had stood there listening to what passed, and looking the next thing to being paralyzed.

He found it hard to understand what a wild freak of fortune had been played, and that this charming woman of the alcalde’s mansion had once been very near and dear to me.

Still, the good mariner was far from being a fool, and once his benumbed faculties got into working order, he reasoned the thing out pretty well, though still aghast at the strange chance that drew us together in old Bolivar.

Having entertained some vague hope that the quest of little Carmencita might not be in vain, she had arranged things for a hasty departure. All she seemed desirous of taking with her was contained in a very small handbag.

I saw that she was dressed for walking and could not but admire her good taste. But, then, she had always been sensible in all things save one, and that, alas! the most vital, concerning her estimation of her husband’s qualities as a man.

As I watched her gather up a few trinkets and put them in the bag, I suddenly received a tremendous shock.

My eyes, in glancing toward the quaint dresser, had fallen upon a diminutive silver frame that inclosed the photograph of a man’s head.

Perhaps it is a very ordinary occurrence for a lady to thus decorate her dressing table, but, all the same, it gave me a dreadful shock.

Involuntarily I clinched my teeth and took a step forward, with flashing eyes; but just then she snatched up the miserable silver thing and thrust it into the handbag, at the same time looking over her shoulder at me with suddenly flaming cheeks.

I said nothing, but a demon had sprung up in my heart. Whose picture was this which she was so eager to keep where she could look upon it the last thing before retiring and the first thing upon arising?

Well, what did it matter to me? What reason had I to be jealous—I who had fled from the sight of her after settling half of my fortune on her, and who had written that henceforth, since I was unable to make her happy, we would be as dead to each other?

I was a fool to care.

Of course I summoned those forces which I had been so carefully marshaling these two years back, and whipped my traitor heart into line, but it was a close shave, for I would have given much for a sight of that picture, in order to discover what my successor looked like.

“I am ready,” she said, quietly.

The color had left her cheeks as suddenly as it flamed there, and I could easily see she was annoyed at something—perhaps because I dared presume to be impertinently curious regarding her private affairs.

Well, I deserved it all, for had I not given her to understand she could never more be other than a stranger to me?

What a fool I had been.

Perhaps there might have been some way in which I could have convinced her of my worthiness without desertion; but what wonders we might perform if our foresight only equaled the result of our bitter experience.

I turned to Robbins, who, feeling that after all he was to be recognized in the adventure, assumed an air of importance, though he could hardly keep his eyes from Hildegarde’s face until she drew the hood of her cloak so as to almost conceal its rounded contour.

“After you, old friend. I think you’re in a clearer state of mind than myself, and better able to lead. We must trust to the child.”

“You can trust our lives with her,” came from under the hood.

I nerved myself for the ordeal.

“Will you let me assist you?” I said to Hildegarde.

“Thank you, I do not need any help,” she replied.

Well, I had done my duty as a gentleman, and she could not complain that I was a boor.

“At least allow me to carry the bag.”

She hesitated, I know not why, and then gave it over.

I recognized it as one I had picked up in London when we were doing the sights of Europe; it had had my name on a silver plate. Almost unconsciously I raised it to see if that tag remained intact—yes, there were the distinct letters, “Morgan Kenneth, Esq.”

She must have forgotten to have it taken off, for of course with the man, she hated the name, and had undoubtedly resumed her maiden one after procuring her divorce, to which she was entitled by my desertion.

How strange it was to be gripping that little bag again; how different the conditions now from the time when I purchased it; then my cup of bliss seemed full and running over, with a charming wife and a grand fortune all in one year; now it was filled, but, alas! with gall and wormwood, my hopes lying cold in ashes, my feeling toward the world one of suspicion and disgust.

There was at least a singular satisfaction in the fact that while we fled to the uttermost parts of the earth to avoid each other fate had brought us face to face in this old city that I had never heard of two months before.

What did it all mean?

I dared not allow myself to hope there could be the faintest chance of a reconciliation. She hated me—had she not just said so?—even as I now loathed myself forever giving up such a charming being.

Perhaps it was intended that our dead romance was to be finally buried with a fanfare of trumpets and some tragedy; perhaps ere the end came she was to discover how terribly she had misjudged me in the past, when she was wont to taunt me upon my lack of heroic qualities.

Robbins had some few words with the girl, and then Carmencita, giving one earnest look at the lady whom she adored, led the way.

After Robbins came Hildegarde, while I, like a dutiful follower, brought up the rear, grasping in my hand the little bag that held her trinkets, her jewelry, and the picture which she had seriously objected to my seeing—the picture of a man who had perhaps crept into the heart I had basely deserted, and was now enshrined there as her hero, a position I had never been able to obtain in those days of old when, as I have said, she deigned to allow me to call her “my Hildegarde.”

CHAPTER VI.

A BAD BLUNDER.

Really, the governor of the city and his guests were bent on having a merry time, if the noise they made could be taken as an evidence. I hoped they might be so fully occupied in their feasting as to allow us a clear field to escape from the house.

The stupendous surprise had given me much to think about, and my mind was in a pretty whirl as I walked humbly behind the hooded and cloaked “fellow-countrywoman in distress,” whose bag, once my bag, I carried.

Suppose we should run across some of the servants, who, grasping the situation, would give the alarm—I could easily imagine the excitement that must speedily follow. Could we reach the garden in safety? Well, Robbins was a man of remarkable resolution, and I believed there was another in a savage enough frame of mind to back him up should the occasion arise, so that we could make it extremely interesting for the alcalde.

Carmencita did her part well.

She seemed to be constantly alert for signs of danger. But we were making progress all the while, and the garden drew nearer; once under the shelter of that tropical growth, we might believe ourselves in a fair way toward safety.

When we reached the calle beyond the walls, what then? I felt almost certain Hildegarde would utterly refuse to accept a refuge on board my yacht, so great had been the antipathy she had shown at mention of such a thing, as though it might be freighted with horrors and dissipated roués, instead of being the sedate bachelor quarters of a very lonely fellow who endeavored to forget that he had once been happy, by surrounding himself with books and curios from many lands; perhaps a poor nest in which to install a lady, but with a pure atmosphere, please Heaven.

Then I reflected that it was time enough to cross a bridge when we came to it—we were not yet out of the house and she might change her mind with regard to the yacht; indeed, out of curiosity, be as eager to go on board as she had at first seemed averse to it.

Now we were on the lower floor, and as yet all seemed well.

Five minutes, perhaps less, would tell the story.

It was a serious thing, this braving the anger of the alcalde, who as judge and mayor might yet have the chance to condemn us to the execrable miseries of the Black Hole.

Would she consider that I had undertaken any risk in the endeavor to serve a woman in trouble?—would she dream that had I known the identity of the one who sent out that appeal, memories of the past might have spurred me on to prove that her one-time estimate of my nature was false?

What a fool I was to bother myself whether she cared or not.

It was too late—much too late to matter now.

Then came a sudden hitch—things did not continue to move along as smoothly.

Some one came upon us—I heard a voice questioning little Carmencita, and then roundly abusing her, though much that was said was Greek to my ears, I being but an indifferent Spanish scholar.

Then Robbins took a hand in the matter, fearing that the child would be struck, such was the anger in which the man addressed her.

I saw her try to hold the mate back, as she uttered a terrified little cry, but the big fellow’s indignation was too keen, and with Carmencita clinging to his coat he rushed at the bully.

The passage was but meagerly lighted, but I could see him let fly with all the vigor of his indignant soul.

You have probably many a time watched a noble ten-pin, the last of the half score, go floundering into the ditch under the assault of a well delivered ball—so this fellow of generous proportions was bowled over when Robbins struck home.

I would that it had been my arm that sent him sprawling, for Hildegarde gave Robbins such a look of undisguised admiration as to arouse my deepest envy.

Perhaps my turn would come next.

The bully, who would have laid a hand on the child, scrambled to his feet.

He made off in so hasty a manner that it struck me as ludicrous, nor did it occur to us that we should have prevented his flight until it was too late.

That was a bad blunder, which was apt to cost us dear.

He no sooner found himself clear of us than he began to whoop it up at a lively rate, calling “Murder! thieves! fire!” in a manner that was bound to attract attention, for though the music was on, the boom of his great voice echoed far above all else.

“That was well done, sir,” said Hildegarde, “but we must surely run for it now, for you have knocked down the alcalde himself!”

That was certainly a wretched piece of luck all around, but having done so stupendous a wrong we were dolts not to have tied him neck and crop and thrust him into some corner to cool his heels while we made off.

Robbins did not seem to care an iota; I believe he would just as soon have given the same medicine to the president of the republic, should an occasion arise that called for heroic treatment of this character.

Carmencita no longer tugged at his coat to hold him back—indeed, it was just the opposite; for, horrified at what he had done to the doughty mayor, who in her young eyes was a very august individual, to be greatly feared, she was bent on urging him to make all haste to leave the hacienda.

All of us were of one mind—we did not seem to have the remotest desire to linger there; any natural curiosity we might be supposed to feel concerning what our worthy alcalde might do on his return, backed by a troop of guests, was wholly swallowed up by the thought of reaching the garden, and eventually the calle.

In our forward movement we had the bad fortune to run upon certain of the servants engaged in carrying various hot foods to the dining chamber where the guests were soon expected to assemble.

Here Robbins—confound his luck!—was right in the swim again, while I, being only a rear guard, as it were, had to jog along carrying that miserable bag, and cheated out of my due.

He seemed to have his hand in, and assailed those terrified peons hip and thigh with a lusty vigor that would have done credit to any knight-errant or swashbuckler.

They did some remarkable acrobatic feats under the influence he brought to bear, and it was a miracle that Robbins escaped the deluge of flying viands that strewed the passage after the encounter.

But our end was attained, we had a free and unobstructed way to the exit, and the gardens lay beyond.

The music had abruptly stopped; I could easily imagine how the demoralized alcalde had hurled the players over each other in his fierce desire to make himself heard.

His booming voice sounded like a broadside from the old frigate Constitution, and what he said brought out a tremendous ovation from the male part of his hearers.

We were not lingering just then to discover what his idea of the whole matter might be—in fact, we had not the slightest curiosity in that direction, and but one aim in life—to reach a harbor of refuge.

I was well pleased to see the rear door again—here we had gained entrance to the grand casa, and it was necessary that it serve us again as an exit.

Doubtless, already the numerous visitors of the noble hidalgo were scouring every room and corridor of the great pile of masonry, eager to discover the bold rascals who had dared set upon his excellency and use him as though he were an ox in the shambles.

Let them hunt—the garden lay before us, and after that the street and safety.

Just as my foot crossed the threshold there arose a strange sound; it was the wild clang of a bell, harsh and discordant, and there seemed to be concentrated alarm and terror in its brazen throat, just as the peal of the fire bell at dead of night awakens the liveliest anticipations of dread.

To me it seemed to go with the rest—I was so thoroughly aroused that a thousand bells could not have added another thrill; but Carmencita uttered a wail of anguish as she cried aloud half in Spanish:

“It is the alarm bell! Oh, dear lady, the holy mother protect us now—they will have fastened the door in the wall by the time we reach it. We are lost!—he will kill us all!”

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST KEY.

What Carmencita wailed may have struck dumb terror to the heart of her mistress, but for my part I saw as yet no reason to despair. The association with such a man as Robbins was in itself quite enough to inspire confidence; and besides, there were other good reasons why I should scorn to show the white feather.

We had already started to traverse the gardens, while that infernal alarm bell kept up its fearful clatter, loud enough to awaken the dead.

“Don’t be anxious, we will surely find a way out, door or no door,” I managed to say, close to the hooded head.

Hildegarde turned as if to look at me, but made no attempt at replying, for with such a din it must have been quite useless.

Robbins permitted himself to be guided by the girl, for though he may have felt sure as to the route, it was best to so act that a blunder was out of the question.

We were lucky enough not to run across any gardener, and the idea flashed into my mind that this fellow might be busily engaged fastening the door in the wall.

Hildegarde bore herself well, I am bound to admit—many women must have been dreadfully shocked by the clamorous racket which we had aroused, and bordered close upon hysterics; but she was able to contain herself, though I had no doubt that she must be trembling violently.

Somehow a wave of great pity seemed to fill my heart, for it was truly a most abominable situation for any lady as gently bred as I knew her to have been, carefully sheltered from all scenes of violence, and with the blood of peace-loving Quakers running in her veins.

Then the wall loomed up ahead.

How dreadfully lofty it seemed—I had paid little attention to its height before, but now it appalled me, for there seemed a chance that should the door be closed to our exit we must clamber over the wall in some way if we would escape.

There was a moving figure that caught my attention—coming toward us on the run, and as he rushed into the glow of a lantern that hung from a bush loaded with flowers, I saw that it was the gardener.

He held something in his hand which I immediately determined was the key to the door, the panacea for all our troubles.

Apparently he caught sight of us at about the same time, for his forward motion ceased, and it looked very much as though he were about to begin a retrograde one.

Here was my chance.

Robbins might have run at him, but such a move must have only added the wings of fear to the gardener’s flight.

I had a better plan, a swifter messenger, for that key was decidedly essential to our comfort, and even heroic measures might be pardoned in the effort to secure the talisman that would prove our “open sesame.”

Accordingly, as quick as a flash I rushed to the fore, giving Robbins no time to act, and as I jumped I drew from its place of concealment the reliable little firearm which I had learned through excessive target practice to use almost as well as an expert.

“Stand, or you are a dead man!”

That was what I shouted in Spanish—at least I tried to say it, though assured later on by little Carmencita that what I so fiercely ejaculated was more to the effect that I took the fellow for a ghost come back from the dead, and was ordering him to return to the kingdom of the departed shades.

Never mind; my fierce demeanor should surely have convinced him that he was in dire peril unless he surrendered.

The fool did not have sense enough to see he had not the ghost of a chance to escape—or perhaps he took it for granted that I was as abominable a pistol shot as his countrymen.

When I saw that he meant to disregard my stern command, and that there was immediate danger of both man and key slipping through our fingers, I realized that the time had come for action rather than words.

Now it was not in my heart to kill the poor devil—I had never sent a human being into the other world as yet, though coming uncommonly near it while attacked by Italian brigands on one occasion, and later on when some heathen Chinese thought me a soft mark on the outskirts of old Canton.

Besides, this fellow was in the alcalde’s pay, and only did his duty in the premises.

To wing him then was the height of my ambition as I threw my little firearm forward in a fashion in vogue among all good pistol shots.

Then came the spiteful little crack, hardly louder than the snapping of one’s finger, for modern powder is next to noiseless in its detonation.

“He’s down!” exclaimed Robbins, setting his six foot frame in motion.

I remained with our charge and advanced more quietly.

“Oh, I hope you have not killed him! It was too bad to shoot!” said Hildegarde.

I felt chagrined—what I did never appeared worthy of praise in her eyes, yet she could applaud that tall athlete, Robbins, when he knocked down a man a foot under his height.

“No danger—I aimed to disable; our lives may depend on getting that key, else I wouldn’t have shot the poor devil,” I said, coldly.

All the same I knew I was in for rough usage in case we were caught, for I had drawn the blood of the alcalde’s servant, and while in these queer little republics money is a plaster that can cure almost any political ill, still it must needs be a liberal dose that could soothe the ruffled feelings of the enraged mayor after what we had done on this night of nights.

But we were not captured yet—far from it.

Why, the game was young, and there must needs be many a twist and turn before one could call the cards.

Meanwhile we reached the spot where the wretched gardener lay.

He only had a small leaden pellet in his leg, but the shock had quite overwhelmed him, being unused to warfare, and no doubt he believed himself on the road to a speedy dissolution.

At any rate he bawled lustily in terror one instant, and then called upon his patron saint to ferry him over the Styx the next, mixing up his appeals in a manner truly laughable, until Robbins made a threatening gesture which hushed his vociferation.

“The key!” I shouted, for if anything the noise had swelled to still greater volume, and one must raise his voice to be heard.

“Yes—I am looking for it—I would swear he had it in his hand,” cried the mate, already down on his hands and knees.

“We must find it—everything depends on it.”

“He must have thrown it when he fell.”

It was a bright suggestion, for just beyond the fellow was a dense cluster of bushes.

If we had more light possibly a quick search would discover the missing key.

And this caused me to remember the lantern that was suspended from a twig near by.

I turned to obtain possession of it only to find that the same thought had occurred to another, for Hildegarde already had it in her hand and was tripping toward me.

As I took the lantern from her I could not help from throwing a quick glance under the hood of her face—it was very white and looked, yes, a little pinched with excitement and fright.

“Courage,” I said, involuntarily, just as I might have addressed a strange lady thus thrown upon our protection.

Then I sprang to where Robbins, still on his hands and knees, was groping about among the grass and bushes, bent on finding that elusive key.

It seemed to take a fiendish delight in mocking our search, and as the seconds crept by I began to tremble with apprehension lest, after all, we might be cornered like rats, and eventually fall into the hands of our enemies, or be cut down.

A cry from Hildegarde made me spring erect and turn like a tiger—I could hardly tell why I had such a thrill, save that it was caused by the thought that ruffianly hands might have been laid upon her.

She stood with only little Carmencita at her side, and both were pointing.

“See! the gardener—he escapes!” was what I made out.

Then I saw a moving object—it was the fellow I had shot in the leg, for having discovered that he was not yet quite dead, and no longer menaced by the frowning Robbins, he had rolled to one side and was now pulling himself away very much as I have seen a wounded hare, with both hind legs shattered, drag itself to a burrow.

What mattered it?—the key was what we wanted now most of all; let the poor devil seek safety after his own fashion.

Robbins was also disgusted—I saw him look up, and wondered whether he had conceived the idea of chasing the creeping wretch, to throttle him until he confessed what he had done with the key.

But it was something else that had occurred to my good friend.

“Keep looking, Morgan, while I run and make sure if the door is fast.”

As he said this, I saw him bound away.

The door could only be a biscuit’s toss down the wall, and his errand would not consume more than a couple of minutes at the most, while much might hinge upon the result.

I had the lantern, and with added zeal kept up the search. Did ever a more obstinate key exist than the one we so eagerly sought to discover? At least I had never heard of it.

Then back came Robbins, panting from his exertions, for these big men always become winded more easily than those of us who are blessed with lesser bulk.

As I glanced up into his face, I read our finish there; disappointment was plainly expressed in the grim manner in which the mate clinched his teeth.

Such men are not easily downed, and the glow of his eyes told us of a sullen determination to keep up the good work, even though we were compelled to force a way into the hacienda and reach the street by fighting those who might there oppose our progress.

CHAPTER VIII.

MY TURN COMES.

“We must go back—there is a large party advancing. Even if we found the key, the chances are we could hardly use it.”

Robbins’ declaration gave me a chill.

Go back? That meant to the house where we could no longer hope to remain concealed! Was this the beginning of the end?

I braced myself for the shock—above all, I must remember whose eyes were upon me—the chance I had often prayed for might now be close at hand, and at any rate I must appear to be as cool as an iceberg, no matter if my blood seemed on fire and my heart thumped like a force pump.

“Then let us go—something may turn up. The door is lost to us, but there are other ways of reaching the street, and we’re going to get there,” I said, with dogged determination.

So we wheeled around.

I could not say what object I had in holding on to the lantern—perhaps it was purely mechanical on my part, but, after all, it proved a very lucky move.

No doubt Robbins was also endeavoring to whip his faculties into line and conjure up some new plan, which, if successfully carried out, might result in our escape.

I know I never racked my brains with a greater vim in the whole course of my life than during that brief passage of time.

And the idea that suddenly dawned upon me was, after all, more in the nature of a genuine inspiration than the result of reasoning.

As we proceeded we came to the abrupt turn where the path left the wall, and took up a direct line for the casa itself.

Here stood the little toolhouse of the gardener.

We had seen it twice before, and on each occasion I had given it but a cursory glance, but now it suddenly appealed to me with almost irresistible persuasion.

“Stop here—I have a plan!” I exclaimed.

Fortunately, the hottest part of the hunt seemed to cover other parts of the gardens, and this particular section was as yet free to us.

“What have you found?” demanded Robbins.

I pointed to the gardener’s toolhouse.

“Bah! they will surely search that.”

“But I don’t mean to hide,” I said.

“A fort, then—it might serve for a little time, but capture would be sure.”

“Nonsense, man! The roof—don’t you see it is almost as high as the wall.”

Then Robbins gave a cry of delight.

“Bully boy!—our chance at last! Now, only to get on the roof! Oh, for a ladder.”

“Let us look.”

The door of the long, little building was wide open, though, if my memory served me rightly, it had been closed when we passed before.

This mystery was quickly explained when my friend pointed to some blood spots upon the sill; the wounded gardener had sought refuge in the place, it being his first thought as a haven.

At our entrance the poor devil who had been trying to conceal himself behind a lot of pots and tubs, believing we had followed with the purpose of finishing him, began to pray about as vigorously as I ever heard any one.

One quick glance around failed to show me what I longed to see more than all else—a ladder.

There was a coil of stout rope hanging from a peg, and this I seized upon and tossed over to Robbins, who seemed disposed to let me run the whole business now, perhaps because it was I who had conceived the idea.

It was full time I was forging to the front.

Having grasped the bull by the horns, I went from one thing to another without a break.

Hardly had Robbins clutched the rope than I was bending over the terrified gardener, and gripping his shoulder so fiercely that, believing his last minute had come, he let out a yell and appeared about to keel right over, to avoid which I shook him with considerable roughness, and luckily remembering, as I thought, one particular word of Spanish, I shouted in the old fellow’s ear:

“Escalado! escalado! escalado!”

And he actually comprehended me this time, which fact must be put down to my credit.

Understanding that he had a chance for his miserable life, the fellow aroused himself and sprang a jargon upon me which was about as intelligible as so much Sanscrit or Hebrew would have been, accompanying his words with vehement and eloquent gestures.

For the life of me I did not know whether he was begging me to spare him for the sake of his sixteen motherless bairns, or asking the favor of being buried in the true faith.

I shook him again, and shouted louder:

“Escalado! escalado!—where is the escalado?”

More wild protestations that were as Greek, more flinging of the arms. Confound the old chap! why couldn’t he speak English?

“Señor—oh, señor!”

It was little Carmencita who called aloud, and looking up I discovered that both she and Hildegarde were in the doorway, surveying all that went on with eager curiosity.

Oh! here was an interpreter, and my misery gave promise of being ended.

“What does he say?” I demanded, furious to think of the time wasted.

“The ladder is behind the toolhouse,” she said, in a mixture of Spanish and English.

“Good! good! Robbins, lay hold on it. We may be happy yet.”

I withdrew my hand from the frightened chap, who straightway fell to groaning his prayers as though desirous of preparing himself for being speedily ushered into eternity.

I cared no longer for his woes—there was good Robbins buckling under the weight of the ladder, which he had found just as the girl had said.

I was more than once inclined to believe her bright eyes had discovered it sticking out, and that the gardener had not, after all, understood my elegant Spanish phraseology, bad luck to him!

Robbins quickly had the ladder slanting up to the roof of the toolhouse—it was long enough to extend a foot above the wall, a fact I noted with extreme satisfaction, for I had to think of getting down as well as up.

“Can you ascend?”

I half extended my hand to assist Hildegarde, but perhaps she failed to note the fact, or else did not care to accept my aid, for she mounted the ladder with the agility of a gazelle leaping over the green veldt—a swish of her skirts and she had landed upon the gently sloping roof of the toolhouse.

I wanted to cry “well done,” but something seemed to hold my tongue; she would not care for such an expression of appreciation on my part.

“You next, Carmencita,” I said, and the child was up in almost a twinkling, to meet the eager, outstretched hand above, and be drawn safely to the roof.

“I’m last,” declared Robbins.

“Very good,” was my reply, and with a rush I darted up the ladder.

Then came the sturdy mate—the lantern I had blown out and left below, as we had no longer any need for its services, and its light might betray us to the enemy.

They had scattered in various directions, so that the whole garden seemed to be undergoing a species of spring cleaning, bushes being roundly whipped and every foot of ground closely searched—all but the very corner where we were so busily engaged in working out our own salvation.

No sooner was Robbins able to plant his feet upon the roof than he laid hold of his side of the clumsy ladder, even as I had grasped the other.

It was a cumbersome affair, that certainly reflected no great credit on its builder, but something had to come when the two of us got to work, and hence the ladder was successfully hoisted and swung over the outside of the wall.

What did this mean? It failed to touch the bottom! There must be a greater depth in the street than on the garden side.

We bent down, holding it with main strength, and still found no footing.

“It must go,” I gasped, red in the face.

“Surely. We take chances. Say when,” was the reply of the mate.

“Now, then.”

Both released our hold together—there was a dull sound below, as the foot of the ladder struck, and I listened with my heart in my mouth, expecting a crash as it toppled over, but it failed to come.

At least, we did not seem reduced to the sterner resort to the rope, as yet.

“Hold on—let me go,” I cried, clutching hold of the eager Robbins, who was already halfway over the parapet of the adobe wall.

“Nixy—my business—yours is to look after her, Morgan,” he hurriedly answered.

Undoubtedly she heard him.

I could not contradict the fellow—surely that was not the time or place to enter into a discussion as to what my duty might be toward Hildegarde; once it had been my highest ambition to serve her as a man may only serve the one woman he loves on earth, but that had long since passed, and I was no longer anything of a factor in her world, only a bitter memory of a past that she would sooner forget.

Meanwhile Robbins had found a footing on the top round of the ladder.

“Will it hold?” I inquired, eagerly, fearfully, for I dreaded lest the old thing would topple over and precipitate him into the street.

It was bad enough with Robbins, but, deprived of his cheery presence, our chances would be poor indeed.

“Yes, I think so. Take this rope and lower one end with me—it will help steady things. Once below, I’ll put the ladder on a secure foundation.”

Then he went down.

A few brief seconds of suspense—I knew he had reached the street, for he let go the rope, which I pulled up and made a noose at the end.

I could hear him move the ladder some, in order to plant it more steadily.

It was a time of great suspense—those in the garden had discovered our presence on the roof of the toolhouse, and while some ran to the door in the wall, hoping to get out and cut off our escape, others gathered below, and not only shouted at us, but began to throw things, the curs!

I was tempted to open on them with my pistol, but realized that other affairs needed attention.

The noose was slipped about Carmencita, and the child, lowered by my arms to the ladder, made the descent in safety.

Once more the rope was drawn up. Hildegarde was next. She took the noose from my hand and slipped it under her arms without my assistance; I could not but admire her courage. Next she stepped to the edge of the wall, and looked fearfully down to where the unseen ladder stood.

“You must forgive me, but it can’t be helped,” I said, suddenly, with a determination that would not be baffled.

In another instant I had her again in my arms, she whom I had not seen for two long years, and yet who had once been flesh of my flesh, the woman I had loved above all else on God’s footstool, and whom I had in my fool’s paradise called—“wife!”

CHAPTER IX.

SAVING THE SATCHEL.

There were certainly enough dramatic elements concentrated in that critical moment to make it an epoch of my life, long to be marked with a white cross.

Those in the garden were throwing whatever they could lay hands on, and if the shower of missiles such as adobe bricks and broken flowerpots was not overwhelming it could be laid to the scarcity of material rather then any lack of desire on the part of the excited participants.

One fellow appeared to have a gun of some sort, and began banging away with a recklessness that gave me a cold chill.

True, I had no fear of his aim, but there was always danger from an accidental hit, for I had seen greenhorns bring the largest fish to net, and knew the quality of luck.

I had an idea one or two of the bolder spirits among the alcalde’s guests were endeavoring to climb to the roof of the toolhouse, a feat only to be accomplished by the most athletic.

These things, vexatious as they certainly were, could not keep me from devoting my whole energies toward the task now engaging my attention.

In fact, they were of no greater moment than a swarm of angry bees buzzing about my ears.

Perhaps Hildegarde might have ventured to make some remonstrance had I given her an opportunity to do so; but my prompt action swept everything before it.

I would not dare attempt to analyze the very peculiar feeling that came over me at the magnetic touch of her person; I had steeled my heart to resist all influences of this kind, and foolishly believed I was strong enough to approach this woman as calmly and indifferently as though she were a stranger.

Alas! I realized my mistake as I crushed her almost savagely in my arms; surely there was hardly any necessity for such a bear’s hug.

Would she notice my unnecessary fervor, and in her soul despise me for such weakness?

The thought, coming with electrical swiftness, made me strong again; I could not bear her scorn or contempt.

So I lowered her over the parapet of the wall, seeking to so arrange it that her feet might rest upon the upper round of the unseen ladder.

She seemed quite self-possessed, and aided me by grasping the top of the wall.

“The ladder—have you found it?” I called in her ear, close to my lips.

“Yes—yes—let me go!” she panted.

Perhaps other reasons influenced her—perhaps she was even anxious for my safety; but in the perversity of my heart I chose to believe that it was the desire to be free from the hateful clasp of my arms.

Promptly I released her. The rope was still with me, and I held on to that, planting myself firmly against the parapet of the adobe wall, so that I might be in a position to bear a shock should she by any mischance lose her footing.

While I lowered away, unconsciously breathing a prayer of thanks with each yard gained, I became conscious of the fact that the mixed assemblage in the garden had found a new supply of missiles, for all manner of things rattled about me, and several times I was struck quite heavily.

But nothing turned me from my grim determination to carry out my project to the very end. A sigh of relief escaped me when I realized from the sudden slackening of the rope that Hildegarde was safely deposited upon the pavement outside.

Now I could pay attention to my own case.

It was high time.

One of the bold climbers had managed to gain the roof of the toolhouse.

He was just staggering to his feet, and I could see in the faint light from the lanterns carried by those in the gardens, that he wore some sort of gorgeous uniform.

Then it flashed across me that this could be no other than the illustrious Gen. Toreado, commander-in-chief of the grand army of several hundred barefoot soldiers, a man who had been a soldier of fortune all his life, leader in ten revolutions, and one not to be lightly offended.

It was not my intention at that particular moment to tarry there—I had no reason to desire an interview with the ferocious old fire eater who was wont to go raging up and down like a burning brand, through these wonderful little Central American republics.

My hand was on the parapet of the wall, and I knew I could reach the ladder and hustle down to apparent safety before the general could scramble over the gently sloping room to prevent me.

This I was just in the act of doing, when of a sudden I remembered something.

It was that confounded satchel!

I had, of course, laid it down, the better to place Hildegarde on the ladder.

To abandon it was not to be considered for even an instant.

What would she say to me? It contained perhaps her jewels—yes, and there was that silver picture frame inclosing the photo of my lucky successor. Surely these things were worth risking my life for.

At any rate, I did not take the time to think over the matter—a man is bound to act pretty much on impulse in such a case.

I abandoned all present ideas of retreat, and instead, sounded the charge.

No doubt that sturdy old war horse Gen. Toreado, was considerably surprised when I gave an Indian yell and descended upon him with all the fury of a young tornado.

I did not mean he should have any chance to draw a weapon, not caring to spit myself, carried forward by the violence of my rush, upon his Toledo blade.

He was a much older man than I, but a soldier must take hard knocks as they come, and it was neither the time nor place to solve questions of military etiquette.

I rammed him good and hard, meaning to clear the deck in one round.

The general had doubtless found considerable difficulty in making the ascent, for he was still breathing heavily when I ran up against him.

It was much easier going down.

All he had to do was to spread out his legs and arms like a huge jumping frog, take a lovely somersault, and, presto! the thing was done.

If one looks far enough there is usually adequate compensation for all laborious efforts.

But I am of the opinion that the venerable fire eater never fully realized how striking an example of equation I solved when I tumbled him so neatly from the roof of the toolshed; and should I ever have the misfortune to fall into his hands, something besides gratitude would mark his action toward me.

Of course, I had not the slightest idea of ever becoming his prisoner.

Another head had cropped up above the edge of the roof, but when I made a dash in that quarter, the fellow let go in a hurry, and crashed down on those who were so industriously boosting him from below.

All of this in plain view of the alcalde and his merry guests, who were almost beside themselves with astonishment and rage.

The missiles flew hotter than ever, a perfect bombardment of Fort Sumter, so to speak; but my mind was now set upon finding the precious bag, and I did not even try to dodge the magnificent assortment of decayed vegetables, adobe bricks and miscellaneous gardener’s tools that clattered upon the roof.

Could I have unconsciously kicked the satchel overboard when I made my furious rush for the doughty general?

This was my first thought when I failed to locate it immediately.

Singularly enough, the loss of the exasperating thing affected me tremendously—I even dreaded the thought of facing the owner again without my trust. What would she say, and how her tears must flow for that lost photo in the silver frame—hang him!

Then sudden joy—an object caught my eye that looked suspiciously like the bag.

I pounced upon it with an eagerness born of despair, and almost shouted “hallelujah!” when I found it was what I sought.

Now to conduct a masterly retreat.

No one else had as yet appeared on the roof, and apparently my enemies had ceased to worry me for a brief interval.

I tried to do everything decently and in order, but found it convenient to make each second tell, for I had already received several knocks from various missiles, thrown with more or less vigor, and there was danger lest one might do me irreparable damage.

When I flung myself over the wall, I was at first unable to find the ladder—my swaying feet struck only an empty void, and the awful thought came into my head that perhaps enemies had arrived in the calle and removed my only means of escape.

Just then, however, I heard a voice which I recognized even in the midst of the riotous proceedings as belonging to Robbins:

“To the left—only a foot or so—to the left!” was what he shouted.

Of course, I knew this was for my guidance—that he had seen my ineffectual search for the ladder, and was bent on telling me where it lay.

So I readily found footing, and lost no time in sliding down to the ground, where Robbins caught me in his arms, and set me on my feet.

It was just as well, for my head had begun to spin a little, possibly from the effect of a collision with an adobe brick that had not been any too soft.

“Why did you go back?” asked a voice, close to my ear—Hildegarde’s voice.

“To get the satchel,” I replied, grimly, “and to do it I had to tumble that magnificent old Gen. Toreado from the roof.”

“It was splendid; but, oh, so foolish of you!”

That served as an enigma for me, and often I pondered upon its possibilities, without being able to decide just what she meant to imply.

But Robbins, like a sensible fellow, had no idea of letting us stay there a second more than was absolutely necessary for me to get my wind.

“Come, let’s dust it,” he said; “the beggars are bearing down on us yonder.”

What he said was only actual truth, for a crowd was coming down the calle, uttering all sorts of cries, and ready to give us more trouble than we were prepared to face.

So we ran.

CHAPTER X.

THE SAME FOOL.

I take it that even the bravest of soldiers do not consider that a masterly retreat reflects upon their valor, especially when it can only be avoided by serious consequences.

As for Robbins and myself, we hadn’t the least scruple about levanting, and our only anxiety lay in the fear that we might not be able to get away speedily enough, for those fellows were swooping down with considerable promptness, and we had those in our charge who could not be expected to run as rapidly as ourselves.

I must confess I was pleasantly surprised to see that Carmencita could gallop along like a young fawn, while Hildegarde also proved herself able to accomplish something in that line.

So we left the circus behind—for they were still keeping up the delectable chorus over the garden wall in a manner that would have won great praise on the comic opera stage.

My one thought now was to cover the acres of ground separating us from the “pebbly strand,” where the dimpling waters of the Caribbean kissed the shore of Tobasco, one time a republic.

The good city of Bolivar would ere long be a very unhealthy place for a fellow of my size: doubtless I had been recognized as a Yankee by some of the rabble. Words I had shouted would have betrayed this fact, if nothing else, and there were few enough of my breed in the capital, so that my identification would be easy.

Truly, the sooner my feet trod the deck of my saucy little vessel, the better for my peace of mind. They have an uncomfortable way of standing a fellow up before a file of barefoot soldiers, and against a dead wall, in these revolutionary republics, and then trying the case after the execution; and when one considers what wretched shots these fellows are, the fear lest they might miss their mark and require a second volley, would be greater than the actual pangs of dissolution.

For the moment I had forgotten what Hildegarde had so vehemently declared about ever setting foot on my yacht.

Really, there was no other refuge—it was Hobson’s choice.

If she proved obdurate, and ventured to fly in the face of good fortune, we must adopt some other plan, for I was grimly determined she should owe her escape to my much abused boat.

Escape—from what?

Well, there was the riotous mob back yonder, danger enough in itself; but, going back to the prime cause—escape from what?

That reminded me of the fact that as yet I had not the faintest inkling concerning the nature of the peril that menaced her in the house of Bolivar’s worthy alcalde.

My willingness to risk life and liberty in her service for what might simply be a whim—to do all this while utterly in the dark as to the cause—would these things occur to her as worthy of notice?

Well, we were making good time, you may be sure, hoping to outdistance the crowd.

They had sighted us, however, and were in full cry, like a pack of hounds after a fox.

We chose the more unfrequented streets for many reasons, chief among which was the fact that on the main thoroughfares our passage must of necessity be blocked by the merrymaking crowds.

There was always a danger lest some fellow, prowling in these darker calles for some evil purpose, might endeavor to bring us to bay.

I would feel genuinely sorry for him if Robbins found a chance to smash a blow straight from the shoulder into his face, for the big mate possessed the power of a bull.

At the same time, while I ran alongside of Hildegarde, I held something in my hand, the one that was disengaged from that accursed satchel—something that few men care to face, at least when the finger of desperation toys with the trigger.

I was not in a mood for play.

It had apparently reached a point where the whole population of Bolivar was arrayed against us—men, women and children.

The man who raised a hand against Hildegarde would rue the consequences.

I was bent upon saving her—perhaps for that other fellow, whom I hated; but, nevertheless, I was determined to save her at any cost.

All the while we were zigzagging across the city, and nearing blue water.

I tried to imagine I could smell the salty air, but that was impossible in Bolivar, since every cable had an odor peculiar unto itself, and each exceeded the preceding one in intensity.

Now and then I bawled out which turn Robbins was to make, who galloped in the van with the little dark-faced girl, for he was a complete stranger in Bolivar, while I had haunted almost every street in the days of my idling.

Once I saw a dark figure rise up ahead as if about to seize upon the mate, doubtless thinking all that came to his net fair prey.

Poor fool! He did not know that it would have been better for him to have run up against a steam engine than that son of Neptune, with his sledgehammer fist.

I heard an awful impact, saw the fellow go whirling back into the darkness whence he had so eagerly sprung, and, when passing the scene of the encounter, doleful groans told me that chap would trouble us no more.

About this time another thing occurred to give me anxiety.

Hildegarde had tripped along in a fashion to arouse my secret admiration, for it had never occurred to me in the past that she had the making of a heroine in her. I had considered her simply a little domestic despot, who would rule the family roost or at once abdicate.

But the chase was beginning to tell upon the little woman; excitement had lent her wings, as it were, up to now; but even this goad began to fail in spurring her on.

We could not be far away from the shore now, and possibly in five minutes our eyes would be gladdened by a glimpse of the dancing waves shimmering in the tropical night, with the lights of my yacht gleaming there like a beacon of hope.

Yes, Hildegarde was failing.

I could hear her panting; being no experienced sprinter, she had not learned to keep her lips together while she ran.

There was danger of a collapse.

Really, this would not do at all.

I could hardly pick her up and carry her, even though she were willing; but there was a way in which I might assist.

The now useless weapon I thrust into a pocket, changed that miserable handbag to my other set of digits, and then, for the second time that night, without so much as “by your leave,” threw an arm around Hildegarde.

Did she shrink? Was her hatred for me so bitter that she would face any danger rather than suffer such contact? Well, I did not feel any movement of this sort, nor would it have made the least difference to me in the desperate condition of affairs that confronted us.

Now we made out better.

With such assistance as I could give, Hildegarde was enabled to keep up.

Strange how I should at such a critical moment allow my thoughts to fly far back into the dim past to where a young man and a maiden fair sauntered through wheat fields and clover patches, each forgetful of the fact that there had been lovers true before their day.

Perhaps close contact between a sturdy arm and a winsome waist has been responsible for some very queer things, but I venture to declare it never gave a man more utter contempt for present danger than fell upon me just then.

Why, I felt as though I could have “taken wings of the morning,” and soared away with her far from the maddening crowd, so that we two might once more go Maying as in those halcyon days before she chose to consider me deficient in manly attributes, and renew the vows made under the chestnut blooms.

I suppose men will continue to make fools of themselves until the end of time—that is perfectly natural; but it may be set down as a little surprising when one deliberately swears he means to remain a celibate the remainder of his life, and then bows down a second time before the cruel goddess who had been the cause of his wanderings.

Bah! I grew disgusted with myself, and unconsciously fierce in my actions, until a little “Oh!” close beside me gave warning that it was something more fragile than a stone idol of the ancient mound builders of Mexico that I embraced.

The bay—would it ever come into view?

And what then? How were we to pass over the intervening water, so as to reach my yacht?

I kept a boat ashore during the day, but it was now late at night, and it would be only through the merest luck if such were the case at this time.

Besides, where we reached the water might be a considerable distance from the spot where the yacht’s boat lay.

Still, there was others, and we would not find fault because the craft lacked the conveniences of my own dainty naphtha launch.

By chance, before we came to the water, we had to cross a lighted street, and, intuitively, I knew my companion had turned to look at me.

Her hood had fallen back, her golden hair was streaming in the wind like Lady Godiva’s and she never looked more distractingly lovely, albeit the terror of this thing had whitened her delicate face, usually aglow with roses, and lent a strange, wild gleam to her blue eyes as she fastened them on me.

My first thought was that she was afraid of me because of my fierce eagerness, but when she spoke I knew I had been in error.

“See the blood on my arm—on your face. Oh, God, Morgan! you—you are cruelly hurt!” she cried.

CHAPTER XI.

A STERN CHASE.

When Hildegarde cried out in such evident dismay upon discovering that I was bleeding more or less profusely from some miserable cut on the head, my first sensation, strange as it may seem, was one of pleasure.

That she should care at all whether I suffered was a singular thing in itself, for people do not usually interest themselves in those for whom they profess to entertain a feeling of scorn that at least borders on hatred.

This feeling was only too transitory, a fleeting glimpse, as it were, of that Paradise, the doors of which were shut against me forever.

Then came the speedy reaction.

Of course, it was at the sight of blood she was dismayed; women seldom can see it without more or less alarm; and, besides, it had dabbled the side of her dress—my blood, shed for her, but, alas, shed in vain!

“It’s too bad. I’m sorry it stained your dress; really, I didn’t know I was hurt,” I managed to stammer, in some confusion, for the sudden change in thought that it was the gown and not my condition which caused her dismay gave me a bad turn.

There was not time for further conversation.

We had reached the water front at last, thank goodness! and now for a change of base.

Just as I had pictured in my mind, there was the noble harbor, with the little waves shimmering in the soft starlight, and lapping the shore with that slumberous murmur so pleasing to the romantic soul.

Eagerly I threw my gaze far out upon the bay to where I had last seen my yacht.

Her anchorage had not been changed, and her lights were plainly visible; indeed, it seemed to me she was unusually illuminated.

A cry from Robbins drew my attention to another quarter:

“A steamer in port! Arrived after sundown!”

Sure enough, not a great distance away from the yacht, other lights could be seen, indicating the huge, black hulk of a steamer at anchor.

Then I was able to give something of a guess as to why the yacht was illuminated. I had been expecting visitors to join me here, and the steamer had arrived in unusually quick time, ahead of her schedule.

Those were matters that gave me very little concern just then.

A man cannot be expected to take much notice of future social engagements when a noisy pack of enraged citizens is in full cry at his heels—and they were coming along in quite fine style, I assure you, a genuine mob, such as I had read about in stories of Paris under the Reign of Terror, men and women vying with each other in the savage shout of:

“Muerta los Gringoes!”

It was rather thrilling, but decidedly unpleasant, all the same.

What we wanted now was a boat, and we needed it badly, too.

Little we cared what kind of a boat it was, so long as it would comfortably hold the crowd and allow of decent progress through the water.

There was none at the exact spot where we burst upon the shore.

Hence, it became necessary that we keep up our jog trot until we met the object of which we were in search.

In starting along the water line, we were careful to head toward the levee, where the business of the port was carried on, passengers and freight landed from steamers, and where any number of boats of all sizes and descriptions would be found, day and night.

On the other hand, had we turned to the left, we might have run less chance of meeting opposition, but, all the same, our opportunities for finding a craft would be smaller.

At the time Hildegarde cried out upon discovering blood upon her gown, I had hastily withdrawn my supporting arm.

Without the assistance I had given her, she made poor progress, indeed, so that I was forced to once more encircle her waist; the mischief had already been done, and it could not be made worse.

A shout from Robbins—a shout that gave me sudden pleasure, for it seemed to prophesy good news.

I saw him rush forward and bend over some dark object on the beach.

It was a boat!

Alas! there was no sign of oars, or any other propelling power, and, without these, what folly to think of going upon the great bay.

We could not linger to lament our wretched fortune; already the leaders of the pursuing mob had come stringing out from among the houses, and were even now chasing along the strand.

Better luck next time. Because one boat proved unavailable was no reason for despair.

There would be a number of them presently, and it would be a singular thing on this still night if we did not find one already in the water, ready for use.

I knew a spot where we always landed from the yacht, and there I felt positive of discovering just what we sought.

Ha! Another dark object hove in sight, but this time Robbins did not shout—one disappointment had made him shy.

It was just as well, for, while this boat was equipped with oars, it was far too small to hold the four of us.

Here Robbins and I had a very brief clash, springing from a bit of brief generosity on his part.

“Two can go—you and the lady,” he said; “even the child might squeeze in.”

“And you?” I demanded.

“I’ll take my chances farther on,” was the unabashed reply.

“I’ll see you—in Guinea first! Just gallop along; and, remember, we sink or swim together.”

Robbins was forced to give in, but he did hate to lose this chance of sending us to safety; no doubt he knew from the tone of my voice that I was accustomed to having my own way, and wouldn’t be balked.

But I never could forget the brave fellow’s genuine, disinterested generosity, though I would see him even farther than Guinea ere I would accept his sacrifice.

We were again on the jump.

These two disappointments were serious in more than one way.

They aroused false hopes, and at the same time allowed our pursuers to draw nearer, for while we halted they continued to advance, eager to close with the Gringoes who had created such an uproar in Bolivar this night of the flower feast.

No doubt they were very anxious to make our acquaintance at short range; the rumor that a glittering reward for our apprehension, dead or alive, by the worthy alcalde had permeated their ranks and enthused them with the most ardent zeal.

On our part, we respectfully declined the honor of an introduction, and were even more anxious to shake the dust of Bolivar’s metropolis from our shoes than they were to have us depart hence.

We were now drawing close to the wooden landing stage.

Here, I felt positive, we must find what we sought; but, should this prove a fallacy, then was our finish in sight.

At least, I seemed to feel a grim sort of humor in the fact that Hildegarde would realize my worth when I had departed hence.

She could not have gone much farther, I am positive; that had been a killing pace for the little woman; surely, something she had never done before, and might never again have to undertake during the whole course of her natural life.

I could feel her becoming more and more a dead weight on my arm.

At length, just as we drew near the stage, her feet lagged, and then utterly refused to move.

She looked up at me almost piteously, and never shall I forget the expression of her face as I beheld it in the cold starlight.

“Leave me! oh! leave me, and save yourself, Morgan!” she whispered, having no breath for more.

“No, I’ll be d—— if I do!” I cried, almost savagely, and with that I snatched her up as though she were an infant, and thus laden, I pattered out on the landing stage.

Already I heard Robbins cheering, and I knew he had struck a bonanza.

This renewed my strength, for there is no incentment in this world equal to newly aroused hope.

I had already scented more trouble.

Robbins had not found the quay deserted, for I could see several figures besides his out yonder.

These I knew to be native boatmen, anxious to find trade, since a steamer had anchored in the harbor.

They were, as a rule, rough fellows, eager to earn a real at any time, but, if inclined to be ugly, would make bad customers.

When I arrived, I found Robbins already at loggerheads with the fellows.

Through Carmencita, he had endeavored to hire one of them to take us to the yacht.

Ordinarily, the men would have jumped at the opportunity to earn a fat fee, but they seemed to realize that something out of the usual run was in the wind, and they “hung in stays”—that is, refused to come about to our way of thinking.

Probably their quick ears must have caught what it was their compatriots on the beach were shouting as they ran along, and thus knew of the dazzling reward that had been offered for our apprehension.

Really, the case was one that demanded heroic treatment.

There were three of the boatmen—big, hulking chaps all, and could they delay us only a few minutes, all was lost.

I grasped the situation as fully as though it were spread before me in illuminated text.

And I knew that promptness alone could save us such a crisis.

My first act was to gently deposit my burden upon the planks of the landing stage, after which I laid hold upon the little argument I carried in a back pocket.

Robbins was ahead of me.

One of the boatmen, itching to possess some of that dazzling reward, had reached out and actually laid his dirty hand on the mate.

Talk about your catapults of olden days that hurled huge stones against the gate of citadel or fortress, they could not have gotten in their insidious work with greater effect than did the mate of the Pathfinder.

I saw the big boatman suddenly double up, after the manner of a hinge—at the same time he seemed propelled through space, vanished in blackness beyond the end of the platform, and immediately a tremendous splash announced his safe arrival below.

It was now my turn to take command.

“Put the ladies in a boat, and be quick about it, Robbins. I’ll keep these chaps in check. Sing out when you’re ready!” I cried.

The other boatmen had recoiled when they saw the starlight gleam wickedly from the blue barrel of the revolver with which I confronted them.

“Get out! run! or you are dead men! Vamos—muerta!” I shouted.

They comprehended the menacing action, if not my elegant phraseology, and began to back away from such dangerous quarters.

Still, they were ugly and treacherous customers.

It was my desire to have more of their room and less of their company about the time I must jump into the boat.

The crowd had almost reached the quay, and in thirty seconds all would be lost; but in good time I heard Robbins’ cheery voice over the edge of the stringpiece shouting:

“Ready, Morgan! Jump for it, man!”

And I jumped.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LAST RESORT.

The native boatmen made a rush at the last instant, encouraged by the near proximity of their fellows; but they missed me by ten feet.

I landed in the stern of the boat, just where Robbins had intended I should.

He already had the oars in his hands, having severed the painter with his knife, and instantly bent his broad back with a swoop that might have done credit to a champion sculler getting away from the starting line.

We moved—open water appeared between the boat and the landing stage. Thank Heaven! we were off!

It was too early to crow; there were other boats, and some of those fellows could row even as well as the muscular mate.

Still, we had the chance for which we erstwhile so ardently prayed.

The affair had now assumed a different phase, and promised to be a water chase. With my yacht in sight, I had great hopes of winning out.

Besides, Hildegarde was going on board—she must have forgotten her violent declaration that nothing could induce her to set her foot on that detestable yacht.

When I dropped into the stern of the boat, I naturally floundered a little; but it was beamy enough to allow one a chance to recover, and I knew I had business to attend to at my end, as well as Robbins did with his oars.

For instance, there were two ugly boatmen on the landing stage; I imagined they would be in just the humor to hurl anything after us they could lay their hands on, and since we were not alone in the boat, it was my business to prevent such a bombardment.

As their forms loomed up on the edge of the planks, and I saw one fellow raise his arm to hurl some heavy weight into our boat that might have sunk us, not to mention the chances for mangled limbs, I sent him my compliments instanter.

With the flash and the report, both men dropped flat upon the dock, one from fright, the other, I fervently hoped, because he had a bit of hot lead somewhere about his anatomy. When I heard him groaning and uttering a perfect prize collection of swear words, I knew I had pinked the rascal, and my spirits went up accordingly.

Robbins was tugging away like an engine, but the clumsy old boat seemed to move through the water like a tub or a derelict.

I heard the mate grumble.

“What’s wrong, old man?” I called, watching the quay for expected figures, for we were still too close for comfort, despite strenuous exertions.

“Pulls like she had an anchor down. Holy Moses! how’ll we ever get there at this rate?”

His words gave me a sudden thought, born of suspicion; I looked over the rounded stern of the boat, and was just in time to discover a human head, which instantly vanished.

“Now she moves!” cried the mate.

“Yes; it was that lubber holding on to the keel and dragging—the fellow you sent in.”

It was fortunate I discovered his clever ruse when I did, for a little more of it would have ruined us.

We were leaving the quay well behind now, but I could see that it was rapidly filling with people, who shouted in a way that might not be misunderstood.

Of course, they would immediately seize upon all the available boats at the landing stage, and put out in hot pursuit.

Who cared? With the open bay before us, and my good yacht in sight, I felt as though this stage of my troubles was nearing its end.

We could hear them tumbling into the boats, and I only hoped their eagerness to share in the golden reward would cause them to overcrowd every craft.

Then came the splash of oars in the water, and we knew we were in for the last stage of this really exciting affair.

I had great confidence in Robbins, more than I felt in the oars he handled, which I feared were of the usual treacherous character habitual among those shiftless boatmen of Bolivar, and which might snap under his mighty strokes.

Still the crowd gathered, as though half of the city’s population had been drawn to the water side by this modest little affair of ours.

Never had the frail landing stage been put to such a severe test.

I trembled for the result, and my fears proved not without foundation, for suddenly there came a tremendous crash, a din of shouting and shrieking, not unmixed with laughter, for the tide was low and the water shallow, and then we knew Bolivar would be put to the expense of a new landing stage as one result of this wonderful “gringo hunt.”

Hildegarde was naturally alarmed at the tremendous commotion back of us, and feared that some scores of persons might be drowned; but I calmed her as best I could by explaining how very shallow the water was, and what amphibious creatures these people were.

Besides, we had troubles of our own, and in a case of this kind “every tub must stand on its own bottom.”

The rude boat was but a hollow mockery when it came to a question of speed—perhaps by some accident we had chanced upon the very poorest of the lot, but it could not be set down against Robbins, who at the time was compelled to accept what the gods gave him, and to be influenced more by the position of the various craft than anything else.

I had hoped we would hold our own, and thus lead the pursuers a merry dance up to the very side of the yacht.

It was not to be.

My ear was not finely educated in matters of this sort, but even I could tell that we were being steadily overhauled.

There was no mystery about it—the other boats pulled two pairs of oars apiece.

That probably meant more work for me.

I remembered that I had discharged a number of shots, and that in its present condition my revolver was next to useless.

And I also joyfully recollected purchasing a box of cartridges that very evening, intending to take it aboard the yacht.

What great, good fortune! Why, things were working harmoniously all around!

My nimble fingers started to search for that godsend of a pasteboard box, which was discovered snugly reposing in a pocket of my coat. Then I tore it open, and proceeded to load.

I rather guess few men ever replenished the chambers of a revolver under more singular and exciting conditions, with a jerky boat, only starlight to see by, and closely pursued by several detachments of fierce, vindictive natives.

Who the fellows in the other boat might be I neither knew nor cared; perhaps some of them might have been numbered among the original guests of the mayor, although I doubted this very much, as those chaps, if they had kept up the long chase, would have been too winded to do much rowing.

More likely they consisted of other watermen, or soldiers recruited by the riotous mob in its whirlwind passage through the town.

Men in all lands are mightily moved by the alluring glitter of a golden prize, and these fellows risked everything with that in view.

Hence, I had no other feeling for them save contempt; they might have aroused my respect could I have believed them influenced by any patriotic motive, but hired assassins deserved no mercy at my hands.

And I was grimly resolved that, having enlisted for the war, I was not to be deterred from doing my duty, with a precious cargo on board and a haven in sight.

Let them come on; there would be more blood than mine to flow, for no man should put a foot inside this old tub while I had a shot left or could wield a boathook.

Straining my eyes, I could see two boats coming up; the other had fallen behind, being like our own, a poor makeshift.

They were overhauling us fast enough, and unless some miracle offered, we must take our chances with them.

As near as I could make out in the starlight, there were about four men in each boat; the odds were certainly overwhelming, but true Anglo-Saxon hearts do not quail when the difficulties mount upward.

I believed I could materially lessen their number ere they came alongside, and perhaps create something of consternation in their ranks.

Nearer still, until I could see the figure in each bow, waiting to grapple with us; nearer, while Robbins strained every muscle, pulling as man never pulled before; then came a shout of joy from our pursuers, the meaning of which I realized only too well, for I had heard one of the oars snap in my comrade’s fearful grip, and knew we were at last helpless on the water.

CHAPTER XIII.

LIVELY WHILE IT LASTED.

Really, it seemed as though the Fates were against us in this adventure, since we had to fight most desperately for every small advantage gained.

I had, it may be remembered, more than once fervently longed for some opportunity to prove my valor in the sight of this doubting little woman, so that she might realize how she had wronged me in the past; perhaps it was a childish desire, but a most natural one withal, such as most men would feel under similar conditions.

But, really, I had not expected such a deluge of desperate conditions to overwhelm us, even as the avalanche does the unlucky traveler on the Swiss Alps.

One may even have too much of a good thing.

At least, I thought so when I heard that miserable oar snap, and found the boats of our enemies swooping down upon us.

Robbins made no further effort to escape.

He was like a lion at bay.

I heard him give a roar of rage as he snatched up the boathook and threw its barbed end aloft.

Just as might have been expected, the two boats came up, one on either side, as if the whole thing had been previously arranged.

My first thought was of Hildegarde, fearing she might receive some injury in the mêlée that was imminent, and surely that feeling did me credit.

“Lie down in the bottom of the boat—quick!”

Now, I could distinctly remember the time, since it was not so far back, when she had absolutely defied my lawful authority, and blankly refused to heed my request.

Not so now, for she seemed to recognize that in this case I not only knew what might be right, but was also in a position to command.

So she crouched down, with the terrified child clasped in her arms, while we two desperate men prepared to put up the best fight we knew how.

And, strangely enough, in that second of time, when there was a breathing space before the arrival of the boats, my strained ears caught a sound that thrilled me with renewed hope—it was the distinct “chug-chug-chug” of a little naphtha engine, and I knew that the launch had set out from the yacht and was bearing down upon us.

If we could only resist this savage attack for a few moments, we were saved.

“Keep back—keep back!” I shouted, as I stood up in the stern and waved my pistol, for I wanted no man’s blood on my hands, if it could possibly be avoided.

Perhaps they understood, for they laughed derisively and pulled wildly on.

It was time to begin.

I had the sole power of bridging the little distance still separating the boats, but which the rapid pace with which they advanced was quickly annihilating.

Again my long practice with a pistol served me a good turn.

My first shot was all right.

I had picked out the fellow who leaned over the bow, like a gaunt harpy, eager to lay hold as they came up and to fasten the boats together, while his companions smothered us with very numbers.

He made quite a fuss over the matter; really, you might have thought he was the recipient of a cannon ball somewhere about his anatomy, instead of a tiny leaden pill.

I knew he was not much to be feared in the coming encounter, and turned to present my further compliments to the fellow who dangled from the bow of the other boat.

Jove! he had a pistol, too, and even as I looked that way, it flashed fire, while the angry bellow rang over the water.

How lucky for us that he had never made it his hobby to do target practice some thousands of times like myself, else would the bullet have found better service than to whistle past our ears, and go ricochetting over the water beyond.

That settled him.

I considered him too dangerous an individual to lose sight of—doubtless, his weapon still contained five shots, and if he kept on blazing away in this reckless manner, who could tell but that one bullet might, by some wonderful accident, do us serious damage.

Such things have happened.

As soon as I had covered this individual, I felt a grim satisfaction, for I knew his name was Dennis, and that he was my game.

He proved to be even more averse to taking his medicine than my first patient, for he floundered around in the boat, whooping it up like a wild Yaqui Indian, and threatened to bring the whole outfit to grief; realizing which, one of the rowers knocked him overboard, and the fellow at the stern dragged him in again, doubtless somewhat cooled by his immersion.

Brief though the time had been which was consumed in this little comedy, or tragedy, as you please, it was enough to bring the boats alongside.

Robbins saw his chance with the boathook to keep one of them at arm’s length, so to speak.

He planted it solidly against the bow of the boat, and effectually blocked its progress, while moving our own craft a little.

This gave me a chance at the other.

There were three fellows besides the cripple.

They saw me crouching there, waiting like a Nemesis for them, and the sight was not at all to their liking.

A couple of them began to yelp dismally, like a dog that sees his finish when the irate master draws near, whip in hand.

Cowards at heart, they would have fled the spot if given a chance; but the battle was now on, and even rats at bay are to be feared.

The third fellow proved to have more sand, for he made a wicked lunge at me with his oar, and only that I threw up my left arm, I must have received a blow on the cranium that, following the first, might have done for me entirely.

As it was, I would have a sore arm for some time to come, and might thank my lucky stars that it had not been broken, for he made a vicious blow.

Thankful for past favors, I returned him a Roland for his Oliver, for I fired when he was only five feet from the muzzle of my pistol, and it did not require target practice then to bring down my bird.

Instead of shooting the other two howling dervishes in the boat, I bent over, seized an oar from the craft, and then gave the latter a vigorous push that sent it far off.

Thus had I, single handed, gained the mastery over one of the hostile boats.

Robbins needed help. He was embroiled in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle with the other chaps.

Probably they had seized upon his boathook and drawn alongside in that way; I do not know just how it was done, but when I turned, after my successful little crusade, I found the whole three were reaching out for the mate, and threatening to come aboard.

The captured oar was in my hands, and surely I knew only too well what misery it was capable of producing when properly applied.

My stout ashen weapon, as I expected, served to create a diversion among the ranks of the enemy.

The first man who sampled its qualities went down in the bottom of the boat in a heap, to mingle his groans and swear words with the fellow who sat wildly feeling here and there over the whole surface of his anatomy, endeavoring to discover where my bullet had lodged.

I think there must have been magic in the ashen blade, it seemed to so promptly cure the maniac qualities of all to whom it was applied, so that they underwent an instantaneous change, and became almost angels.

That left two. Surely, we could manage them.

Robbins was giving one some severe treatment when I turned my batteries on the remaining chap.

This time I merely planted the end of my oar against the pit of his stomach, and then applied some strength in a sudden shove. He staggered back, tripped over a thwart, or the two moaning fellows in the bottom of the boat, and measured his length there with a most ominous crash.

So successful had been this method of attack that I persisted in applying it; when you have a good thing, it is wise to push it along.

I managed this time to get the oar against the side of the boat, upon which I worked with such earnestness of purpose that it was pushed away from the craft we occupied.

And this brought about another unlucky contretemps for the enemy. Robbins had a grip on the last of them, and seemed loath to let go until he found he was dragging the chap over the side; then, when he did release his clutch, the fellow having no hold on either boat, fell between them into the tide.

This was the last of the Mohicans—the coast seemed clear, though the third boat, heavily laden, was coming up with a rush.

We did not mean to wait for them.

For my part, I had had quite enough of the scramble, and longed to rest my aching head on a pillow.

At once I passed the captured oar into Robbins’ hands, and he dropped back into his seat.

Then, as we began to move again, I noticed the crouching figures in the bottom of the boat, and my heart filled with pity. I cried:

“Have no further fear, Hildegarde. We are safe!”

CHAPTER XIV.

HILDEGARDE EMBARKS.

To tell the truth, I must have imbibed something of the pride that came to old-time Romans when returning victorious from the wars, but if they felt as “rocky” as I did after my experience with adobes and ashen oars, surely they were not to be particularly envied.

It is always a great satisfaction to win out—success causes us to forget for the time being the bruised head and weary frame—a generous glow suffuses the heart, and we puff out with a feeling of consequence.

I had done enough to be pardoned for some such weakness.

And she, Hildegarde, had seen it all.

Did she think me a coward now, a vain boaster, who would flee before a shadow?

Well, I guess not—at least, there was reason to believe I had vindicated my right to be called a man.

The third boat still pursued us, but in a half-hearted way, for they had discovered what an earthquake had overwhelmed the others, and experienced a change of opinion regarding the desirability of getting to close quarters.

Besides, Robbins was pulling steadily, and at every stroke our craft was pushed a length ahead.

I looked around.

There upon the water I saw a rapidly approaching object—a boat with a lantern in it, a boat that coughed intermittently as it bore down upon us.

I knew that sound well; had I not explored creeks and lagoons in Florida, up the Amazon, and even along the Nile in that same little launch?

The chaps back of us were still keeping up more or less of a racket, but distance was already mellowing the sound, and I knew I could make myself heard.

So I bellowed out, using my hands in lieu of a fog-horn:

“Ahoy! Wagner—Cummings—this way!”

Just as I expected, there was an immediate and cheery response, and the launch bore down upon us.

The pursuers had given it up; perhaps believed that with reinforcements at hand we might turn the tables and chase them; or it might be more worthy motives caused them to go back and assist their demoralized comrades.

I cared not a picayune what the motive, so long as we were rid of the fellows.

Hildegarde once more sat upon a thwart.

Her arm was around Carmencita, and, though unable to account for the fact, I could see that she was awaiting events with her nerves at the highest tension.

Strange if, after all I had done, she held that old grudge against me still, and allowed it to make the acceptance of a temporary shelter on board my yacht a painful necessity.

I could not quite discharge these bitter thoughts that insisted upon crowding upon me.

The launch bore around and came up alongside our clumsy craft.

I was never more glad to grasp hold of it.

Karl Wagner, with another, was aboard—the stout engineer, I think it was—their departure had been in such haste, they had not waited for more recruits.

“Let me help you in, Hildegarde,” I said, quietly, and withal not able to avoid a little tenderness in my voice, for she had been so sadly frightened during the battle on the water, I felt genuinely sorry for her.

She did not refuse, and actually gave me her hand, so that I might help her.

Perhaps it was the blow I had so recently received that made me feel so dizzy just then; surely, the touch of a hand could not set my heart to beating so madly that the blood went rushing to my head, and after all I had vowed about bitter feelings, hatred and such things in general toward womankind, and this little despot in particular.

Robbins quickly swung the little girl into the launch, and then we followed suit.

The boat was left adrift.

As I lounged there, regardless of the fact that my precious blood might be soiling the cushions, it all seemed very like a fantastic dream—the rapid events of this night.

True, all Bolivar was in an uproar because of our bold work, and doubtless the worthy alcalde was marshaling his little army with the intention of seeking our capture, so that we might be forced to pay heavily for our fun.

Bah! we could afford to laugh at all the alcaldes in Bolivar, or any other Central American republic, once our feet had pressed the deck of the yacht.

Long before he could embark with his arms, we would have steam up and be leaving the harbor, with the sea before us.

Another thing came to me, and I was really surprised to see how much genuine pleasure it brought in its train; she must be aboard the yacht, for days, perhaps weeks, and it would surely be my fault if I failed to find some golden opportunity for affecting a reconciliation; yes, there was little use deceiving myself, I loved her still, loved her better than before, and I was ever willing to bow my proud head to her yoke if so be—— Phew! I had forgotten that there might be some disagreeable news for me, since I had refused to hear from her during the two years of our separation.

What if she had secured a divorce? I had some reason to believe this were so; but, good heavens, what if she had gone even further, and in pique married some other fellow?

That brought out a cold sweat.

I remembered that I had not taken the trouble to ask her how she came to be in a foreign city like Bolivar, and a guest of the alcalde. Perhaps some one vested with authority had taken her there. I remembered the silver frame and the photograph of which I had obtained but a glimpse, enough to see that it was a man.

It would have pleased me had this bag been forgotten and left in the abandoned boat; but little Carmencita had kept tight hold of it.

Apparently, my condition might be considered very much mixed.

We were now nearing the yacht.

I could tell that those on board were anticipating a speedy move, for acting under orders, some one had started up the fires, and fresh sparks were shooting out of her funnel.

This was fortunate.

Bolivar, with its noble harbor, would not be the place for us after this night.

We must skip if we desired to avoid the consequences of bearding the august alcalde in his ancestral castle, and outraging his person with a knockdown argument.

Besides, much blood had been spilled, for which we must justly be held to account.

I did not know that we had killed any one—I hope not, even though the provocation had been great; but we had seriously incapacitated half a dozen worthy citizens of Bolivar from continuing their regular avocations for some time to come, and would be held strictly accountable, if caught.

The justice in these Central American courts always leans in favor of the citizen as against the foreigner, who, whether in the right or not, usually finds himself bound to pay the costs.

Against this the Yankee spirit rose up in arms, and since protests never avail in such a case, the only resort was flight.

Hildegarde had not said one word. I thought I had felt a little pressure when I held her hand, but it may have been imagination.

As we drew closer to the yacht, I saw her turn and give me a quick glance, though she did not speak.

What it was influenced her I had no idea at the time, though later on the secret was laid bare to my gaze.

Looking myself to the yacht, I saw there were a number of persons along the rail, about the place where we would draw alongside, there being a landing stage swung over, with several steps to it.

One was a woman, for I could see the skirt of her light gown swaying in the gentle breeze.

I knew who it was.

My expected guests from the steamer were aboard the yacht.

It never occurred to me to see any connection between the presence of Diana Thorpe aboard my boat and the intense antipathy shown by Hildegarde to coming aboard.

Then a strange thing occurred.

Hildegarde, as if possessed of a sudden overpowering notion, suddenly veiled her face behind a flimsy web that had apparently been fastened to her hat.

This act surprised me.

Evidently, she did not care to be immediately recognized—she knew who leaned over the rail, her elegant figure outlined against the lights beyond.

I was too dizzy to understand why she should do this thing; I can remember that it struck me as queer, and yet, at the same time, I was not unwilling to humor her caprice, and keep her secret for a little time.

At least, I would be better able to wrestle with it when I got rid of this awful ringing in my head, and could ponder upon it rationally. She had some reason, that was evident.

At last we were alongside.

Robbins lifted Carmencita up, and willing hands helped her on deck.

Hildegarde neatly avoided my proffered assistance, and allowed the mate to help her, which caused me to bite my lips in chagrin.

Then I climbed aboard, to be immediately met by an effusive young woman and a handsome, dapper little gentleman, who wrung my hands and acted as though they were really very glad to see me.

CHAPTER XV.

THE EMBERS ARE STIRRED.

Hildegarde—strange how that name has always affected me, above all other names on earth—Hildegarde had immediately walked some little distance away upon reaching the deck of the yacht.

No doubt she felt the curious eyes of the royal Diana fastened upon her, and though I had known the time when this beauty had to be content with the rôle of second fiddle when Hildegarde was present, the latter seemed to shrink from facing her now.

Why was this?

Indeed, I could not guess, though half a dozen vague thoughts flashed through my racked brain.

Perhaps she had no reason to be proud of her presence in this Central American metropolis, and hotbed of revolution—perhaps things had happened of which I was utterly ignorant, but of which Diana must be cognizant. Perhaps—and here was the keenest rub of all, for it came as a personal blow—perhaps she was utterly ashamed to be seen in my company, after the manner in which I had once left her.

Well, I had no shame in the matter, and stood ready to do the thing over again if I might serve her.

When Thorpe had wrung my hand like a pump handle in his old, mechanical way, so characteristic of the fellow, who pretended to be a snob, yet was, at heart, a good chap, he began to bombard me with questions.

Really, I could not blame him for being eager to know what I had been doing to get myself embroiled in such a hot mess with the citizens of Bolivar; and as for his fair cousin, Diana, she was almost consumed with feminine curiosity.

The presence of a mysterious woman in the case added to its piquancy in her mind.

I was not in the humor to gratify this curiosity, at least just then, since other things needed my attention.

“Pardon me for the present, my friends, I beg, and when the opportunity arrives I will relate the story. Just now much demands my attention; I am wounded, the yacht must get out of here before we are overwhelmed—and a lady needs my attention. In half an hour I will join you.”

Then I bawled out to Cummings, who had taken charge since our captain was left seriously ill at New Orleans:

“Mr. Cummings, we must get out of this without delay. Have the launch aboard, the anchor up, and before we are an hour out I’ll talk with you about our course.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” he replied, for Cummings was an old nautical man, whose home had been for many years upon the briny, wherever his hat chanced to be hung.

I forgot Robbins for the time being, but he was just the chap to make himself quite at home anywhere.

Hildegarde had stood at a distance, waiting to see what disposition I would make of her; she could not have heard what passed between the Thorpes and myself, and I rather fancied she had no desire to listen.

There was an attitude of pride in the way she stood there which I did not like.

Surely, I had given her no fresh cause for dislike or scorn; on the contrary, I was fool enough to cherish a fond hope that my battles in her behalf on this mad night might serve to blot out my shortcomings of the past, if such a thing were possible.

“I must apologize for leaving you even for a minute,” I said, in a low voice.

“It does not matter—you need not apologize. I expected this, and must pay for my weakness in coming,” she replied, coldly.

That was certainly Greek to me; when one has the key, all these puzzles become as simple as the easiest sum in arithmetic, but lacking that, they prove enigmas.

She expected what—that I would neglect her? Surely, she had become captious, indeed, when a minute’s unavoidable delay on my part was to be so keenly resented.

I bit my lips with vexation.

“If you will go with me, Hildegarde, I can show you your stateroom.”

“My stateroom?” she echoed, with just a trace of bitterness in her voice. “I beg that you will not deprive any lady or yourself of an apartment on account of my presence on board. I would not have it for the world.”

“Make your mind easy; no one has occupied this stateroom since I left Algiers, where I had a party of friends aboard.”

“In that case I accept. It will not be for long. I shall expect you to land me at some American port, where I can be in telegraphic touch with New York.”

I did not answer, perhaps because I wanted to make no reply that would commit me to a measure I might be averse to carrying out.

We entered the cabin.

It was brightly illuminated, and if I do say it myself, who perhaps should not, that cabin was about as cozy a den as any one would desire.

There were books in racks, easy-chairs, divans and furnishings that had cost me quite a snug sum of money.

The prevailing tint was old rose, her favorite color, as I knew well.

That person must be hard to please who failed to find solid satisfaction aboard the Wanderer.

Hildegarde threw back the veil that had concealed her face, for which I was more than glad, as I felt eager to look upon her beauty again, strangely eager.

She was no longer deathly pale, as when I carried her in my arms to the quay, or when she crouched in the bottom of the boat while Robbins and myself engaged in our hot little engagement with the enemy; instead, a glow was in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes, and though the chase had loosened her golden hair, I never saw her look so distractedly charming as at that moment.

She glanced around, and a wave of color passed over her brow; then I knew she had recognized the choice I had made in the prevailing tint of the hangings, with the full knowledge that it had been her favorite.

Slowly her eyes traveled around, even the pictures not escaping her scrutiny.

I heard her give a sigh, as of relief.

Good heavens! could it be possible she had been under the impression I kept such bachelor quarters aboard that my yacht was not a fit place for a lady? Would that account for her aversion to the thought of coming aboard?

It seemed almost incredible; surely, she should know my tastes of old, and that no matter what my weakness might be, it did not run in the line of debauchery.

Then she turned to me, and I saw an expression of genuine anxiety sweep over her face.

“Oh! you are wounded—you look terrible—it must be seen to. How can I forgive myself for thinking as I did when you have been in such peril for me? Please go to as little trouble as you can for me; show me my room, and I will bother you no more to-night. It is all so unfortunate, so wretched, that I am almost sorry I sent that note.”

“Well, I am not,” I said, firmly; “but I must present a very disagreeable sight to any one’s eyes. We have no maid aboard, unfortunately, so I have to do the honors myself. This is your room, Hildegarde.”

I opened the door.

The little cubbyhole did look rather alluring, I am bound to confess, and it quite pleased Hildegarde, who could not suppress an ejaculation of pleasure.

“Will it do?” I asked, humbly. She must never know what strange thoughts used to haunt me whenever I shut myself in that particular little stateroom and endeavored to imagine her there, and how more than once I had even been unmanly enough to shed a few tears over the dismal prospect of such a strange event ever happening to take myself sternly to task afterward about it.

“It is very sweet and lovely. I thank you for all your kindness, Morgan,” she said, with a tremor in her voice that affected me curiously.

“I’m glad you like it,” I replied, tempted to tell her that she had been in my mind when I fixed up that little place, but realizing the folly of any sentiment between us whom fate had drifted asunder until a whole gulf yawned between, an impassable gulf.

“Now, go and have your wound attended to. I should be very sorry if you suffered any serious inconvenience on my account. Of course, you are mystified because of finding me in Bolivar; it is a strange story, and I promise to tell it to you some other time—perhaps to-morrow.”

“I confess I am very curious about it.”

“Nor can I blame you. On my part, I am amazed at the wonderful chance that brought you, of all men on earth, there to my assistance. It seems incredible—it worries me to think the world is so very small or that a cruel fate persists in throwing us together.”

“Cruel, Hildegarde?”

“Yes, cruel, because it is needless, since we can never be even friends again. It would not do—it would be monstrous!”

Her words shocked me.

They seemed to suggest some dreadful barrier between us; on my part, I knew of none, save our dispute and separation, both of which might be forgiven, and the abyss bridged with the planks of love and charity.

Ah! perhaps it was on her side. The old suspicion arose again concerning her having obtained her freedom at the hands of the law, and married again.

I shivered as with a chill, and then ground my teeth together.

She must not suspect my weakness, at least until I had heard her story, and knew the worst I might expect.

“It shall be as you say, Hildegarde. This has been such a strange fortune that threw us together I had begun to hope there might be a meaning to it; but I shall respect your wishes always.”

I turned to go.

“One other favor, Morgan.”

“A dozen, if you like.”

“Would it be possible for the present to keep my identity unknown?”

I knew she was thinking of Diana—her red cheeks betrayed her.

“Why not, if you desire it?” I replied.

“You are very kind; it would please me.”

“Shall I send Carmencita to you? She can act as your maid, as I presume she is?”

“Yes, please; and, Morgan—once more, I thank you. God bless you!” and the door closed.

CHAPTER XVI.

PASSING THE FORT.

It was not very strange that while under the spell of Hildegarde’s presence I should forget all about my poor, banged head; when a fellow’s heart is thumping tumultuously against his ribs, as though laboring under an attack of fever, he cannot be expected to remember such trifles as a few bruises.

Of one thing I had suddenly become firmly convinced, and it gave me a spasm of joy such as had been a stranger to me for two long years.

She loved me still; Hildegarde loved me in spite of all that had passed, of my desertion, and the long interval of silence that had elapsed.

What, though there were obstacles, surely they could be hurled aside. I felt just then as though I might defy the world, if need be, since my claim was founded on justice; she had been in the past, and, if Heaven were kind, might once more be my Hildegarde.

So it was in almost a merry frame of mind I made my way out of the cabin again.

My spirits were lighter than they had been these many moons; much remained to be explained, and difficulties to be overcome, but oh, the ecstasy of believing that the old love still burned within her heart.

Once on deck, I looked for the girl.

Already they were getting the anchor up, and raising the launch aboard by means of block and tackle attached to the davits.

Carmencita I easily found; the child was shrinking against the cabin bulkhead, and seemed overwhelmed with shyness in the presence of Diana.

I imagined the latter might have been endeavoring to extract some information from her, but from my own experience, I knew how hopeless this must be without a knowledge of Spanish, which, I felt sure, she did not possess.

“Come with me, Carmencita, to your mistress. What is that you have there? Oh, her bag. Let me carry it for you.”

I saw Diana’s eyes fastened curiously upon the little article as I took hold of it; but thought no more about the matter, or what she might weave from the fact of my initials being on the bag.

It gave me a queer feeling to take hold of the thing again—that photograph, you know. After all, was there anything so strange about that? Suppose some one would point out a very handsome fellow on the street and say confidentially to you: “Two years from now that chap will be your wife’s husband?” I suppose it would give you a start, and every time you saw him after that you would be certain to have a bad feeling.

Well, that covered my case, only it was even more aggravated, since I had some reason to suspect the two years had already flown, and the prophecy was an accomplished fact.

I stalked into the cabin, and knocked at the door of Hildegarde’s stateroom, which she at once opened.

“I’ve brought him—I mean the bag, to you, and here’s Carmencita, too,” I said, extending my burden, which she eagerly pounced upon.

“Oh! I wouldn’t have lost that for worlds!”

“H’m! I suppose not,” I said, disconsolately.

“For it contains something I value very highly,” she continued, looking straight at me, and smiling in a mysterious way.

I bowed and retreated.

Now, what did she mean? Was it her jewels, that infernal photo, or was there something even more valuable in the bag, something which I had not seen?

And why should she look at me in that way if she were referring to the picture of my successor? Did she actually rejoice in this opportunity to give me pain? Women could be so mercilessly cruel when they chose.

I was not feeling so merry now; indeed, my face must have been very long, if the doubts that assailed me had much to do with my looks.

Remembering what an awful condition I must be in after this series of adventures, I sought my own stateroom, and proceeded to remove all traces of wear and tear.

The wound on my head had ceased to bleed, though there was a lump there the size of a hen’s egg, that felt very sore to the touch.

I bathed it with witch hazel, and managed to make myself fairly presentable.

Then my duties as a host forced me to seek my guests.

I had anticipated a pleasant cruise in the society of these old friends, and had hoped their genial company would help to dissipate the fog that hovered about my spirits.

Now, strange to say, I deeply regretted their presence aboard, nor could I give a plausible reason for such a complete change in my feelings, save that the strange events of this evening had revealed my own soul to my astonished gaze, and a mad hope had sprung up in my heart.

My guests awaited me on deck.

Already we were beginning to move through the water, and soon the light of gay old Bolivar would be lost over the expanse of sea.

I rejoiced that far, and saw nothing to regret in leaving the place; it was a little too hot a town for my blood.

We chatted for a time on various matters.

I knew both of my guests were just dying to question me about the mysterious lady who had come aboard in such a strange way, and with whose arrival my affair on the bay must certainly have had close connection.

But I was in no hurry to speak—they could pique their curiosity until I had arranged in my mind just how much I wanted to tell them now.

One thing I meant to keep quiet, remembering my promise to Hildegarde, and this concerned her identity; I really enjoyed having a secret from Diana, usually so quick to read the meaning of all signs, and mentally pictured her astonishment when, later, she would learn who my passenger was.

Finally, she demanded that I redeem my promise, and tell what brought me into conflict with the people of Bolivar.

Just then the steward came to tell me the little repast I had ordered was ready in the cabin, so I insisted that they go in.

“Afterward, while we sit on deck, and we gentlemen have the privilege of a good cigar, I promise to a tale unfold that will harrow up your soul and make your blood run cold.”

With that promise, they had to be content.

I knew Hildegarde would not join us; she had said as much, and the steward could serve her later with anything she might wish.

We did not tarry long at the table.

Gustavus Thorpe was the only one who seemed to have any appetite, and nothing ever appeared to disturb his equanimity.

Diana was her old self—marriage with her cousin had not changed her merry flow of spirits an iota, and I wondered whether constant association with so gay a creature would thaw out the icicle any.

Despite his foppish ways, Gustavus was a good fellow; I had seen him dead in earnest a few times, and once when we were sore beset by a mob of fanatics in Tehera, Persia, he did yeoman work with those lily-white hands that ordinarily seemed only fit to twist the ends of his straw-colored mustache, or hold a monocle up to his left optic.

Then we once more went on deck.

“Excuse me for five minutes,” I said.

“Certainly, my dear boy,” answered Thorpe, while Diana, more vicious, said:

“Don’t let her keep you any longer than that, Morgan; remember, I am dying from curiosity.”

“Ah, but in this case it is a man, the friend who came aboard with me, Milos Robbins, with whom I once sailed, and whom I met by the rarest accident this very night.”

I reproached myself for having neglected him so long, but I found he had made himself at home on board, as seamen will.

“Come, you don’t belong in here with the men—your place is with us. I told you I had a position in my eye for you. To-morrow I am going to offer you charge of this yacht; my captain was left sick at New Orleans, and I’m bound to have no other than you. Not a word of refusal, Milos—we are old comrades, and this pleases me more than I can tell you.”

He took my hand, and squeezed it.

“God bless you, Morgan; there’s no one I’d sooner serve; but this sort of cruising is hardly in my line. I’m at home on any sailing craft, from an old hooker to the finest clipper that ever plowed the seas, but there is much for me to learn about a steam yacht.”

“Oh! you’ll pick it up soon enough, with the help of Cummings. And we’ll consider it settled, Captain Robbins.”

He was almost overcome.

“Please let me bunk here to-night with the men. We’ll arrange it all in the morning, sir. It’s dazzled me a bit, you see, coming so unexpectedly. But I’m deeply grateful, all the same.”

“Nonsense! it’s all on my part, the luck. And we’re comrades, too—think what we’ve gone through together, and who knows what wonderful adventures the near future may have in store for you and me, Robbins?”

I spoke lightly, never once dreaming of the tragedies that lay in wait for us beyond; for who can lift that impenetrable veil by which the future, near or remote, is shrouded?

As it was his wish, and I saw no good reason for insisting on his changing quarters until we had arranged our plans definitely in the morning, I left him there, and once more sought the company of my two guests.

The fresh sea air was invigorating, indeed, as we began to leave the harbor and strike for the open.

“Look there!” exclaimed Gustavus, pointing to the headland we were passing.

There was a sudden flash of light, and presently we heard a deep boom.

“They’re firing upon us!” cried Diana, excited.

“Yes, but there is no danger whatever. Those fellows couldn’t hit a mountain. I heard the ball strike away behind. And in a short time we’ll be entirely out of range.”

“How very exciting to be under fire,” said Diana, as a second shot rolled over the water.

Then the lights went out temporarily aboard, and the firing ceased, since the gunners knew not where to aim.

“That episode is concluded,” remarked the lady, and I really believe she was sorry.

Gustavus and I lighted cigars, and then found comfortable easy-chairs at a point where the sea air would not be too strong.

“Now, please begin at the beginning,” pleaded my feminine auditor, and I could remember the time when I thought Diana the fairest of her sex, for she had been an old flame of mine until I met Hildegarde.

So, feeling very comfortable after my experience ashore and afloat, and with the yacht dancing over the starlit waves of the Caribbean Sea, I began my story of a night in Bolivar’s gay metropolis.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT TWO BELLS.

I have never considered myself much of a yarn-spinner, even though a yachtsman by choice; but if ever a man had the material for an engaging story thrust upon him, I certainly came under that head.

Since sunset on this amazing evening, there had fallen to my lot a series of the most remarkable adventures the mind of mortal man could ever conceive.

Indeed, the only trouble I found in relating my unique experiences was not to tell too much.

There was danger of that.

Diana’s curiosity was keenly whetted.

She saw something of a beautiful mystery in the veiled figure of the unknown lady with whom I had come aboard.

Perhaps there was an indefinite something about her carriage that suggested vague familiarity which she could not for the life of her place.

On my part, I was grimly determined to give her no satisfaction.

Hildegarde had begged me to keep her identity secret for the present, and while I did not quite understand why she should wish this, I was perfectly willing to comply.

If Diana discovered the truth, it would have to be through other means.

Hence, in telling of my adventures I carefully avoided all reference to the lady save as the señora who was in trouble, and whom Robbins and myself had assisted to escape from those who detained her against her will. In accomplishing this result, I had to run the gamut of her questions, and I am afraid yarn a little; but really she had no business to be so importunate, and concern herself so materially about my affairs.

She laughingly declared that the fact of her having once been an old flame of mine, and now a dignified matron—Heaven save the mark!—should entitle her to some consideration, and account in a measure for the deep interest she took in my welfare.

Luckily I was feeling all right, save for a symptom of “swelled head,” which, under the circumstances, was allowable.

Indeed, I could even look back over the events of the night with more or less complacency, believing that I had borne myself well.

There is an indescribable charm in thus reviewing stormy events when seated in a comfortable chair with a prime weed between one’s teeth; no wonder old soldiers take such keen pleasure in fighting their battles over again.

Diana was plainly not satisfied.

She seemed to realize that I was purposely withholding some point that had a material bearing on the story.

Perhaps she believed the lady to be some young and charming señorita with midnight eyes, whom I had met before. I had studiously refrained from all mention of anything that would lead her to suspect it was an American in whose cause Robbins and myself had enlisted, fearful lest she should put two and two together and solve the puzzle.

But she was not quite bold enough to demand a direct answer to her questions, and I left her groping in the dark, hugging all manner of delusions to her heart, and doubtless investing me with such romantic surroundings as had never entered the head of novelist to conceive.

We soon branched off upon other topics; I was determined to erase myself as the chief factor in the conversation.

They had traveled much, and between wide awake people who have seen the world there is always much of mutual interest in comparing notes regarding the odd things encountered.

More than once I wished they would retire.

Several reasons influenced me.

First, I desired to see Cummings and have something to say about our course.

We had our plans arranged for the cruise and, if possible, I did not wish to change them, although if she insisted upon being taken to the United States, I would have to about-ship, and head in the other direction.

Then, again, I naturally wanted to be alone; so much had happened that bordered on the marvelous I wished to ponder it over and endeavor to see a rosy light beyond the gloomy clouds.

I had suffered keenly in the midst of splendor and wealth—God alone knew how hungry my heart had been for the companionship I once had known; and now, as if Heaven sent, she had once more risen upon my horizon; I had touched her hand, aye, crushed her in my arms, fought like a warrior to defend her against enemies, and I wanted to be alone in order to dream of this wonderful thing that almost intoxicated me with its possibilities of greatest bliss.

Finally Diana took the hint, and declared I had not overcome some of my old-time bearish ways, for I had become dull and stupid.

One could take anything from this bright butterfly with the gilded wings, and I only pleaded extreme exhaustion in extenuation of my shortcomings.

So they left me.

I often look back to that night and remember how they went away laughing, with their arms around each other; for even the lordly Gustavus was very fond of his lively, handsome wife, though both had been sad flirts in their day.

They had been married much longer than a year, but being constantly on the go, like the busy bee, sipping honey from each flower as they went, they declared they were still on their bridal tour and enjoying their honeymoon.

Yes, I often think of them as I saw them that night, happy as children, knowing no harassing care, content to accept the bountiful favors an indulgent fortune threw in their way, and perfectly unconscious of any impending peril.

When I had talked a while with Cummings, and told him about my wishes respecting our course, and what I intended doing for my old friend and shipmate of the Pathfinder, I took a few turns on the deck.

We were now far out on the heaving bosom of the Caribbean Sea.

Not a light could be seen in the quarter where, as I knew, Bolivar lay, for many miles stretched between us and that treacherous shore.

Surely I had endured enough to fatigue my body and induce sleep; that was just the trouble, for while my frame was sore and weary my mind was as keen set and full of vigor as that of a lawyer ready to begin his plea to judge and jury.

No use then for me to lie down in my little den and try to conjure sleep—with Hildegarde so near, and my heart in my throat, as it were.

Another cigar in that comfortable chair; if slumber overtook me under the awning, what odds? I had passed more than one hot night in the region of the Malacca Straits and Singapore, sleeping on deck.

Besides, I wanted to think.

Several hours passed, and there I still lounged, puffing drowsily at my fourth cigar, while the prominent events of the past two years were hurriedly recalled.

Thus I was sitting when two bells struck; my cigar had gone out and fallen to the deck, and I had about reached the point where the mind begins to yield the battle with the sleep god, when something like a sigh caught my ear—a sigh accompanied by a rustle of garments; and as I detected the presence of a delicate perfume I knew only too well (her favorite), I raised my head and discovered a figure leaning over the rail of the yacht close by.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MOCKERY OF FATE.

It did not require more than that one glance to declare the identity of this figure.

It was Hildegarde.

She stood not more than six feet away—my back was toward her, and as the space under the canopy could not boast of any too much light, evidently she had no suspicion of my presence. I did not move at once, but sat there feasting my eyes upon her.

She looked over the sea—somewhere in that direction lay the tropical land of Bolivar, whence we had just sailed.

Did she know that?—was her gaze bent in that quarter with anything like regret?—could she have left any one there about whom she felt concern?

That sigh—was it meant for grief or satisfaction? In short, had I after all done her as great a service as I thought in carrying her away from the disturbed town of Bolivar?

Ah! another sigh.

Plainly she was not wholly happy.

My heart reproached me—I had been the cause of her misery—I who had allowed my pride to force me into an act that separated two hearts intended for each other.

Was it too late to make amends?

I arose from my seat and moved toward her, and hearing me she turned quickly.

“Hildegarde!” I said, softly.

She started back.

“I thought you—all must be asleep; it was so warm below, I could not rest, and I felt I must come where I could get the air,” she said, quickly, as though desirous of having me believe it was not her intention to seek me.

“I am glad you did—I had quite made up my mind to doze here in a chair. It is very pleasant; but the sea air grows cool and you have no wrap—let me get you something.”

Without waiting to hear her reply I darted into the cabin; one of the first things that caught my eye was a delicate pink thing in zephyr wool—Diana had tossed it aside when entering—it would just fill the bill.

I snatched it up and ran out.

The prospect of a tête-à-tête with Hildegarde affected me strangely; I was even weak with excitement and hope.

Who could tell what it might not bring forth.

I resolved to be very considerate, yet seek for light regarding her presence in Bolivar.

There was one ghost I wanted laid before throwing myself on her mercy.

When I reached her again she was sitting in the chair I had just vacated, which I took to be a favorable symptom—at least she would not permit her hatred for me to stand in the way of a little talk that might clear the air.

I placed the light wrap about her, wondering meanwhile why she shivered.

“You have already taken cold,” I said.

“Oh, no, it was not that,” she replied.

Then it must have been my touch—was it so very repulsive? I thought, in dismay.

Dolt that I was not to see the fault lay in the soft, clinging thing I had thrown around her shoulders—that she shuddered because she seemed to guess intuitively it belonged to Diana.

But in such matters men are usually so very stupid.

I stood there leaning against the rail, because it pleased me to look upon her thus, and perhaps she would not care to have me sit down beside her.

An awkward silence followed.

“Why do you not smoke, Morgan?” she asked.

Even a little thing like that pleased me; she had not forgotten that I had always been devoted to the weed.

I hastened to assure her that I had no desire to indulge, since I had been smoking nearly the whole evening.

How could I break the ice, how ask her to tell me what she had promised—the story of her coming to this region of the world?

What a strange position to be in! Three feet from me sat the woman I loved, the woman whom the law had given to me for my own, and whom I had called by the sacred name of wife, yet I dared not put out a hand to touch her any more than if she were the veriest stranger.

Secretly I chafed and fretted at the chains that held me, and in my heart I groaned.

Hildegarde it was who spoke first.

“How long had you been in Bolivar, Morgan?” she asked, showing that her thoughts had been going back to what we had endured.

“Just four days. I had intended sailing by to-morrow, but the steamer came ahead of time.”

She did not ask what the steamer had to do with my movements—nor did I think to insist on explaining that point, which would no doubt have proved the part of wisdom.

“Four days—and I was there ten,” she said, as though reflecting.

“Ten—in the house of the alcalde?” I asked, determined to pursue the subject.

“Yes; always in that house,” with a shudder.

“They kept you there against your will?”

“Until you came—yes. At first I defied them, but my spirit was slowly breaking down, and because of the threats they made, threats that concerned others besides myself, I must soon have yielded.”

I began to feel my blood boiling. Who was it dared to threaten her?—who had any right to demand that she do this or that? Since I had released her from her vows what man on earth had any authority over her?

What was it made me suddenly gasp and cringe as though a bucket of ice water had been dashed over me? What but a flash of memory, as that hated photograph again played the deuce with my nerves? Some other man might indeed have the rights I had chosen to discard.

I had a little struggle with myself, and managed to gain the mastery over this weakness. If my hand trembled as I mechanically passed it over my head, it did not affect my voice.

“I don’t know that I have any right to ask you to tell me all about this affair, Hildegarde—I forfeited that privilege long ago; but you must understand that I have done what I could while utterly in the dark, and if you think it worth while to enlighten me, I should be glad to hear the solution of the mystery, and equally glad to go to any length to serve you further.”

That was not a speech from the heart, but rather one dictated by reason and prudence.

Pride was not yet dead.

I could not let her know that I loved her more madly than in the days of our courtship—loved her as might a man who had suffered all the pangs of outrageous fortune, always like his sex, loath to find the cause in himself. No, I would not demean myself to tell her what a wretch I had discovered myself to be, and how my heart hungered for her, until I knew whether some other man stood between us.

There had been several—one I remembered in particular, who had been hard set to win her in those days, a fellow who had given me many a twinge of jealousy by his boasts, until finally I dared put my fate to the test and discovered how I had been fighting phantoms. If it were he now, what agony, what punishment would be mine!

“You are kind, Morgan. You have done much for me to-night. Sometimes I am glad, and then again it makes me sad, and I even wish you had left me there to struggle against my fate, or that it had been some one else who came, a perfect stranger, whom I might reward with gold for serving me,” she said, sadly, almost brokenly.

I did not fancy that—it seemed to take the conceit out of me; plainly I must have been mistaken when I thought she still cared for me.

She would rather it were a stranger to whom she owed her escape—she did not fancy being under obligations to me of all men—surely that was enough to cool me off.

“I hope you won’t trouble yourself about the reward part—you can give me nothing I would care a snap for, except, of course, your gratitude. Men of my stamp don’t do these things for reward, Hildegarde.”

She looked up at me, as though trying to weigh the meaning of my words.

“You are much changed, Morgan,” she said, slowly.

“Naturally so. I have led a misanthropic life for some little time. Things don’t look rosy through smoked glasses.”

“I didn’t mean that, but you are not the same as then—what you have done to-night—how you carried me through the streets and stood up in that boat—I can never forget it. Yes,” with a sigh, “you are much changed.”

A thrill of exultation possessed me at this declaration that I had appeared in her eyes as at least a mild type of a hero—and then it was gone again.

“Pardon me; I am not changed so much as you may imagine; it was the same man then, only no opportunity arose to put him to the test. When once you dared me to get you some flowers growing on the face of a precipice, and I firmly declined, it was not cowardice that influenced me, but a determination not to risk my life for a pretty woman’s mere whim, even if she did happen to be my wife.”

There was a low cry, almost a sob.

“I have never forgiven myself for such wickedness,” she murmured, but it was music to me, that late confession.

“Well, I have,” I said, nonchalantly, as if all those things in the past had very little interest for me any longer.

She had started up somewhat eagerly in her chair, but immediately sank back.

“It is kind of you to forgive, even if you cannot forget,” she said.

I was on the point of bursting out and declaring what a sinner I was, and how I yearned for absolution on her part—to throw myself on the mercy of the court, pleading guilty to the charge, when she spoke again, and what she said rather took the wind out of my sails.

“I promised to explain in a brief way how I came to be in Bolivar, and why I was kept a prisoner in the alcalde’s house. This I should have told you to-morrow or before you landed me at New Orleans; but since we have been thrown together here, and sleep is impossible, I shall relate it now, so that you may know how basely one of your boasted sex has acted toward a defenseless woman who loaded him with favors, and for whom she had only shown affection.”

I snapped my teeth shut and ground them together. Then it was as I feared—she had married again, perhaps my old rival, Hilary Tempest, and he had turned out a villain.

I do not know why I should be so furious, since I had renounced all alliance with her, and my taking up cudgels in her defense would be Quixotic indeed; but there it was, the glow of righteous indignation. I had once loved her dearly, and no matter who he might be, the man who abused her in any way must settle with Morgan Kenneth.

But what folly to thus arrange matters when I had not as yet heard her tell the story that was to decide my fate.

CHAPTER XIX.

“POOR, WEAK, OLD PAPA.”

Hildegarde remained silent for a short time.

I knew she must be collecting her thoughts for the telling of a story coherently, and such a story as she meant to narrate was no small thing. Then she began.

There was something very like a tremor in her voice at times, which I took to be a favorable sign; surely memories of the past could not shake her like this if her affection had been wholly turned to hate.

“Perhaps there is nothing very new or novel in my story, Morgan; other women have placed their faith in man and been deceived; but to me it comes home with additional cruelty, because I had done so much for him—few could have done more. In return he entered into a conspiracy with the alcalde to force me into a total delivery of all I had left of—of what you gave me.”

Now, I cared mighty little about the money part of the business; I had found chances for investment during my wanderings that had already doubled my fortune, with a promise of even greater things; for, strange as it may seem, Fortune often showers golden favors upon those who are so wretched, otherwise, that they scorn the favor.

But the base ingratitude of the thing made me grind my teeth.

“Then he is a contemptible villain, just as I always thought, and ought to be tarred and feathered,” I said, impulsively.

She looked up at me quickly.

“I did not know that you ever said that.”

“Nonsense! I must have declared my instinctive dislike of the man a dozen times or more; but let that pass. After all, you cared for him, it seems, enough to—to give him a right to assume a protectorate,” for I could not, had my life depended on it, say outright “to be his wife,” I hated him so.

“Yes, because I was foolish enough to believe in him, and I felt so very lonely. He never disclosed his real character until we made this journey to Bolivar, where he had some interests in mines that needed personal attention; then I found the claws under the velvet, and realized that I had been terribly deceived.”

I knew now she was lost to me as the wife of another man, and steadied my nerves to meet the situation manfully, since I must act the friendly counselor to her.

If my ugly feeling toward Hilary Tempest now and again broke all bounds, it was excusable under the circumstances; but, on the whole, I think I controlled myself creditably.

“I don’t believe he ever owned a mine in Bolivar—he must have been there before to know the rascally alcalde, and it was all a big scheme to take you to a place where no law could intervene. Well, I’m very glad fortune allowed me to have a hand in the game, which, I suppose, is knocked into a cocked hat by your escape. It is a strange thing, without a doubt, and I give you my word I shall have a bone to pick with him if ever we chance to meet; I don’t care whether it is on Broadway or Piccadilly, I’m going to knock that rascal down.”

She gave a low cry.

“No, you mustn’t do that, Morgan.”

“But he has abused you?”

“He never offered me personal violence—oh, believe that. It was my money he was determined to have—he worships money.”

“Well, he kept you a prisoner against your will—he is the greatest villain unhung; and I mean to have satisfaction out of his accursed hide some day.”

Again she gave a cry—somehow it hurt me, as though a marlin spike had been dropped upon my battered cranium.

“See here, do you mean to tell me you still care for that detestable wretch?”

I demanded this in a hoarse whisper, at the same time bending forward and placing a hand on the arm of her rattan chair.

Strange as it may appear, the possibility that she could still cling to Tempest after he had acted the villain, aroused me more than anything else—cling to him while she hated me, and yet when I left her I had surrounded her with every luxury wealth could buy.

It only made me realize more than ever that womankind was a mystery past the solving by a masculine mind. Her very silence confirmed my fears.

This fellow had not only stolen the wife I had in my folly given up, but, worse still, he appeared to have an influence upon her my personality had never been able to affect.

“Tell me,” I said, firmly, “do you care for him still—is he, contemptible as he has shown himself, an object of interest to you?”

My masterful manner forced her to answer.

“In a measure, yes. I cannot help it—he came when I was heartbroken; he soothed me when I was wretched; he made himself indispensible; what could I do with no one to advise me?”

That was a slap at me, and I winced under it. Of course, no matter what a fool she had made of herself, I was to blame for it all—I, who had gone away in hot temper and left her so much money that she must be a bait to such an adventurer.

I cooled down—reproaches were useless, since the mischief had been done, and laments never mended a broken pitcher.

“Yes, I can easily understand how very assiduous he must have been; it was rare good picking for him, and what glorious revenge upon me. How he must have gloated over it! Surely he laughs best who laughs last—but the end is not yet.”

Again she looked at me steadily, as though my face could betray aught in the semi-darkness that rested under the awning.

“I don’t quite understand what you say about revenge and all that, Morgan. But you asked me to explain how I came to be away down in this warm climate, and held against my will in the house of the alcalde, and although I am a wretched story teller, I am trying to give you the facts.”

“Yes, it is all plain enough to me now—you could not put it clearer if you talked until dawn, or with the tongues of prophecy. I am glad it is all over, and that your troubles are ended. I hope he will never show up again to annoy you when I am at the other side of the world.”

“Are you—contemplating such a very extended cruise, then?”

“To the Mediterranean and the Holy Land. I never thoroughly did the Nile, and it is a grand place for a winter’s cruise.”

She sat silent again.

I would have given much to have known what her thoughts were.

“Yes, Egypt is a very lovely country in the winter for those who have the heart to enjoy it. I trust you will land me as soon as possible at the first American port you draw near. I shall go back to my old life—go back to Thornycroft.”

How that name thrilled me.

It was our home, the country seat I had purchased, and where we had once been more or less happy—when I fled, I had left papers making it over to her.

“Then you still own the old place?” I asked, with assumed carelessness, not desiring to show the keen interest I felt.

“Why, certainly; you did not think I had sold that—that dear old place?”

“Well, I didn’t know—associations are sometimes painful, even distasteful, when one assumes new obligations.”

“But you—your tastes are the same—I have seen it in many things, even the shade of color in the hangings you used to like.”

Could she guess it was my choice because she had always raved over old gold and crushed strawberry, at one time all the fashion?

“I do not change,” I said, quite grandiloquently.

She sighed—doubtless she believed she had good reason to think otherwise.

We remained for some little time silent, each engrossed in deep thought.

Following out the train of thought that was passing through my head, I muttered, finally:

“It was very strange.”

“What is it you refer to, Morgan?” she asked, idly, her hands clasping and unclasping as they lay in her lap.

I saw a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand—a wedding ring, perhaps put there in place of mine.

“To think I should not have seen that fellow at the alcalde’s, or heard his voice, which I could have told among a thousand.”

“Why, Morgan, how you astonish me—how can it be possible you remember these things when——”

She had started up now, and we faced each other. Boiling with indignation, I could restrain myself no longer—the pent-up volcano broke beyond bound, and almost before I knew what I was doing I had started in to vent my ill-humor on the dog that had stolen my bone.

“Remember! How can I ever forget? In those days long ago didn’t that fellow with his mocking, handsome face always stir the green-eyed monster in my heart? Haven’t I groaned many a time when afloat to think with what ghoulish glee he said to me at my wedding, ‘Never mind, he laughs best who laughs last;’ and how I’ve hated him all these months God only knows. Don’t you think I could pick him out among ten thousand and know his cold-blooded laugh if I heard it in the blackness of a dungeon. I tell you hate has eyes and ears, where other senses might be blind and deaf. So I say it was very strange I didn’t discover him at the alcalde’s; we might have had it out then and there, instead of putting it off for the future.”

“Morgan,” she exclaimed, jumping up with a flutter of garments, and an eagerness that was not assumed, “tell me, who is it you think I have been speaking about, this man you hate and mean to fight—tell me, sir, at once.”

There was a touch of the old-time despotism in her manner, but I paid little heed to that.

“There is but one man on earth who could cause me to make such a fool of myself, and his name is—Hilary Tempest.”

There, I had uttered it now—hurled the bomb that was to create such consternation.

It did produce remarkable results, although hardly of the nature I had expected.

Hildegarde uttered a sound—really it was very like a little laugh.

She had drawn my teeth; she knew my weakness, knew that I still cared for her—and she laughed at me, mocked me.

It was exasperatingly humiliating.

“Oh, Morgan, how could you believe that—that? Why, Hilary Tempest is still paying attention to that Miller heiress. People say he is waiting for her to get old enough to be married.”

I gasped for breath, but the relief was, after all, only momentary.

“Then—it’s some other man; even if I don’t know him, I hate him all the same, and he shall answer to me for being a brute,” I declared, savagely.

“No, no, you must not—I forbid it, Morgan. Let the past be forgotten—I shall never see poor papa again, I solemnly promise you.”

“Who?” I almost shouted.

“Why, Morgan, you frighten me. It was papa—you know we thought him dead—he ran away, oh, ever so many years ago with a bold, bad woman, and mamma buried him—but he found me out, and I was so lonely I forgave him and loved him. That is all—he deceived me, poor, weak old papa.”

CHAPTER XX.

I TRY TO BRIDGE THE CHASM.

There sometimes come momentous epochs in the lives of men when it seems difficult to believe they are not dreaming.

Such a dazzling event had come to pass in my own experience.

I was not prepared for the shock—it was so entirely unexpected that my faculties seemed benumbed for the time being.

All but my brain—I could still think, although the one refrain that danced with many changes through my mind seemed to be:

“Hildegarde did not marry again—Hildegarde may even yet be my wife! Joy! joy! my wife, my Hildegarde!”

Her father—yes, I remembered now how conscientous she had been upon that matter, and insisted that before our marriage I should know how the old reprobate had brought a certain stigma of disgrace upon his family by eloping with a pretty widow who had fascinated him, and he a parson at that.

At the time I had treated the matter with the contempt it deserved, and stopped the sad tale by kissing the pretty mouth that endeavored to tell it. I was marrying Hildegarde, and not the old sinner who had proven too weak for his vows.

So he had popped up again, and had coaxed much of her fortune away; he had even shown his despicable nature by conspiring to rob his child of the remainder.

Undoubtedly he was as great a scamp as ever went unhung, and no punishment could be too severe for him; but, strange to say, I actually felt a softness toward the reverend fraud, for surely he was a vast improvement over the fascinating Hilary Tempest, the phantom that had long pursued me.

Hope—that shuttlecock of human souls—again soared upward.

Really, the atmosphere had cleared remarkably. If there was no other man in the case, why should I not by degrees win Hildegarde again? All the powers of earth and hell should not, must not, prevail against me.

I had made a beginning—already had she been forced to declare I was not like the man she believed she knew in the past.

Other steps might be taken to prove my worthiness, and how bitterly I repented ever having left her.

Why, the earth was not a desert at all; she might even consent to forgive—to go with me to the Mediterranean, to the dreamy land of the lotus, and there, along the historic Nile, we could coo and make love like a pair of fond turtledoves.

What a blessed vision!

Let Hilary Tempest rest—he had my best wishes to secure the heiress; I wished him joy, so long as his wife was other than my Hildegarde.

“What do you think of me, Hildegarde?” I managed to say, at length.

She would not look at me, much as I desired to see her face.

“It was a strange mistake,” she murmured.

“And yet you must admit, most natural. By accident—I can’t think it was design—you gave me no clew—you only said some man whom you loved and had trusted had deceived you—everything appeared to point to him. Once he was very attentive to you—how was I to know but that you had freed yourself from me and married again?”

“Some women would have done so.”

“That is true.”

“Would it—could you have blamed me?”

I swallowed a lump in my throat.

“No. It would have served me right. I was a fool, a dolt!” I said, bitterly, leaning over the rail in a dejected manner.

Perhaps I fondly hoped she might find it in her heart to forgive me then and there—perhaps I was even fool enough to think a pair of soft, clinging arms might come stealing around my neck as of yore. Ye gods! how I would have turned and taken her in my arms and crushed her to my heart, for I was hungry with love toward this dainty woman who had controlled my past, and, as I now knew full well, must direct my future until death came.

But she made no move to do such a thing. Indeed, she had become reserved, as though afraid she might overstep some line that had been marked out for observance.

There was a dignity, a womanly pride about her that chilled my ardor.

Evidently I had not yet been able to atone for my misdeeds; my penance must continue indefinitely.

“I have often thought we were both very headstrong in those days, Morgan. You have suffered remorse no more than I. Perhaps it was right we separated, since we failed to come up to each other’s ideals. But it is folly to lament over what is past. We shall go our ways—I will not intrude upon your good nature longer than is necessary, and shall keep to my room always.”

This was said with severe firmness. I took it to mean she did not care to meet Thorpe and his wife, to experience their sympathy and satisfy the natural curiosity Diana must show.

It was that and more—much more than a simple man could understand.

“Don’t say ‘intrude,’ Hildegarde. You pain me when you speak in that way. I would give all I possess to prove to you how keenly I regret the past. I have never known peace of mind since,” I said, earnestly.

“Men find a solace that is denied poor women—travel and congenial company may cure the worst case of melancholy and remorse. But I am not going to reproach you, Morgan, God knows. The past is gone, never to return. I resolutely forbid myself to think of it.”

“But, Hildegarde, is it utterly impossible to make amends? I am ready to prove to you that though I gave you up in a nasty bit of passion, I have never ceased to love you—that in every way I have endeavored to forget I could not. Is it your will that we go our separate ways again and see each other no more? This time the decision rests upon you. God give you the wisdom to decide aright.”

I awaited her answer as a man might who had staked his all on the turn of a card.

She evidently was struggling with desire, and it was a question whether heart would come out victor, or reason.

The verdict must be given.

She took one step toward me.

I even opened my arms, and my heart beat tumultuously; but, alas, the hour was not yet come.

I saw her move back, one hand pressing against her heart; what would I not have given for light just then—light to reveal the love in her eyes!

“No, no, I could not trust you after this. And you might regret again. Morgan, I shall not take you from your—your pleasures. It is better we should part. Forget me, and be happy—as I—shall try—to be.”

She turned and left me, vanishing like a fair specter; but, although the verdict was against me, strange to say, I was not overwhelmed. Instead, I experienced a glow of animation, of holy fervor, so to speak; and leaning there over the rail in the spot hallowed by her recent presence, I made a vow that since I knew she loved me still, no obstacle on the whole earth should prevent me from capturing the citadel of her heart, and that the day and hour must soon come when, resting in my arms, she would look up into my eyes and tell me that in life or death she was mine forevermore.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN THE GRASP OF A HURRICANE.

I smoked no more that night.

Somehow my nerves seemed to have become quiet to a degree that was most extraordinary.

It was the calm of confidence.

I seemed to know that the game rested in my hands, and that with a fair degree of good luck my market was made.

Looking back now I marvel that I found such peace—that I could go to my little den and turning in, lose myself in slumber.

It was as if I had reached harbor after two long years of tossing upon the stormy seas, and, utterly wearied, my frame sought sweet rest, when the knowledge came that I was safe.

Hildegarde was still mine—she wore the ring I had placed upon her finger when I first called her by that precious name of wife, and my unworthy image still reigned in her heart.

True, she seemed to see some species of barrier between us—I knew not what it could be, but was possessed of a lusty determination to beat it down.

Nothing on earth should sever us—the old love had sprung up again in my heart, only many times more fierce, and purified by the fire through which it had passed.

How I had deceived myself all these years, sneering at womankind, and endeavoring to convince myself they were one and all of the same frivolous species.

Now that the mask had been dropped, and I could see things as they were, what a mockery this whole affair appeared, and how penitently I admitted to myself that it was not true.

Paradise may rest within a pair of laughing blue eyes, when lighted by the holy fires of love.

Yes, I slept, and my dreams were sweeter than for many a long night.

It matters not of what they consisted—those who have found their destiny wrapped up in the life of a woman may easily guess.

I had not endeavored to lay out any elaborate plan of campaign—she must be on board the yacht for some days, if not weeks, and I was confident of my ability to plead my cause in that time so successfully that capitulation and peace must follow.

Perhaps it was just as well; since, after all, I was to have the manipulation of affairs taken almost wholly out of my hands.

When I awoke it was with a start.

The vessel was plunging very much after the manner of a fiery war horse upon feeling the cruel barb of the spurs.

It took me several minutes to collect my scattered senses; I had gone to sleep under dreamy, starry skies, with the soft, sensuous breath of the tropic sea around me, and now to awaken with the shrill, piercing gale shrieking through the rigging, and the yacht plunging headlong into watery valleys that threatened her with destruction, was a change indeed quite sufficient to stagger one.

I crawled out.

It required considerable agility to dress under such unsteady conditions, and I received more than one bruise from contact with the sides of my narrow quarters.

During my ownership of the yacht I had cruised in her tens of thousands of miles in every sea known upon the face of the globe—I had been caught in quite a good many violent gales, and even experienced a fierce typhoon in the treacherous China Sea.

Really, I could not remember any storm that had sprung upon us with greater suddenness and fiercer opening than this. Why had not the barometer given warning? Perhaps it had to some extent, but our departure from the harbor of Bolivar had been so hasty that even the prospect of a hurricane could not have held us.

And for the first time I felt fear.

Why was this? Experience is supposed to make men hardened; familiarity breeds contempt; and yet I actually trembled when the sturdy little vessel made an extraordinarily fierce plunge downward, filled with the dread that she would be overwhelmed and never rise again.

Why, I never could remember feeling this way before. A wild storm had seemed to arouse all the daring elements of my nature, until I could tie myself on deck and shout with the shrieking wind, actually mocking the curling, foam-crested breakers, as Ajax might have defied the lightning.

And now I trembled.

Ah! the secret was not hard to discover.

I was no longer the reckless rover, with a memory to drown; I had something to live for now, and life showed a rosy tint.

Besides, I was concerned, not on account of myself, but for the precious one who was my guest—for Hildegarde.

When I made my way on deck I found that a wonderful transformation had taken place in those few hours.

Where I had sat and dreamed, and where she had come to me in the still watches of the night, like a spirit from another world, no man could stay and live—the awning had been stowed away, the easy-chairs put below in the cabin, and now the deck was reeking with spume blown from the monstrous waves that rushed on high around us, as if eager to swallow the boat that seemed so like a cork on the angry sea.

I was greatly impressed by the sight, which was certainly wild enough to please the most ardent lover of stormy scenery.

Once I had been inclined that way, but now a peaceful calm would have satisfied me better.

The first person discovered was Robbins.

He had secured himself with a twist of rope, and was watching the behavior of the yacht.

Accustomed as he was to an entirely different class of vessel, I could see even in the gray light of early morning that my old friend looked worried.

He had a poor opinion of the quality of resistance in a well-made little yacht.

I managed to get near him, when a wave that washed across the deck threatened to carry me over the side, only that Robbins’ strong hand grasped my arm and gave me assistance until I, too, had the use of his rope.

Conversation was difficult in the midst of such confusion and deafening clamor; we were compelled to shout in order to be heard.

I assured Robbins I had passed through as bad blows as this without material damage, and that unless some wretched accident happened, there was no reason why we should not come out safely.

Cummings hove in sight.

He looked dreadfully anxious, for this was the first time he had been in full charge of the boat in a storm; our captain had always managed everything before.

Still, Cummings knew his business, and was hardly the man to get rattled.

I told him he must do whatever he considered safest, regardless of any plans we might have made on the previous night, even if it was to run once more for the snug harbor of Bolivar, where we could laugh at the hurricane; and that if we needed any help to call upon Robbins, who was ready and willing to stand by.

Perhaps my faith in him gave Cummings a little more confidence; he affirmed what I already suspected, that our course had been changed some time before to meet the fury of the storm, and that we were working our way to the north as near as he could hit it.

It was best, he said, to keep clear of the coast, which was always treacherous; we would be wiser to take our chances out in the open sea; and Robbins earnestly coincided with this sailor-like declaration.

When the two of them started for the wheelhouse to consult the charts and find where the present course was apt to bring us, I remembered those below.

Wet almost to the skin, I made my way into the cabin.

Thorpe met me eagerly.

He no longer looked the fop—a sort of terror gleamed in his eyes, for which he might easily be excused, since he was not much of a sailor, and the awful convulsions of the yacht were enough to arouse alarm in the bravest heart.

But I knew there was something of the true metal in his constitution, which would come to the surface, now that one he loved was placed in peril of her life.

“This is awful, Kenneth!” he exclaimed, as he seized hold of me. “Why, you’re as wet as a drowned rat! Have you been overboard, man?”

I hastened to assure him in the negative, and explained that the seas occasionally washed the deck, which would save my men the labor.

“What d’ye call this?” he demanded.

I said it was a little blow, possibly a norther, such as sweeps over the Gulf of Mexico at this season of the year.

“You mean a hurricane,” he insisted.

It was neither the time nor place to explain the vast difference, nor indeed could I see that it mattered in the least, if the storm possessed all the violent energies of one of those twisters that in August come whirling out of their nursery among the Windward Islands, ravage the West Indies, knock Galveston into splinters, and travel up the Mississippi Valley, to eventually sweep out to sea off the Newfoundland Banks, everywhere carrying death and destruction in their wake. Storms at sea are pretty much alike to the average mind, when they possess all the attributes of grim destruction.

“How does Diana stand it?” I shouted, as he staggered into my arms when the yacht made another sudden plunge.

“Good Heavens! I thought we were gone. Diana—she refuses to come out, though dressed. I left her moaning and praying. Perhaps you might give her a little encouragement.”

I did not like the task, still it seemed my duty, and I could not well refuse.

In fact, as matters stood, I really needed encouragement myself, for I feared the worst.

This was a turn with a vengeance—to have these friends come on board just the night before to enjoy a charming cruise among the glorious islands of the West Indies, and have, by the next morning, to solemnly assure them that I had faith to believe the yacht might weather the tempest, and by a rare bit of luck we might be saved.

Such a condition of affairs rather took the starch out of me—the change was so rapid.

I followed him to his stateroom—he had fastened the door back, and great disorder seemed to reign within, though this was nothing more than might have been expected under the circumstances.

Diana sprang up at sight of me.

She was indeed the picture of fear, so different from her usual coquettish self that I was amazed at the change.

Of course, I endeavored to look smiling and cheerful, a hard task indeed when the little vessel seemed twisting and creaking under our very feet as though she might be torn asunder by the violence of the waves.

Perhaps I overshot the mark; I imagine my smile must have been close on the borders of a graveyard one.

At any rate, it did not calm Diana, who clung to my arm, beseeching me wildly to tell her the truth—declaring that she was not ready to die, and begging me to save her.

Gustavus conquered his own fear, and became a man—he threw his arms around his wife and tried to calm her frenzy.

I knew it would wear out by degrees, to be succeeded perhaps by that stony despair even more terrible to behold where the horrified soul, hovering on eternity, looks out from burning eyes, and cries for the succor no man may give.

I turned away, sick at heart.

Was this, then, the end?—were we all doomed to meet our fate there amid the wild surges; or would Heaven be merciful and spare us?

Then I remembered Hildegarde, and with my heart in my throat, so to speak, I walked over to the door of her stateroom and pounded upon it.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE HOUR OF PERIL.

I am positive that was the first time in my life I ever exerted myself so forcibly upon the panel of a door to attract the attention of the occupant, a guest on board my boat; but surely the conditions warranted such an expenditure of muscular power, for with the howling of the wind, the creaking of bulkheads, and all woodwork about the boat, together with the mighty roar of the billows that caused the yacht to stagger like a drunken thing, there was almost as much commotion in the air as during a battle, and ordinary sounds could not be heard at all.

My summons were at once heeded, for immediately the door opened.

Hildegarde, fully dressed, stood there.

She was deathly pale, but, to my infinite satisfaction, exhibited none of the hysterical emotions which Diana had shown, and which were in their way apt to demoralize the strongest man.

No matter what peril faced us, she would be brave—I had never before seen her face to face with deadly danger, and this unsuspected but very welcome phase of her nature gratified me immensely. I stepped inside, because talking, unless at very close range, was very difficult.

There was no need of reassuring her—words would have been useless.

In answer to her questions I told her that the storm was unusually severe, but the yacht had passed through many fully as bad, and there was no reason to expect a different result on the present occasion, though it was always the part of wisdom to be prepared for the worst.

“Yes, we are in God’s hands, Morgan,” she said, and I felt as though drawn nearer to Heaven by such sublime faith as this.

Strange what thoughts will flash athwart the mind even when on the brink of eternity.

Standing there and looking in her heavenly eyes, now filled with such womanly fear, I wondered what fate had in store for us—we who had separated through pique and been brought together again in this wonderful, this almost miraculous manner.

Could it be that just as I was about to claim Paradise again, it would be but to die with this loved one in my arms; or would a kinder fate allow us to live through the horror of storm and wreck, saved for each other as by a miracle.

As Hildegarde so gravely said, only God knew.

She called my attention to the child, who had become very ill from the violent motion of the plunging boat.

There was no relief at such a time, though I felt sorry for little Carmencita—her affection for Hildegarde endeared her to me, and I spoke a few words to cheer her as she lay there, ghastly yellow, her great black eyes seeming to almost start out of her head with mingled nausea and fright.

“We will try and have some breakfast, though it must be a cold one,” I said, knowing the cook, if able to stand on his pins at all, which was doubtful, would never get a fire started.

She shook her head as if to declare she had no appetite; but I felt it was wise to force ourselves to eat something, since the time might be close at hand when we would need all the strength we could muster.

I busied myself about this; there are times when a little work serves to dissipate the awful chill of despair.

Diana had changed her mood, or at least it seemed to have reached another stage—her whole appearance indicated hopelessness, and she turned with loathing from the wine and biscuit I offered—I believe she hated me because I had, with the heartiest intentions in the world, invited them to join me on a winter cruise.

Gustavus accepted gladly, evidently feeling the need of some staying quality inside; if the worst came, I knew I could depend upon him to do all that lay in the power of a man for his wife, and the result must rest in higher hands than ours.

I ate more to encourage Hildegarde than because I had any desire for food; indeed, who could feel hungry while the awful churning motion of the vessel continued; and we were fearful with each dip that our time had come?

I would have given much to have reassured Hildegarde, to have told her how my heart was filled with a yearning love for her in this dread hour of peril; but that must have consumed words, and the circumstances were against speech.

I did take her hand on leaving, and looking in her eyes, managed to say:

“Keep up a brave heart, and pray for us all, Hildegarde. You can depend upon me at the worst—always remember that I live or die with you.”

Such a strange look she gave me—I could not fathom its meaning; there was yearning in it, and at the same time distrust. The barrier had not yet been removed, in spite of my service in her behalf.

That was no time to worry over such things, with life and death hanging in the balance.

All through the wretched morning the yacht labored heavily in the grasp of the wild tempest.

Surely such a fearful gale had not visited the great gulf at this season for years.

Many times hope was dashed down and despair took its place, as some unusually drastic punishment was dealt out to the struggling yacht, and the danger seemed at a grand climax.

Again and again we won out by a bare neck, as it were, and as the day wore on I began to think we might fight the gale to a successful conclusion.

I believe I lived years in that morning, and that gray hairs would mark the experience, such was the awful strain on our nerves.

We were doing all we could, and the result rested in the Providence that watched over us.

So eight bells found us.

I hunted up Robbins to get his opinion, and learning that he was in the wheelhouse, watched my opportunity, scurried across the wet deck ankle deep in water that could not escape fast enough, and managed to dash into shelter just before another billow broke over us.

Cummings and Karl Wagner were also there, and hard pressed to keep a course.

They complained of the compass, and declared it acted as unsteady as during a magnetic storm.

It had never played us any tricks before, but had always been perfectly reliable.

If we got off our course, the consequences might be disastrous. Ugh! I had no desire to even think of that, remembering what a cruel and treacherous stretch of coast extended along the border of Bolivar.

We talked matters over.

It was anything but bright, the outlook.

The barometer had gone down abnormally low, the reading being almost at twenty-eight, which proclaimed that we had not yet passed the apex or crown of the storm, which, in a hurricane, is called the core or center of disturbance.

Could we stand more of it, and worse?

I felt a cold chill chase up and down my spinal column; the grim specter grew more positive. We were facing a grave peril, and the chances seemed against us.

Robbins was the man for the hour—Robbins, who seemed to know just what should be done, and whose valiant spirit could never be daunted by the fiercest storm that ever blew in this hurricane sea.

I rejoiced to think what a lucky chance sent him my way when I wandered amid the flower-strewn calles of Bolivar; he might yet prove the rock of our salvation.

All had been done that was possible, and, while stout hearts tried to hold the course, we could only await the result.

About two o’clock the scene was at its worst.

I never expect to look upon the like again, and even at this distant day I am apt to feel a shudder at the recollection of it all.

Still, we kept our head up in the teeth of the gale, though how fast we were being washed to leeward, and toward the coast, none among us could even hazard a guess.

Then a gleam of hope came—the mercury was beginning to rise—the worst had been passed.

So night found us tossing almost helplessly on those mountainous seas, but with some reason to believe we might be saved.

The cook, after infinite trouble, managed to get us a pot of tea, and with this we made out to have an indifferent meal.

Diana still remained in her room and refused to let her husband leave her, so I served them there as best I could.

Poor girl, she was a wreck; no one would recognize the dashing belle in this wild-eyed, hysterical creature, with half a dozen cork life-preservers tied about her, ready to start up with a scream whenever our stanch little ocean steed plunged down a comber.

Hildegarde, still pale, was a wonderful contrast, and my heart grew proud of her.

She ate composedly, and it was a strange meal we sat down to; never had I expected to sit in her presence again, and see her hands pour out the tea. What if half of it was spilled, the charm was there just the same.

And my spirits arose; hope began to weave its subtle cords about my heart.

Sharp contrasts exist in this world—Paradise actually borders upon the fields of woe.

Just as I was feeling a warmth in the region of my heart, and picking up new courage in her presence, there was a sudden, tremendous crash, a dreadful quiver throughout the yacht, and our forward rush came to a sudden end.

I knew what the dreadful catastrophe meant—the coast was on our lee, and we had struck a reef!

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE WRECK OF THE YACHT.

It is a dreadful thing to have the honeyed chalice dashed from one’s lips just as he is about to drink the nectar.

I certainly never had such a rude shock in all my life as when that terrific crash sent a shudder through the yacht, and every one knew instinctively that the worst had happened.

This was the beginning of the end.

There could no longer be felt that free movement to tell us the vessel was running before the gale or even rising with each billow.

Instead we experienced a peculiar shivering sensation over the whole fabric, which was accentuated with the rush of each wave that beat up against her.

Hildegarde had half started from her seat, as white as snow—if there was terror in her azure eyes, it was mute.

Not so Diana, who shrieked as though crazed with fear; I could also hear the voice of Gustavus amid the chaotic confusion, but whether he were endeavoring to calm his frenzied wife, or had lost his own head in the horror of the moment, it was impossible for me to guess.

I staggered to my feet.

The weight of monumental disaster appeared to be upon my shoulders.

Death was very near us all.

If the boat slipped off the rock upon which a giant billow had mercilessly hurled her, the chances were she must sink immediately, for from the horrible grinding noise below I must believe a hole had been stove in her bottom large enough to overwhelm us.

On the other hand, if the force of the impact had been so terrific as to plant the ill-fated yacht upon the reef so firmly that she could not be washed over, then there was a chance of her holding together for some hours—perhaps, Heaven alone knew, until daylight.

Between the bombardment of each wave we had a breathing spell, when words shouted at the top of the voice could be heard.

I knew I must leave Hildegarde; it would only be for a brief time, but there was no escaping my duty to those others who had stuck by their posts with such faithful heroism.

First I sprang over to where many cork life-preservers were kept in a rack especially prepared; Diana had monopolized the major portion of these, without any regard for the rest of us—fright sees only personal danger I am fain to believe—but luckily a couple remained, and these I snatched up.

Back to Hildegarde I hurried.

She stood up and allowed me to fasten the cork and canvas affair under her arms.

I felt her look of mute entreaty—so the gazelle might gaze upon its executioner, but surely I had little of the power of life and death in my hands, else gladly would I have exercised it in order to save us all.

One thing certain, I could not leave her without some expression of hope.

Man is but an actor at best—the emotions sway him at their will.

For her sake, then, I crushed down the great fear that kept tugging at my heart, and even attempted to look as though our situation did not possess the horror of being face to face with doom.

“We are fast on a reef—we may stay here for hours, even until morning. I do not believe the danger is imminent. Perhaps, God grant it, the sea may go down as suddenly as it arose, and leave us here safe. At the worst, I shall be with you. Be courageous—it will increase your chances of safety. Do you understand, Hildegarde?”

Of course, I had to shout this.

She nodded her head.

I could see that she was a heroine, and even in that dreadful hour my heart did her homage. Yes, I could understand why she had always admired valor in man, why she had been so disappointed because in those old days I refused to be a hero to please her.

Well, the time had come, and my hand was forced through sheer necessity—I had proved that no coward blood ran in my veins, though if we were doomed to die thus miserably, the advantage and triumph must be short-lived.

There was eagerness in her look now, and I could almost declare I saw the light of love there as she followed my every motion.

“I must leave you for a short time—it is necessary that I go on deck to see what damage has been wrought—to confer with my poor fellows, if they have not already been swept overboard,” I continued.

The wave of fear that passed over her white face was for me.

“You will be careful, Morgan,” I heard her say, as a brief lull came.

Her trembling hand was on my arm, her eyes looked into mine, and if I had died for it the next moment, I could not have refused the opportunity. Love laughs at storm and wreck, yes, often at grim death itself.

So I snatched her to me—whether she resisted or not I can hardly say, for I did not notice. I rained kisses upon her face, her hair, her lips, and then releasing her sprang away.

When I glanced back I saw her standing there holding on to the table and looking after me with an expression I could never forget.

As I passed the partly open door of Thorpe’s stateroom I believed it my duty to say at least a few reassuring words, for they evidently expected each minute to be their last, and looked to see the cruel sea bursting in upon them, eager for its victims.

Diana was about exhausted, and so I found a chance to shout what had happened, and how much of a chance we had.

Heaven knew it was slender enough in my mind, but for a little deceit, a little of cheerfulness in a good cause, I might be forgiven.

Then I made for the deck.

It was a dreadful sight that met my eyes as I looked forth.

The night was not inky dark, as I had expected; even stars were to be seen overhead when the storm-racked clouds parted here and there.

But the wind still howled, and the sea gave little promise of abating its fury until morning.

Everywhere I looked there were the same tumbling, riotous waves, curling and hissing; while the wind snatched away their foamy masses, and hurled the spume through the air with all the stinging emphasis of hail.

It was impossible to see any distance from the spot where we were wedged upon the reef; consequently, although I might feel almost positive that the land must lie at no great distance to leeward, mortal eyes could not distinguish the outlines of that shore until morning came, however wistfully they might be turned thither.

So far as I could tell, we were lodged securely enough upon the rocks, and the chances of being washed off were slender, unless some tidal wave, like the one that must have thrown us there, came along.

The question at issue was of another character, that affected our future just as much—how long could the yacht stand this terrific hammering from the billows that broke over her?

When she gave way it meant the end.

I had reason to rejoice over her unusual stability—she had been known more as a sturdy sea craft than for any great speed, a vessel in which a man might meet the vicissitudes of the ocean without more fear than if abroad some monster Atlantic liner.

This quality must serve us now—indeed, our lives depended upon how long the yacht could hold out against such constant battering.

Having comprehended our condition as well as such a hasty survey would allow, my next thought was of my crew.

What had become of Robbins, Cummings and the rest? Were they forward somewhere, awaiting the end, or had the monster already seized them in his insatiable maw?

Even as I looked I saw a human figure stagger across the deck, coming directly toward me; a wave flooded the vessel more or less, but when it rolled away, amid the churn of yeasty foam, the figure was still there, hanging to a rope.

Again he advanced, another wave broke, and this was so much heavier than the first that I gave a faint cry of alarm, confident that its tremendous force must have torn him loose from his moorings, and carried him into the midst of that tumbling madness beyond.

But no, there the resolute fellow stood still, and with one more charge he reached the spot where I awaited him.

It was Robbins.

Wet as he was, I threw my arms around my old friend and shipmate. The presence of a man, and such a man, served to arouse new life.

Even the ceaseless howl of the storm seemed to lose some of its terror when I found myself in contact with him, for the personality of a brave man may be a tower of strength in cases of emergency.

Only by shouting at the top of our voices could we make ourselves heard out there.

“This is awful,” I said.

“A bad job, Morgan.”

“There is little hope?”

“She may hold out—it is a chance; but the sea must go down very slowly. Be prepared for the worst—it may mean every soul,” with a quick look to leeward, as if calculating what a miserable showing the stoutest man might have in that awful whirl.

“What of the men?” I asked.

“Hardly know—I saw two carried away at the time we struck.”

He did not tell me then that in endeavoring to save one of them he came within an ace of also losing his hold; but such an act was characteristic of the man, and he could not do less under any conditions.

“Cumming?” I shouted, filled with apprehension lest he might have been one of them.

“Is forward in the wheelhouse—I’m afraid he’s hurt by being thrown down when we struck; but he’s a game one.”

“We must get him here; at any moment that wheelhouse may be carried away. If there are others, tell them to come. It is a common danger we all face, and let this be no time for class distinction. A man is only a man when death hovers near.”

“I’ll go,” he said, readily enough.

Without another word he was about to leave me, when I caught his arm.

“What can we do with the women?”

“Nothing but put the cork belts on ’em, and ask them to pray for us. If the vessel holds until morning we have a chance; if not—God receive our souls.”

Evidently my friend did not believe there was any hope for the best of us, once the yacht broke and hurled us into the clamorous sea; he was a sailor who knew what frightful forces operate to strangle the boldest swimmer when overwhelmed by waves that battle against each other to heave and splash and whirl like the madness of Niagara’s rapids.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

After all, I had not received much genuine encouragement from Mate Robbins.

I knew his disposition of old, and had seen him make light of many a danger that to me seemed fraught with gloom.

Apparently his nature had undergone somewhat of a change, or else the situation was materially worse than anything in his past.

This latter, which seemed to be the truth, was rather appalling.

Still, I would not despair; I had found a new lease of life in the hope that Hildegarde’s coming had aroused, and I would not give up until the very last gasp.

When Robbins had made another successful passage across the deck, thanks to the rope that had been stretched between cabin and wheelhouse, I thought to go below again.

The charm of Hildegarde’s presence drew me.

I was determined not to leave her again, for should the worst come and death claim us, it would make the crucial test less cruel if we could die together.

That, I take it, is the true mission of love, to soothe, to protect, to save, if possible; but should all these fail, to die for or with the object of its soul’s worship.

Hildegarde was where I left her.

She had the child at her side, and was endeavoring to soothe her, more by the caressing touch of her hands than by words.

Her eyes were eagerly fastened upon the cabin door, as if watching for me, and I saw a look of confidence sweep over her face when I staggered in.

My hour had come, but I could not glory in it with doom so near at hand.

Should we live, she could never again believe me lacking in those sterling qualities that go to make the man—thank Heaven for that at least! and if we died, she would with her last breath know that she was in my arms, that I had battled against overwhelming forces to save her, and failing that I chose to share her fate rather than try to win alone.

Sitting down near by I endeavored to tell her how matters stood, and what a long night of horror it promised to be.

There was no chance for conversation; the terrible din that almost deafened us prevented this, and kept alive our most excited fancies.

Again and again I feared the vessel was moving, sliding off the reef into the vortex of waters; and it required a wonderful amount of self-control to prevent my tell-tale face from communicating these sudden shocks to the dear eyes that watched me so closely.

Presently Cummings came in.

The poor fellow had been hard hit—I could see that only his grit kept him up.

I at once brought him a bottle of liquor in the hope that it might at least prove a temporary stimulant and brace him up.

Between Cummings and myself there was a bond of unusual sympathy; he mourned a good wife, while I, too, had up to now been bereft; many times we had talked together, and he had in a measure been my confidant, the only soul to whom I had poured out the bitterness of a broken heart.

I saw him look curiously at Hildegarde, and while I waited on him, I managed to put my mouth to his ear and say:

“She is my wife, my Hildegarde—Heaven has seen fit to unite us, perhaps to let us atone for it all by dying together. It is well, my friend.”

Then he squeezed my hand in his warm clasp.

“I rejoice with you, Morgan—perhaps the same kind Heaven means that I shall no longer be separated from my angel Mary. I feel it somehow, that she is nearer to me this night than since the hour she died in these arms. It is as God wills—I am satisfied; without her, life is, at best, a weariness to the flesh.”

Here spoke a stoic and a philosopher.

I confess I did not share in his views to any extent; why should I when life meant such a glorious vision to me, with Hildegarde to crown it?

Robbins had gone back for the rest, carrying out my plan that we keep together to meet the worst, whatever it might be.

I sincerely hoped he would be careful, for his loss would give me a fearful shock, so much did I depend upon his presence, this man who had met danger in every guise, and knew how to wring victory out of seeming defeat.

Diana cried out no more.

She had exhausted herself.

When one faces such terrors the long-continued strain is apt to bring about contempt from familiarity, or else utter silence from a lack of ability to find further expression.

That was the poor girl’s case.

She had already experienced the terrors of a thousand deaths, and when the real one came it would perhaps be less horrible than any of those that only existed in the imagination.

Well, we were not yet at the last gasp, and who could say what good luck might befall us?

I was bent on cheering them all I could.

The cook, poor fellow, had disappeared, nor did I ever learn what became of him; perhaps he was one of those Robbins saw carried away.

I made my way to his galley, and seized upon such food as I could find amid the fearful confusion existing there.

The “fiddles” were on the table, those storm signals meant to keep the dishes from waltzing across the board and into one’s lap, and so I managed to keep the viands I fetched in something like order.

If we were destined to watch through the long and dreadful night, we might imbibe something of strength by satisfying the inner man, for I have long since discovered that danger loses one-half its terror if faced on a full stomach.

Another water-soaked sailor entered—one of the crew, whom I made at home and forced to partake of food and drink.

By degrees they all assembled, seven, counting Robbins, who came last.

There were five missing, including the cook and poor Karl Wagner.

I shuddered when I thought of their fate, thought of that maddening abyss of foamy waters; but why should I waste any pity on the poor fellows when long ere now they were at peace, while we must face the worst.

How the minutes dragged.

And each hour was an eternity.

I looked at my watch again and again—why, surely it must have stopped since it could not be only five meager minutes since last I turned my eyes on its face; but holding it to my ear I could hear its ticking still.

Midnight!

The wild alarum outside kept up with a terrible monotony—it was like the devil’s tattoo, sounding our fate in ominous drum beats.

How long could steel and wood stand such a ceaseless, terrific hammering? Surely the little vessel must be slowly but positively going to pieces. The agony of that night passes comprehension—if I were to sit down and write volumes in the endeavor to tell all we suffered and felt, the actual realization must beggar description.

One bright gleam came to me in the midst of all this horrid darkness; strange how human emotions will rise to the front in spite of deadly peril.

I saw Carmencita leave her mistress and make her way into the stateroom.

When she reappeared she carried the little satchel which I had rescued with Hildegarde.

Though some distance away, trying to talk with Robbins and Cummings, I could not withstand the fascination of watching what she did.

For I had a certain interest in that bag.

First the woman showed—she took out a little pouch made of soft chamois skin—I knew it of old to contain her jewelry, numerous valuable diamonds, and rubies, in rings or some such setting—I had given them to her when we were traveling in Europe, after fortune had poured her favors in my lap.

This small bag, no larger than my hand, she proceeded to tie upon her person.

I did not wonder at all—if one dies, of course the valuables can do no good; but hope ever reigns in the human soul, and should good fortune bear one to safety, it is well to be provided with the sinews of war.

What next?

There was something more in that bag. Ah! she took it out, the photo in the silver frame—I saw her look at it, then turn her eyes toward me.

I accepted that as an invitation, and, rising, came near, somehow I did not seem to feel as though I were about to be pained—the old jealous feeling was no longer alive since I had learned that my one time rival, Hilary Tempest, was still gunning for an heiress.

It was a wretched picture of—myself.

No wonder I had failed to recognize it in the hurried glimpse obtained at the time she so quickly stowed it away in the bag.

I suppose a man may even become so accustomed to seeing himself in his glass, “bearded like the pard,” that he may scorn to recognize some early likeness, with its smooth, boyish face, and this picture had been taken before my marriage.

At least it was a pleasure for me to realize that she had carried it with her wherever she went.

I had no objection to that fellow’s picture being set upon her dressing table, where it must be the last thing her eyes would behold ere she retired, and the first thing in the morning.

I deliberately took it up and tore it in pieces, despite her entreaty.

“That fellow was a boor, a fool—we’ll try and supplant him by one who has come to his senses, if we are lucky enough to reach the land,” I declared, and that ended the episode.

Time still dragged on.

Several of the men slept, but I could not have done so had my life depended on it; the crisis of my existence was near at hand, and my nerves were strung to a high tension in anticipation of the battle.

I think Diana was overcome by exhaustion, and had given way to slumber, for I heard nothing from her for some hours.

Robbins occasionally went out.

I knew what was on his mind; ostensibly he meant to look at the weather, but in reality it was his mission to discover just how the doomed yacht was standing her pounding.

“Well?” I asked—it was almost four o’clock and in three hours we would have daylight.

He shook his head.

“Storm increasing?” I demanded.

“No, going down slowly, but the hulk is almost ready to break in two—wheelhouse already gone, decks washed clean, and even the bulwarks broken into bits. The finish is in sight,” was what he said to me.

It gave me a numb feeling of pain.

How eagerly I prayed for delay—at least until dawn, for it is so much easier to face danger when one can distinguish its terrors, perhaps see the shore, to reach which every nerve must be strained.

Every time he went out after that I anxiously awaited his return.

Five, six o’clock—would it hold until daylight?

Hildegarde guessed how matters stood, and she sat there smiling at me—God bless her!—as much as to say she had no fear; but I knew it was done to encourage me, and that her poor little heart was quivering with womanly fright.

Then came the summons to the fray—Robbins, with a firm look upon his face, calling:

“Every one on deck! the day has come and it is dangerous to remain below. She may break in two at any moment. On deck all, I say!”

CHAPTER XXV.

ON THE BRINK OF ETERNITY.

Mate Robbins spoke as with authority, and no one thought to question his orders.

All the same, the announcement created a tremendous excitement in the cabin of the wretched yacht.

Diana became hysterical again, poor girl! the horror of that awful night had almost unsettled her reason.

From my heart I pitied Gustavus, feeling that his task of saving a woman whom fright had rendered worse than helpless, was something that contained little of hope.

Heaven knows the thing was bad enough even when taken at its best—Hildegarde, brave little woman, had just as much reason to allow her natural fears to throw her into hysteria as Diana, yet, white-faced, she controlled herself enough to face the terrible situation, ready to do what little she might to snatch victory from almost positive defeat.

I feel sure I would have a more doleful story to tell, even if I lived to relate it, had she been as utterly helpless as the distracted beauty.

The seamen, grim fellows, knowing they had to face the fight of their lives, began pushing for the deck, each man strapping on the life-preserver with which he had provided himself.

They were apparently cool and ready to match their strength against the brutal forces of the sea. For years they had braved the tempest’s wrath, believing, as most sailors do, that it was only a question of time ere their bones must rest far below upon coral beds or banks of sea moss.

That hour had come, perhaps, and with philosophical grimness they faced their fate.

I had arisen as soon as Robbins announced the dread crisis at hand.

“Come, Hildegarde, my darling—we must go on deck and meet what faces us. If it be Heaven’s will I shall save you. If not, at least we may die together.”

It was in no spirit of heroism that I uttered these words—they sprang directly from my heart.

To look down upon this woman, dearly beloved, and consider that in a brief time she must be at the mercy of those cruel waves beating so madly around us was surely enough to wring the soul of any husband.

Yes, I lived years in that fleeting time.

Hildegarde had also arisen, and her blue eyes were fastened upon my face—I saw love and trust there, but something seemed lacking.

“Oh! Morgan, what is your duty?—to stand by me or help—that woman? I have heard her cry out your name again and again,” she said.

“That’s because she’s hysterical.”

“But your duty——”

“Is to stay with you now and always—nothing under heaven can tear me away.”

“But—Diana—she has a claim——”

“Not on me, with you here. Let her look to her own husband for help; I belong to you.”

My words, spoken so stubbornly, brought out a strange answer.

Hildegarde uttered a cry—it was not of fear such as Diana’s wails—oh, no, something entirely different. Strange how that note of joy sounded amid the exclamations of fright, the bursting of the waves against the stranded yacht, and the whistle of the wind.

“Oh! Morgan, he her husband——”

“Yes, these fifteen months and more,” I cried, as the truth dawned on me, and I saw as in a flash what the grave barrier was that in her mind had stood between us.

“Forgive me—I thought—they told me you had gone away with your old flame. Morgan, here with death facing us, tell me that you forgive me—for, I love you, indeed better than ever before in all my life.”

Well, I even forgot that the yacht was going to pieces under us, and that Death on a White Horse was riding very near, eager for victims. A man may ignore even such important facts as these when the clouds suddenly part to allow the warm sun a chance to thaw out his frozen heart.

For the first time in our lives we understood each other then.

I saw upon her face such ecstatic love that it were even worth the terrible danger to enjoy such a moment of bliss.

Eagerly I opened my arms and she sprang to their shelter—please Heaven, never to leave it again save to cross the dark stream to eternity.

It was strange to see us heart to heart in that moment of dread uncertainty; I doubt very much whether a more remarkable reunion had ever occurred on earth.

The clouds were all gone—she was mine, mine alone, be the time of my possession minutes or years.

I strained her to me, and she looked up from my arms, just as I had fondly pictured her doing, with an expression of angelic joy upon her face—the daylight was creeping in through the open cabin door, shaming the dim lamplight that had been our comfort all through that dreadful night, and rested with almost a benediction upon her sweet face.

Gustavus had managed to get his wife on deck, swathed as she was in cork belts. Alas! I knew too well their multiplicity would avail her little unless she could use common sense while battling with the waves.

We were alone in the cabin; Robbins had carried off little Carmencita, and I felt she would be saved if mortal power could affect it.

The yacht gave a tremendous shudder under the impact of a big wave, and instantly a hand of ice seemed to clutch my heart, for I believed the very end had come, and that disintegration was at hand.

But there was yet time.

It aroused me, however, to a consciousness of my duty, which was to neglect no opportunity for advancing our cause—our chances would be infinitely better on deck than when confined to the cabin, should the yacht break and be engulfed in the boiling sea.

“Come, beloved, we must get out of this; the only hope we have is to avoid being caught in the wreck when the awful moment arrives. Trust me, Hildegarde,” I said, bending and kissing her, not passionately, but with that holy affection we bestow upon the beloved one who perchance hovers on the portals of eternity.

“Now and evermore, husband!” was the answer she made, as she threw her arms about my neck and gave me one eager embrace.

Her new-found happiness seemed to have given the little woman additional vigor.

Perhaps it was because life possessed more charms for her, or possibly she realized that our chances of success must be strengthened by a brave front on her part.

Be that as it may, I only know she needed no sustaining arm in leaving the cabin, though with the staggering floor under our feet I would not allow her to walk alone.

When we passed beyond the confines of the cabin and reached the deck, the scene that burst upon us was really the most melancholy in my whole experience.

I cannot imagine a picture more desolate than a brave vessel going to pieces on the rocks, with the rollers pounding her torn sides, and the forlorn passengers grouped about, waiting in painful and prayerful silence for that summons which may in all probability send them to final judgment.

The yacht was already battered out of all resemblance to the thing of beauty that had slipped so gayly over the waves a short time back. No marine fabric has as yet ever been constructed that could effectually hold out against the awful battering-ram of the aroused sea.

Every object had been broken from the deck and swept away—forward the hull was swimming with water, so that had the yacht slipped from the reef on which cruel fortune had impaled her she must have sunk like a plummet.

I turned an eager gaze toward the shore.

There our scanty hopes rested, and everything depended upon the distance and what lay between.

It was not very encouraging, to say the least—the shore was in plain sight, but between lay at least half a mile of boiling surf, leaping in foamy tipped waves that rolled and surged with resistless force, a whirlpool of wrath.

Alas! what meager chance had a frail human being amid such resistless forces?

I was in no humor to allow any weakness to get the upper hand; if ever I needed all the faculties nature had given me, it was then, when face to face with the crisis of my life.

There was something else to rivet my attention besides despair—I felt that this was my time to win my way back to paradise, or, failing, lose all that man held dear below.

What concerned me most of all lay in my opportunity to advance my cause. My worst fear was that I should be separated from this dear one, that she might be torn from my arms by the remorseless waves.

I had snatched up a coil of rope as I started to leave the cabin, something that had been forgotten by one of the men.

How could I secure Hildegarde to myself, so that we would be sure to remain united?

A heaven-born thought flashed into my head. I remembered a patent cork mooring-buoy I had purchased, intending to have it mark the spot where our anchor lay when we remained in a harbor for a time, making little trips here and there, to return again to our anchorage.

Leaving Hildegarde, with a hurried explanation of my purpose, I dashed once more into the cabin—the painted thing had never as yet been used, and had served merely as a decoration.

Tearing it loose and dragging it after me, I made once more for the door.

It was then the yacht rolled frightfully, quivering in every timber, like a stricken thing.

I was overwhelmed by the dreadful fear that the end had come, and Hildegarde was alone and unprotected.

Down went the buoy and I whirled through the rocked doorway to the deck, all my nerves wrought up to the utmost pitch; but, Heaven be praised! that shiver was not her last, and another chance remained. Hildegarde still crouched where I had left her, and I could go back for the buoy upon which my hopes depended.

So I brought it forth.

Had I been alone, it should have been for Diana—I would have scorned taking advantage of its floating powers; but Hildegarde came first, since she was all the world to me.

Gustavus was doing what he could under the directions of Robbins; the night had brought out all that was grand in his disposition, and he stood there a hero, shorn of all the petty foppish ways in which he delighted to masquerade.

When I came to her again, the little woman gave a cry of pleasure that struck to my heart. She had the utmost faith in me and my ability to save her. Alas! I realized when I looked out upon that churning sea what a broken reed it was upon which she leaned.

Quickly I secured her to the buoy.

It would sustain her weight and might be the happiest thought of my life. Little did I think when carelessly purchasing it in a French maritime town to what blessed use it would eventually be put.

Then a portion of the rope was used to secure me to my precious charge.

I took off my shoes and tied them to my belt, that I might be the better able to exert my whole powers in the water.

The break-up had been providentially delayed; but none of us indulged in any false hopes; although the sea might not be so riotous as on the night before, it still possessed the cruel power to beat the racked frame of the yacht to splinters. So we only waited, eating our very hearts out in suspense.

At last the awful crisis burst upon us. I felt a tremendous shock, heard the crash and groan of timbers, caught Diana’s last despairing shriek, and had only time to clutch hold of Hildegarde when the waters engulfed us.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THROUGH THE UNDERTOW.

The shock was nothing to me, I had really been anticipating it so long.

I kept my senses in a creditable manner, for well I knew everything, her life, my own, depended upon coolness.

For a brief space of time we were under water, and then both came to the surface.

One danger was past—I had dreaded lest some portion of the wreck might be hurled upon us with murderous force; but, wonderful to say, I saw nothing of any timbers or anything at all after being swept into the sea when the deck had broken up.

That blessed buoy deserved all the appreciation I could ever bestow upon it, for surely it was a good investment. Hildegarde knew something of swimming, having always been fond of the water, and this knowledge stood her well now.

I could see that she was not choking, as a novice might have been when overwhelmed by a gigantic billow.

Now began a struggle for life.

I had much to fight for, everything that could nerve a man to deeds of valor, for love leads the world as an incentive.

Desperately I fought.

There were times when it seemed as though the end were nigh—when the relentless waves almost tore me away from my precious charge in spite of my care in binding myself to her.

How tenaciously I clung, with set teeth and hands that almost cracked under the pressure.

Then the tension would relax, and I was able to recover my breath to some extent, preparatory to the next wild plunge.

Bad as the situation seemed, I knew there must be others who were even worse off—who had already been beaten into insensibility by the waves, and for whom all hope had fled.

I saw nothing of them, though this was not strange, with such a vast ocean around us.

For Hildegarde my fears were greatest—alone I would have fought a good fight, but not having the holy incentive that nerved my arm now, I might have yielded up the ghost.

Hildegarde was suffering now; it made my heart bleed to realize my utter helplessness to assist her, for whom I would have shed every drop of my blood.

She choked more than once as the seas repeatedly broke over us, allowing scant time to catch a breath, and I raged with a fury that was perhaps childish, to realize how unable I was to shield her against their lashing.

All this while we had been drifting with the rollers, and must be drawing near the shore.

Eagerly I watched my opportunity, when upon the crest of a billow, to strain my water-soaked eyes toward where it should be.

Painful though my vision had become, thank Heaven! I saw the blessed shore—it was also close at hand, though before I could hope to gain its friendly shelter the worst struggle of all must be gone through with; for the deadly sea puss forms where the retreating undertow meets the incoming waves, and riotous war ensues.

And when, crowned with victory, I should stagger out of the foamy yeast, clasping in my arms that form so precious, would there still be a sweet spirit within that earthly tenement, or might my embrace but hold the lifeless clay of my best beloved?

Always must it remain more or less of a mystery how I reached the shore.

I remember the struggle, and how hopeless it seemed when the sea puss had me in its whirling grasp—how futile my endeavors appeared, no matter how madly I strained.

Then there came a change—I had been, as it were, plucked as a brand from the burning—a roller freed us from the undertow and tossed us shoreward.

My feet touched bottom—it was but a secondary anchorage, and then I was borne off again, but somehow it rekindled hope that had well-nigh died.

Again I watched my chance—again I felt that magic thrill, and bursting into a supreme effort planted my toes in the shifting sand, holding my own against the rush of the receding water, holding the painted buoy and its precious burden, which had broken loose from the rope.

Those seconds were fraught with momentous issues.

Almost exhausted as I was, I found it the battle of my life to persist to the end, but it chanced that the wave upon which we had been borne was the first of a trio, the others following unusually speedily upon its heels.

They saved the day.

Like driftwood almost, I was lifted up, carried shoreward and deposited on my knees in the sand—then came the last wave washing me still farther up the strand.

I was done for—my breath, my strength had utterly given out, and I could not have raised an arm to have saved myself had the sea attempted to claim us again.

Fortune willed otherwise, and we had at least a last single chance for life.

There is no telling how long I might have lain there, gasping for breath, gurgling out the salt water I had taken into my lungs, only that there suddenly flashed through my mind, as by a ray of light, the remembrance of the precious life that had been intrusted to my care.

That gave me a new and desperate lease of power; I seemed to once again feel the warm blood pulsating through my veins, and be endowed with physical vigor.

Still, such was my utter exhaustion I must have staggered to my feet like a man of three-score years and ten.

There lay the painted buoy and Hildegarde’s precious, water-draggled form; how pitiable it looked with the long golden hair streaming about her person; what a shiver it gave me to think how she resembled one drowned with the seaweed clinging to her hair.

Oh! what agony I endured.

Had my labor been in vain?

My desperate struggle had all been for her, to save that precious spark of life.

Speech was absolutely denied me just then, but I made some hoarse articulate sound as I staggered to where she lay, for the last struggle had actually torn me adrift from the buoy and its burden.

My knife—I managed to get it out and, with hands that shook as though with the palsy, severed the cords.

Then taking her in my arms, a dead weight, I moved back a pace at a time, laughing like one demented at the waves that came rolling about my feet, cheated out of their fair prey.

Where the sand became free from the sea I found a hummock of grass, and there I gently laid my darling down.

Bending over I chafed her hands and did all that a frantic man could think of calculated to restore to life those almost drowned.

Alas! there was no response—she lay like a wilted flower in my arms, so cold, so still that a terrible fear sprang up within my agonized heart that she would never awaken, that those beauteous eyes of heavenly blue were sealed forever.

And then it came upon me what the sense of utter desolation might mean.

CHAPTER XXVII.

STRANDED.

It was a dreadful moment when this paralyzing fear beset me—when it seemed as though the sun were hidden once more behind the black tempest clouds, and the atmosphere possessed a coldness that penetrated to my very marrow.

Dead!—my Hildegarde, and just when I had found her—when our hearts had been brought together after this weary separation—dead, and I held only the beautiful clay in my arms, the spirit having taken its upward flight.

Bitter indeed were my feelings while I crouched there, pressing her close to me.

Had I not declared she would be saved or else I must meet death with her? Then how dared I live when she was no more?

There was the sea, hungry for more victims.

A wild yearning to rush back into its embrace, with Hildegarde in my arms, took possession of me—for the moment I could not be accounted responsible for my actions.

Already I held her, and as if to take my farewell of this one so well beloved I bent down and kissed her again.

That was the saving stroke—I felt, or fancied I did, an answering pressure, light as the petal of a blossom that falls to the ground; but it sent a quick galvanic shock through my entire system.

Oh! Heaven be praised, she lived!—there was even a chance that I might restore her.

Again I set to work with an energy born not of despair now, but eager hope—again I made use of every device I had ever seen tried by which those almost drowned might be restored.

God was good—she moved, she sighed, she opened her blue eyes and looked with gentle love at me.

I was wild with delight.

One moment I capered upon the sand, like a Fiji Islander at a victory feast—then kneeling I took her in my arms and pressed her against my heart as though I would through personal contact enthuse her with a portion of the life and vigor that abounded so plentifully in my own system.

Hildegarde recovered rapidly.

Perhaps nature was assisted by the consciousness of our new-found happiness, for the way in which her little hand would now and then close eagerly on mine when I was chafing it, told that she had not forgotten what had happened just before we were hurled from the breaking wreck.

So she became herself again, the color slowly came back to her white cheeks, and life once more took up its sway; but it would always give me a shudder to think how perilously near the borderland of eternity my Hildegarde had been.

Now we could even begin to think of others.

Were we the only survivors of the wreck—Gustavus, Diana, Robbins, Carmencita, Cummings, had they all been drowned?

It was a fearful thought.

The air, though not cold, was more or less cutting to us who were completely soaked through, and as I saw the little woman shiver, I bestirred myself to make some move looking toward a betterment of our fortunes.

First we must get back of the sand dunes, where the wind might fail to reach us.

I assisted Hildegarde to her feet.

She was very weak, but growing in strength with each passing minute; all might be well if we could only manage to dry our bedraggled garments in some way.

One last eager look I cast up and down the beach, but not a living soul could I discover—far away some object lay upon the sand, which I suspected might be a body, but I dared not take Hildegarde there, and would not for the world leave her just then; the living had even more need of my services than the sacred dead.

In the distance I discovered trees, among them many stately palmettos—this gave me an idea which promised much.

In one of my pockets I always carried matches—they were in what was called a waterproof safe, and if one out of the lot could be induced to strike fire we would soon have a glorious blaze, before which we might find good cheer, and a chance to dry our garments.

So we trudged on—the exercise did us good in more ways than one, since it stirred up our blood, after the harrowing experience in the cold grasp of the sea.

For myself I cared naught—I was a man and had buffeted hard fortune many a time, so that I knew how to take things as they came; but I felt a wonderful pity for the brave little woman at my side, knowing how rough it was on her.

I kept an arm around her, and many times managed to give assistance.

We talked as we slowly neared the trees—talked of many things that concerned us, for there were to be no longer any secrets between those whom Heaven had so miraculously reunited; both of us were ashamed of the past, we each tried to shoulder most of the blame, and ended by mutual forgiveness.

I had to stop and ratify the contract with a few fond kisses, while her face grew luminous with delight.

Strange how selfish human nature is. There we could talk of happiness when perchance our friends lay upon the fatal beach, cheated out of even life itself. But what could you expect of an almost helpless wayfarer who had been kept out of paradise for years? To such a man there is excuse for many things when an angel opens the gate and invites him in.

Now and again I could see Hildegarde look pained, and I knew what brought the shadow upon her face; she remembered Diana, the coquettish beauty, for whom her last gleam of jealousy had gone forth, and the thought of the cruel fate that had come upon the bride of a year hurt her cruelly.

I did not dare allow myself to think upon the matter at all—time enough for self-reproaches and bitter regrets when she was in safety; until then my every faculty belonged to her.

At length we reached the trees.

I saw that Hildegarde suffered on account of the weight of her soaked garments, and I insisted on carrying her the last hundred yards, despite her protests. Finding me obdurate she gave in, and as if to make the burden as light as possible locked her hands around my neck.

Ye gods! such was the fierce happiness that gave me artificial strength I could have staggered a full mile thus; it was as though I had partaken of a magic elixir that nerved me to wonderful deeds of valor, for love works amazing things.

Once under the trees I set her down on a grassy knoll, and proceeded to gather many of the dead leaves from the palmetto.

These, with their long, dried stems, make wonderful torches, that give out fierce heat.

Now for the matches.

I rubbed the box dry, snapped it open and to my joy found the contents perfectly preserved.

Immediately a blaze sprang up, increasing to a roar, and Hildegarde, approaching, held out her chilled hands approvingly to the heat.

My duty in keeping up the fire caused me to be almost constantly on the jump, but our garments steamed and soon we began to feel better.

I began to consider our situation.

Where were we—on what coast, and how near civilization? I had money with me, but no means of defense against wild animals save a knife.

Looking back and cudgeling my brains to do a little figuring, I reached the conclusion that after changing our course we must have come back about as far as we had gone the other way.

Consequently the chances were we might have been wrecked upon the coast of Tobasco, and not a great distance from that wicked though gay capital, Berlin.

Now, I had pretty good and substantial reasons for never wanting to see old Bolivar again—there were those in the Central American metropolis who owed me a grudge, and a pretty healthy one at that, which they would be only too glad to pay.

Indeed, I had myself sworn a pretty stiff vow to visit every other quarter of the earth before thinking of setting foot again in this, the scene of my recent adventures; but so little do we know of what the future holds in store for us, that here I was on Tobasco soil again inside of thirty hours, and mighty well pleased to be there, too.

If necessary I was even willing to take chances and enter Bolivar—Hildegarde would require attention and a change of clothing—we could act cautiously, and keep our presence secret, watching a chance to slip on board some American fruit steamer and thus escape.

Oh! I felt bold enough to dare almost anything now that I had my own to battle for; life was worth living, the world seemed little short of heaven, and nothing daunted me.

We had been drying ourselves more than an hour before the hot fire when I heard voices, and saw two men approaching.

They were the ordinary half-breed natives, growers of bananas, perhaps.

I called to them in Spanish and they approached.

Then I told them we had been washed ashore from a vessel wrecked in the recent storm, and asked for shelter until we could proceed to the city.

Upon inquiry I found Bolivar was only a few miles away, just as I suspected.

The men looked surprised—I wondered why they exchanged such strange glances; but their invitation to provide for us was hearty enough.

So we slowly accompanied them to their cabin, which was a good mile away.

Here, amid the great green fronds of a banana plantation, we found a wretched hovel, with a woman in charge.

Hildegarde was worn out—she only wanted to get a cup of coffee and eat a ripe banana, when, dropping upon a home-made cane chair, she fell into the sleep of exhaustion.

I was ready to give in, too, but first I wished to talk with the men, interest them in the fate of my comrades, and promise a reward if they brought any of the poor fellows, dead or alive, to the cabin, the price to be doubled if they lived.

They were profuse in their manifestations of almost servile willingness to carry out my ideas, and hurried away toward the beach.

Alas! I did not know the treacherous character of these miserable half-breeds, who unite the very worst qualities of the two races they represent.

So I, too, settled myself in a chair, utterly tired out. I must have slept for hours, not knowing the passage of time, nor do I believe I dreamed, such was the heaviness of my slumber.

Then suddenly I awoke; some one was shaking me. I opened my eyes in amazement, unable to immediately comprehend what it all meant, for the wretched little cabin was swarming with the gayly garbed soldiers of Bolivar’s brave army, and directly in front of me I saw one whom I had very good cause to wish at the other side of the world—in Bombay or Cape Town, or even Cathay; anywhere but here, in fact, for in this stout person I recognized the awful alcalde, or mayor of Bolivar.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE HOSPITALITY OF THE ALCALDE.

We were entrapped without a doubt.

The banana planters had betrayed us, having some knowledge of what transpired in Bolivar on the night of the flower festa, and aware of the fat reward offered for our apprehension.

One of them had gone to the beach while the other hied him to town with news for the alcalde.

The result was, I had an ugly awakening.

Perhaps I might have offered some show of resistance if there had been any chance; but one man is a fool to fight against twenty—dead I would be of no assistance to Hildegarde, while alive I could use my Yankee brain to advantage.

I turned to look at her.

What a pitiful smile she threw me, as though she accused herself of having brought all this horrible ill luck upon me.

I determined to keep up a brave face for her sake as well as my own, and immediately called out some cheering words.

At any rate, while our situation might not be all we would desire, it could have been much worse.

I thought of my gallant fellows perhaps strewn along that pitiless beach, and somehow the remembrance made me feel more thankful.

There was an American present—a man with the face of a parson, but whom I knew to be a cold-blooded old rascal—Hildegarde’s father, the man for whom she had done so much, but whose avaricious soul hankered constantly after more, and who had plotted with his colleague, the mayor, to possess the remainder of her fortune.

What would they do with me?

I had engaged the official forces of Bolivar, my friend had tumbled the sacred person of the mayor in the dust, and altogether I might be looked upon as a very dangerous firebrand in the camp.

Many a man, for much less, has been stood up before a file of soldiers and riddled with lead.

Nor was it supposable that they would allow me to communicate with our resident consul.

My fate must be determined another way.

Somehow I did not worry very much, for I knew such lovers of golden bait as our worthy alcalde had proven himself, all have their price.

I had immense means, and doubtless would be given a chance to buy my liberty, on condition that they might never be made to suffer.

And Hildegarde—I would not move my little finger to save my life if she were not considered in the deal, too.

There was no use in angering the man in whose hand my fate lay, so I simply told him I was willing to accept of his hospitality.

My nerve somewhat staggered the old chap, but he grinned in a self-satisfied way, and gave me to understand, in very forceful Spanish, that I had done enough six times over to merit death, and that he would take my case into consideration; meanwhile his soldiers had been instructed to fill me very full of lead at the first sign on my part of a desire for flight.

This was altogether very charming—it warmed my heart toward the worthy alcalde.

And I saw that his soldiers would never hesitate about carrying out his orders, if one might judge from the black looks they cast on me.

Several bore bandages—indeed, the whole squad looked as though it had seen signal service of late, and my conscience pricked me as I remembered how roughly we had used the boys on that night of nights.

I drew out what loose gold I had—well did I know it would be taken from me anyhow, and diplomacy whispered that it might be made to serve a good purpose if I were shrewd; perhaps the hour might come when it would be to my advantage to have these fellows friendly rather than enemies, for the Spanish-American is a good hater.

My command of the Spanish language, as I have said before, had never been wonderful, but it was growing all the time, and if I stayed among these people another fortnight, I might be a fair linguist, since necessity compels one to learn.

So I addressed the grim warriors and told them how glad I was to make their acquaintance—that I always had a sneaking belief the finest soldiers in the world were to be found in Bolivar, and also that I desired to present their captain with certain golden onzas wherewith he was, upon the earliest occasion, to treat them to the very best to be found in old Bolivar; moreover, I solemnly promised that when I reached New York again I would hasten to send them a huge hogshead of champagne wherein to drink my health.

It was a master stroke.

Every man grinned as he heard the sweet jingle of golden coins passing from my hand to that itching palm of the captain, and I have no doubt eager eyes counted each quarter eagle or sovereign as it came in view, intending that the officer should give a fair accounting.

They no longer scowled—a balm had been applied to their wounds, for great is the power of money wherever civilization extends.

The alcalde hardly knew how to take me—I could see I had gained his respect, and as out of the corner of my eye I noted his interest, it was plain to me how he might be managed.

A bold front, a stiff bluff, and, presto! the thing might be accomplished, with money to lubricate the wheels of progress.

All alcaldes are pretty much alike, I have found; they use their office for private gain.

He announced, in his important, consequential way, that it was time we were going.

I could not but notice that the old fellow who claimed to be Hildegarde’s father, and of whom I had no reason to believe anything to the contrary, kept watching me out of the tail of his eye.

He kept shy of me, and I fancied he had begun to entertain a lively fear of this husband of his girl; perhaps his guilt made him a coward, and he felt I had an account to settle with him that might not be so pleasant.

I boldly advanced to my wife and spoke some low words of comfort to her.

At least, she would soon be where she could again have access to her trunks, and what woman in her deplorable condition but would have found a source of congratulation in this fact.

My confidence gave her new life, and her face once more took on color; we had so much to be thankful for, it seemed unreasonable to complain because a little temporary misfortune troubled us.

Patience, and she would yet see me cut this Gordian knot, like Alexander of old.

So I babbled on, not so much to give vent to my own prowess in boasting as with the idea of inspiring her with new zeal.

I heard the alcalde’s rasping voice give orders to leave the cain, and, not wishing to arouse his ill will, I tucked Hildegarde under my arm and went forth.

The better part of the day had flown while I slept the sleep of exhaustion, and now the afternoon seemed well spent.

Near by were a number of vehicles in which the worthy mayor and his ferocious army had sallied forth from town, most of them covered carts drawn by the everlasting mule, though there was one American ’bus, resplendent in gaudy paints, and to which were attached four horses.

We were to make our entry in style.

There was some confusion as the carts filled with the republican guards—men shouted and mules brayed horribly, for these excitable soldiers of hot temperaments can do nothing save under stress of much jabbering.

At last we were off.

A soldier sat beside the driver of the stage—the captain and three others crowded in after we were seated, while opposite us were the mayor and Hildegarde’s unworthy sire.

That ride—will I ever forget it?

The road was villainous, and it made me actually sore in the endeavor to protect my dear one from bruises—the stage jolted and bounced and rocked when the horses ran, with much of the pitching motion felt in a smack at sea when the waves toss wildly.

I almost pitied the stout old mayor, he was bounced about so, as though but a rubber ball. Twice I had him in my lap, and it required all my powers to protect Hildegarde, who sat in the very forward end of the seat.

Again and again the alcalde sung out some energetic Spanish swear words, and looked daggers across at me, as though it were wholly my fault he chose to personally undertake this errand, instead of sending a deputy.

I did not fancy the venerable chap—there was a cold-blooded calculation in his eyes, as though he might be eternally sizing up one’s worth in a purely speculative mood, and it really goes against the grain of a free-born American to be thus set down as so much merchandise.

But I must dissemble—for Hildegarde’s sake I would have to hide my real feelings that prompted me to defy the fat tyrant to his teeth, threatening him with the awful retributive justice to be expected from Uncle Sam, and appear even docile, friendly, ready to hobnob with the devil should occasion arise, and some hope of profit appear above the horizon.

So I availed myself of every opportunity to give the old fellow the “glad hand,” as an acquaintance used to express it, to sympathize with his misfortune, execrate the driver, the bad roads and the wretched government that allowed his excellency to risk his neck when by the use of a small sum the evil could be remedied.

I thought diplomacy had won out, too, but was soon to be undeceived.

We reached the outskirts of the city.

Evening had come.

As usual, it was a bustling hour in Bolivar, for the heat of the day had kept all good people indoors until the fresh afternoon breeze came off the broad bay.

Once I had a good view of the harbor—how proud I had been when last leaving it—but what a tumble pride had taken.

There was a steamer in the harbor, and better still she flew that blessed Stars and Stripes. Would that Hildegarde were safe on board; as for myself, I might be willing to take my chances.

We naturally attracted some attention passing along the streets, but these people of Bolivar were fed on daily sensations, and just now chanced to be pretty well sated, for they took it out in staring.

Thus we came to the big mansion of the alcalde.

Here was the irony of fate, to be thus ignominiously carted back, prisoners of war after the brilliant campaign that had ended in the tragedy of the harbor—it was cruel.

I had only time to say a few more sentences to Hildegarde, giving her good cheer, and bidding her to be ever on the watch for me, and ready to make another break for liberty when my guards tore me away; between them I was marched down a flight of stairs and along a dark corridor—I heard a door creak open, was pushed forward, stumbled and fell and lying there heard a rusty key creak in the lock, telling me I was a prisoner in a dungeon.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE GUARD I LOVED.

This sort of treatment was really rougher than I had reason to expect—it gave me a very unpleasant realization that the alcalde must be decidedly in earnest.

His dignity had been badly jarred, and I fancied it would take a tremendous sum to act as balm to his lacerated feelings.

Perhaps the price might be too mighty for even my Fortunatus purse to reach.

Well, I lay where I had fallen for a little time; it was just as good a berth as any until my eyes could begin to grow accustomed to the inky darkness.

That there should be such a place as a dungeon beneath the hacienda of the alcade did not seem to astonish me in the least—indeed, I appeared to take it as a most natural thing; as though these casas of the rich Bolivar citizens must be built something on the order of the old-time feudal castles, with all manner of secret passages and doors.

I think a moat or a drawbridge, perhaps even a portcullis, might not have been amiss in the premises.

After a while I found it useless to dream of seeing in such dense blackness, and accordingly pulled myself together.

It required a pretty stout heart not to feel downcast over the discouragements with which I found myself confronted.

One thing buoyed me up amazingly—even the hatred of the alcalde could not dismay me when I knew I possessed the love and confidence of Hildegarde; in the bitter past she could never come to regard me as anything beyond a mediocre fellow, far below the standard she had set for her hero; but, thanks to Heaven, a change had come over the spirit of her dream, a change as tremendous as it was complete, and now in her eyes I represented the flower of chivalry.

I remembered that blessed match box—if they had not surreptitiously searched my pockets I should have that useful article still.

Yes, it was all right.

Eagerly I snapped a match—it flashed and went out, on account of careless handling.

Come, this would never do—my stock was entirely too small for such reckless waste.

The second trial proved a success, but it did not seem to arouse my enthusiasm, for the place was apparently a hopeless hole in the ground—heavy walls surrounded me on all sides, the door appeared to be quite massive, and what little air penetrated the moldy dungeon came from a grating of some sort high above my reach, probably opening into the garden.

I laughed, perhaps not very merrily, but in grim humor, at the horrible predicament in which I found myself.

Then, groping my way to a cot upon which I found some disreputable straw, I rolled over and went philosophically to sleep.

For the life of me I could not tell how long I lay in this half stupor, brought about by my recent tremendous exertions.

When I finally awoke, hours later, I was all of a tremble, partly from the chilly surroundings, and also on account of a nasty dream that had come to me, where I seemed once more on the wreck, lashed to the rail, unable to move hand or foot, while Hildegarde, swept away on a giant billow, held out her hands entreatingly in vain, calling my name in agonized tones.

No wonder I shivered.

I was of a decidedly practical nature, and instead of bemoaning my fate, I sprang erect, and began to thresh around as though suddenly taking leave of my good senses.

The result became speedily apparent, for with the accelerated heart movement a tingling of warm blood began to be felt to my very toes and fingers, so that I was soon glowing.

I wondered what time it was.

They had not robbed me of my watch, but it had seen rough usage in the sea, and I hardly expected to find it going.

To my surprise, upon holding it up to my ear I heard the busy ticking.

It required the sacrifice of another match to tell me it was seven o’clock; but the game was really worth the candle, for I rejoiced that the day had arrived.

After a while I had a visitor—the jailor was a heavily armed retainer of the alcalde, whose piratical appearance was apt to discourage one from all thought of attempting to overpower him and secure his outfit.

I pretended to be cheerful, and even joked with the fellow as well as my knowledge of Spanish allowed.

Whether he understood me or not, he evidently was not inclined to join in my light humor, for slamming down a pitcher of vile water, together with a vessel containing some tortillas and frijoles, he gave me a black scowl that would have made his fortune on the stage, and stalked away, noisily locking the door as if to comfort me.

His face looked a little familiar, yet for the life of me I could not remember where I had seen him before, nor how I had injured him.

Never mind—I felt ravenously hungry, and the water, drank in the dark where one might not see its defects, was not so bad.

I have partaken of many a dainty fare in my day, where tables groaned beneath the weight of good things garnered from the four corners of the earth; but, after all, appetite is the true connoisseur, and I honestly believe that humble portion of beans and maize cakes, devoured much after the manner of a savage, in that dark and damp dungeon, tasted better than the historic feast of Lucullus.

At any rate, they did not mean to starve me—not that I had entertained fears in this respect, for surely one who had the cupidity of the alcalde would never kill the goose that laid the golden eggs—at least, until he had good reason to believe the source had been drained.

When noon came my genial jailor again made his appearance.

More beans and fried cakes—never mind, one can stand even this monotonous bill of fare when the appetite holds good.

All I found reason to complain of was the limited quantity; they forgot that a man of leisure, who has nothing to employ his time, and to whom the hours drag unmercifully develops an enormous capacity for devouring food.

This thing began to grow monotonous.

The restless Yankee spirit aroused within me.

Since the mountain showed no inclination to come to Mahomet, it was evident that he must make a virtue of necessity and go to the mountain.

In other words, I resolved to see what chances there might be for escape.

Apparently the case was hopeless enough, with those impregnable walls about me; but Nature had endowed me with an optimistic spirit, and besides, I had read of many wonderful escapes—that of Monte Cristo, for instance, and the Union prisoners who left old Libby prison by means of tunnels and a chimney.

I had my knife still.

With this I managed to shave off numerous small pieces from the rude cot—they might not be perfectly dry, but if properly arranged would undoubtedly burn.

When illumination was thus brought about the old dungeon looked at least a bit more cheery.

I must confess, however, that the chances for escape did not seem to improve; those walls might as well have been adamant so far as my ability to break through went.

Perhaps with patience and a year of time, one might have dug a hole through, but I was not a life prisoner, like Edmond Dante, and my case would evidently meet with speedy settlement at the hands of the irate alcalde, who was laying his wires to get all that was possible out of the game.

That meant, very plainly, that more urgent measures would have to be adopted if I hoped to desert my palatial quarters.

My fuel, being very limited, the supply gave out, leaving me in darkness.

All I could do was to walk up and down like a caged tiger; at first I experienced more or less trouble, coming in contact with the walls, which were very unsympathetic; but by degrees I learned caution, and, counting my steps, managed to spare my head.

Then came my jolly friend, the black-bearded buccaneer, with his royal fare—this time he had, with a generosity I could never forget, varied the menu; it was no longer beans and cakes and water, but cakes, water and beans.

Never mind, at least the supply was a little more generous than on former occasions, and I was no fault-finder.

Again I rallied him, firing at him several chestnuts I had recollected; but the fellow’s heart never gave a responsive throb, and I sighed to think what a dreary desert this bright world must appear to a man of his caliber. Perhaps he had recently been jilted by his best girl, and was still in the throes of bitterness, for surely nothing else could make a man look as though he would be happy to bite a piece of steel in two.

So he faded from my view, and I was once more left alone.

But his coming had given me an idea.

He had suspended his lantern, an American one at that, from the iron knob of the door, while he spread the festive board, or, in more simple but less elegant language, dumped my grub upon the stone floor with a recklessness that gave me pain.

My attention had been attracted toward the door, with the result that I fancied it would repay me for a close examination.

So, after disposing of the last remnant of my supper, bestowed through the courtesy of the alcalde—bless his benevolent heart—I set to work examining that same door.

Here I squandered three more of my precious matches, but the investment paid me—indeed, I almost came to worship at the shrine of those little wooden, brimstone-tipped gods; never had I dreamed they could appear so valuable, and more than once I vowed that, freed from this trouble, I meant to never suffer for lack of a sufficiency again, if I had to start a factory or even buy up the whole iniquitous match trust.

The door was a great big sham, a hollow mockery; apparently it was a massive affair, capable of resisting a battering ram; but in reality time had played such havoc with the oak, aided and abetted by some mysterious boring worm, that it was the easiest thing in the world for me to bury the blade of my pocketknife in its fiber.

This was joy indeed; my old run of luck had not yet reached the end of its tether, and I rather guessed I was still in the game.

And the way I slashed into that humbug of a door was a caution; I made the rotten stuff fairly fly in a shower, so that twice I had to stop my work and indulge in a sneezing spell on account of the particles of wood dust in the air.

Never mind, the hole grew apace and would speedily be large enough to accommodate the prisoner who yearned to try his wings.

Then my rising hopes received a rude shock, for upon the stone flagging of the corridor I heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps.

A curse upon that meddling, black-muzzled jailor.

CHAPTER XXX.

TO THE RESCUE.

Somehow I did not care to bother my hand in speculations concerning the pirate, or why he came to see me at this uncanny hour. What did it matter whether his suspicions had been aroused, or a sudden desire to be more congenial had flowed into his icicle heart? He was coming, my little game must be disclosed, and the consequences turn out badly—for me.

I could do nothing to prevent it. Acting under an impulse, I groped around until I found the rough cudgel which I had wrenched loose from my beautiful rustic cot—perchance a foolish freak might tempt the curmudgeon to thrust his shocking head through the inviting hole I had made in his old door, and if I could manage to drop that bit of cypress with more or less emphasis upon his caput, it would be well.

There was little time for suspense.

I could see the light, and hear the jingling of those rusty keys.

Of course, he could immediately discover the grand opening. I listened to hear him exclaim, for as yet I was not certain Cerberus could claim a voice, since he had utterly refused to answer civil questions or acknowledge the age of the musty jokes which I had showered him with.

Sure enough, I did hear a voice, but it gave me a tremendous start; had I been in gross error, and was this black-muzzled Tartar only a renegade Yankee in disguise, after all?

For he had cried out:

“Great Scott!”

Somewhere I had heard that exclamation used many times—why, sure enough, it was my old friend, that heart of oak, Mate Robbins; but poor Robbins was dead, and therefore it could not be he who jangled those keys.

Now he bent down, and I mechanically raised my cypress flail, though dubious about the propriety of using it.

A second later I dropped the cudgel nervelessly to the floor, for some one had said:

“Hello! there, Morgan, old boy—are you on deck yet?”

That was either Robbins or his ghost, and if the latter, then a pretty healthy specimen of a specter, as I found when he had succeeded in unlocking the door, and shook me heartily by the hand.

I was still a little mystified, because the man who wrung my arm like a pump handle was rigged out quite bravely as a citizen of Bolivar, and might have passed for such on the public plaza; but it was Robbins’ voice, and I was willing to take the rest for granted.

Strange to say, I felt a little bit of chagrin at his coming just at that time; you see, my heroic battle with that sturdy old fraud of a door had all been for naught, and had this friend shown up half an hour earlier he might have saved me an immense amount of labor.

Nevertheless, I was royally glad to have the dear fellow with me, and to learn, first of all, that he was in the land of the living, when I had all along been dismally picturing him as food for the sharks.

So I returned his hand squeeze with interest, and prepared to bombard him, not with the nutty jokes I had fired at Cerberus, but real questions, with a decided bearing upon the situation.

He was bound to answer after a fashion, and thus I learned that he had escaped the fury of the sea, with Carmencita, learned of my capture, gone with the child to the house of her relatives, who belong to the secret revolutionary party—the “outs” are always plotting to overthrow the government in that country, so there is constantly a revolution slumbering beneath the surface—had been warmly received into their councils, and assisted to lay the wires looking to my rescue.

This seemed to bring him down to the present, when he appeared before me.

I would have enjoyed hearing the details, but he declared this would take much time.

“You see, I’ve had the very old deuce of a time since getting ashore, and there’s a lot to tell that can keep. We want to act now,” he said.

“Right, Robbins—act is the word. But I’m in a poor way to assist,” I declared.

“How so—not wounded, I hope?”

I hastened to assure the honest fellow I was in the pink of condition, which perhaps was hardly the truth, but that my anxiety arose from the lack of proper weapons, such as a man usually delights in when preparing to defy a whole city.

“Then let that trouble you no more,” said he, pressing some things into my eager hands.

“Why, hello! This is the gun I saw in the belt of Cerberus! What have you done with my gentle, humorous jailor, Robbins?”

“If you mean that clumsy rascal with the shock of black hair, I’ve used a whole cable of hempen rope to tie him fast, and stretched his jaws as far as they would go to accommodate a neat little gag. Oh! he’s all right, Morgan; don’t worry about him,” was the cheerful reply the mate gave.

My admiration for the man grew more intense.

He was unquestionably a “hummer,” to use one of his own expressive phrases, or what the cowboys of the plains call a “hustler.”

Woe to Bolivar since he was loose upon her streets, and woe to the reigning dynasty if Robbins had joined forces with the revolutionary party that waited to overthrow the existing government.

Perhaps Cerberus was not the first man to feel the weight of his displeasure, and I was positive he would not be the last.

“Now for Hildegarde!” I said, enthusiastically, waving my captured gun aloft.

“Yes, I suppose the whole thing has to be done over again,” ventured Robbins.

“Well, if I had one reason for joining you in that other enterprise, where the woman in trouble was utterly unknown, I surely have a thousand now when she is my best beloved, the wife I saved from the sea, whose trust in me has been more than restored, and to rescue whom I’d wade through fire and blood.”

“Bravo!” said Robbins, who always admired in others anything bordering on the theatrical, albeit he was such a practical old chap himself, and could never be made to believe he had done anything great. “Bravo, Morgan! Those sentiments do you honor. And here’s one ready to back you up, though the way be blocked by the whole army.”

“Bah! I’ve subsidized them already—they have accepted my gold and look to fairly swim in champagne when I reach New York. Don’t worry about the army, my boy. There are others,” was what I flung at him.

“Plenty of them—in fact, I think the old army will have its hands full this night, and the green badge they wear turn to a crimson one by the morning,” said this dark conspirator, mysteriously.

I caught his meaning, especially since I knew something about these sudden face-about changes liable to occur any day in the average impulsive young republics of Central America—they are the greatest theatres in the world for remarkable dramatic events.

“It’s a revolution, then,” I remarked.

“Yes, and a gay one, too, you bet,” he returned, with a sagacious nod of his sombrero.

“And you are in it—you, Robbins?”

“Up to my neck.”

“Not forty-eight hours landed in the country—well, you are a Yankee, sure enough. Have they put you up for president, my boy?”

He grinned—it was quite audible.

“Well, hardly, and me not knowing Spanish as she is spoke. Gen. Toreado is in line for that honor.”

“What! Our old acquaintance—the man we abused so handsomely? Well, it seems to me we’re between the upper and nether millstone, and stand a good show of being most beautifully pulverized—they’re all against us.”

“Not quite—fortune and little Carmencita—a good combination, you notice—have raised us up a few friends who’ll do their level best to see us out of the place safely.”

“That one’s easy enough—all they have to do is to take us by boat out on the harbor and deliver us on board.”

“Great Scott; you forget your yacht is a wreck, strewn on the shore.”

“No, I forget nothing; I never shall forget the sad incidents connected with that catastrophe. Poor Gustavus, poor Di, and then Cummings, a man to whom my heart went out. There’s only one bright spot in it, Robbins—that wreck reconciled my wife to me, and I would go through it all again for that reward.”

“I don’t blame you, Morgan. Excuse me for such familiarity, sir, but I somehow can’t forget we were shipmates together on the Pathfinder.”

“Morgan it shall be, to the end of the chapter. Let that rest. Now, it’s time we made a move, I reckon. What say you?”

“One minute. It’s well to understand—half the battle lies in work that is planned out to a detail before the first gun is fired.”

“What would you?” restraining my ardor to reach the side of my best beloved.

“You mustn’t rest in ignorance—just now you spoke of the harbor. Why should our escape lead us a second time in that quarter?”

“Why, because I saw a fruit steamer there, that flew the American Stars and Stripes, and once under the old flag we can snap our fingers at the alcalde, the army—in fact, the entire country.”

“Well, she’s gone,” he said, quietly enough.

That gave me a sad shock.

“The steamer gone—when, where? Hang the luck?”

“To Jalapa.”

“The other fruit port across the mountains. That is a knock-down argument, Robbins. I leave the case in your hands—so long as we take my Hildegarde with us I’m ready to follow you through Hades, if necessary.”

“Perhaps it won’t be quite as bad as that, though I’ve an idea we’re not going to get through without some hard raps. But you shall see for yourself. Now, if you’re ready, follow me.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

A REVOLUTIONIST.

The attachments of home did not appeal to me in this instance; to tell the honest truth, I was extremely well pleased to escape from the place in which my person had been confined for the space of more than twenty-five hours, nearer thirty, I think.

Robbins had come to me like an angel of light, an angel with a flaming sword, who would lead me to fields of glory, and to Hildegarde—hence, I followed him with an eagerness no words of mine could describe.

He had his bearings all right, and went at the business with the air of a man who knew just what he wanted and meant to get it.

Naturally, I was not a little curious to understand how he came to be in the house of the alcalde.

I might have fancied, from his dress, that he had obtained some sort of position in the hacienda of the mayor, but that seemed too absurd for belief, considering that he possessed so wretched a command of the Spanish language.

Had it been myself, now, there might have seemed some reason for it—although I could even remember a few instances where my lack of proficiency in that respect had given me more or less trouble.

In good time all would be made clear.

I made a shrewd guess that Carmencita and her revolutionary friends had a goodly share in the enterprise; Robbins had saved the child from the sea, and his reward came in the shape of assistance.

Thus we reap what we sow.

My emotions while traversing the gloomy corridor were of a more lively character than when last I tramped its length, in the custody of the soldiers.

Indeed, so positive was I that the upheaval in my fortunes so patiently awaited had arrived, and that it was my turn to kick those who had held me down, that I chuckled audibly while thinking of the alcalde.

His goose was cooked—the goose which he expected to lay the golden eggs.

Poor mayor!

It was an evil day for him and his fortunes when Yankee blood landed in Bolivar. Still, by a quick turn, when the success of the revolution seemed assured, he could save his head; these things are constantly done in South and Central American lands, where one meets the veterans of a dozen revolutions.

Then, my sweet cherubim, the silent, scowling, piratical jailer—what of him?

Really, the fellow had been such a striking stage character one might have thought him to be in training for a new comic opera, and he had appealed to the humorous element in my peculiar composition.

So much did I think of Cerberus that I touched good Robbins on the shoulder and begged, as a particular favor, that he would grant me the privilege of a last farewell glimpse of the surly dog, that is, if it were convenient.

Accordingly, he presently led me to a door, which he kicked open, and bade me look in.

The lantern showed me another den similar to that luxurious abode in which I had spent a day and a night, only this one lacked the kingly couch on which I had rested my weary limbs.

But my old friend was there, lying like a mummy on the damp and moldy floor.

He seemed almost swathed in rope that had been coiled around him from head to feet, and secured with many a half hitch, and similar sailor’s knots; while he appeared to have stopped short in the act of swallowing a pine knot, a portion of which projected from between his teeth.

I had heard of alligators doing that sort of thing, but never a human being; but then I had my doubts as to whether Cerberus were not half or wholly buccaneer.

Perhaps I should have felt sorry for the poor devil, but, somehow, I could not; he had seemed so churlish and hateful that it looked as though he were only getting his rightful reward while he lay there.

And, possessed by a spirit of deviltry, I could not resist the temptation of approaching the fellow with mysterious movements; doubtless, he fully anticipated that I was about to repay the debt I owed him by introducing a keen-edged knife between his fifth and sixth ribs, for his black eyes fairly scintillated with terror.

My revenge was even more sinister.

I bent down and whispered, hoarsely:

“Tortillas, frijoles, aqua—aqua, tortillas, frijoles,” and varied the menu a few more times. It was enough—the torture, or something else, caused him to utter a groan; but I have often thought since that Cerberus never fully appreciated the terrible nature of my revenge.

Some men are invulnerable to a joke.

Having satisfied my curiosity, and looked upon the pirate in adversity, I signified to Robbins that now I was willing to go on.

Other things awaited my attention; there seemed to be tremendous events trembling in the balance, in which I was to have a share, but just what these were, or what my interest in them might amount to, I could not yet understand.

We now proceeded to leave the subterranean quarters of the alcalde’s place, nor was I overcome by any serious regrets.

The upper world always had more charms in my eyes—I was never intended to work in a colliery or the salt mines in Siberia, to which political offenders were wont to be sent; one survey of these latter under official guidance had been quite enough for me.

How vividly I remembered my former escapade in these ancestral halls, and how we had carried the fort by storm; would the same good fortune attend our present venture?

The chances were fair—Robbins had made some powerful friends, and this time we might rely upon it that the whole of Bolivar would not have to be reckoned with in our flight.

I was really glad Robbins assumed charge of the expedition; he was a born leader, whom opportunity had as yet failed to seek out with sufficient frequency.

That was all done away with now, for I was fully determined he should from this hour never lack for a berth where he could hold command.

There were other steam yachts, and I could, if I chose, invest a cool hundred thousand in one, for that Mediterranean trip, with Hildegarde at my side, held out fascinations to my hungry soul.

The golden eggs the alcalde did not get could be put to this good service.

“Is it Hildegarde, now?” I whispered, hoarsely, in Robbins’ ear, for a vague fear had arisen to give me disquiet, a fear lest he might have become so wrapped up in the schemes of the revolutionists that he would feel compelled to employ the first of his time to their cause.

In that event I would have gone it alone.

Now his ready answer reassured me.

“Hildegarde first, my lad, and all the time. My work depends wholly on her safety; if they find her a refuge, I’ve promised that both of us are with them, heart and soul,” he said.

That meant, of course, that I was to become a revolutionist.

Well, I would have done much more to insure her safety—adopted the calling of a contrabandista or smuggler—yes, even that of a pirate, if by so doing I could serve that little woman.

My re-entrance into Paradise had apparently loosened the screws of my brain box a trifle, which must be the excuse for any trace of extravagance of which I appeared guilty.

Why, not to be a revolutionist down in this country meant not to exist—at one time or another everybody was that.

So I rested content.

At the most, I supposed it only meant joining a howling mob, shouting wildly for the new president, Gen. Toreado, and making all the racket possible, until, finally, the alarmed government, fearful lest their lives might be in peril, fled across the border to a neighboring republic, where they, in turn, might sow the seeds of the next popular uprising.

Why, that would only be fun, after all, and I could look on it as compensation for the abject manner in which I had chased through these same streets on a former occasion.

Yes, I would be a revolutionist, and experience the wild exhilaration that possesses a Central American free state in the throes of an upheaval.

I had done more than that for mere love of adventure in the past—surely, I could endure what came my way now, since it was for a higher and far more worthy cause—love of a woman.

I wondered if she were confined in the same suite of rooms where Carmencita had led us on the night we defied all Bolivar.

Robbins must be growing quite familiar with the alcalde’s home quarters by this time, he had prowled about it so extensively.

I could not but admire the positive ease with which he led me to the little court where the fountain flashed, and the scent of flowers hung heavy in the night air; he never hesitated as though at a loss to tell where his course lay. There was a flight of stairs leading to the long balcony or porch fronting the upper story, allowing the occupants of those chambers an opportunity to sit where they could look down upon the enchanting scene below.

Twice we had met servants hurrying about their business, but Robbins was warned in time, and hustled me out of sight.

I would not have been astonished if he had made a gesture that would bring these fellows to their knees, for the spirit of a budding revolution appears to permeate even the households of the head officials.

Nothing could surprise me after this, for was I not in the land of enchantment, where one knows not what a day or hour may bring forth?

Once we reached the long porch I began to get my bearings.

There was a passage that led to that wing of the hacienda not fronting on the court of the fountain—the wing that had been the scene of our former adventure.

Where was our worthy alcalde and his household?

Could they be lingering over their wine, unconscious of the volcano that was arranged to burst forth upon Bolivar this night?

Now we plunged into the passage, and were heading, as before, straight to Hildegarde’s rooms.

My heart beat like the ticking of a watch, and a glow ran through my whole frame.

The wizard even knew how to unfasten the door after he had knocked, and as he threw it open, my eyes fell upon the expectant face of my darling.

CHAPTER XXXII.

WE INVESTIGATE THE AZOTEA.

Hildegarde gave a cry of joy at sight of me, advanced a step, holding out her arms, and springing past Robbins, I snatched her to my heart.

Bless her, she did not shrink back from me in the least, and yet I am sure I must have presented a far from fastidious appearance at that moment, not having been given an opportunity to tidy myself up after my immersion in the sea.

Perhaps I looked a little heroic—perhaps she remembered that all had been done in her cause, and this glorified me in her eyes.

It was just as well.

Surely, we had little time to think of these things, when freedom must be our first aim.

Robbins appeared to look at it in a different light; I imagined he felt sorry to see so fair a creature in the arms of so disreputable a wretch as I must have appeared.

At any rate, he came in and locked the door from the inside.

“Ah! madam, have pity on him, and give him half a chance to wash up, to brush his hair and look like himself. Twenty-four hours in a dungeon after that swim in the sea—do you wonder he appears like a tramp?” he said.

Then I grew ashamed myself, and realized how very tough my appearance must be.

But Hildegarde felt no repugnance, only sweet, womanly pity.

“My poor Morgan—and all for me—oh, how I love you! Never mind, there is a long future for me to prove it. Come, here are water, soap and a towel, and here my own brushes. I know you’ll feel better for Mr. Robbins’ suggestion.”

“Perhaps it may take some of the fierceness out of me, but I reckon I’ll make a good enough fighter, even as a gentleman,” I remarked, grimly.

Somehow, when I saw Robbins nodding eagerly at my words, a dim suspicion floated into my mind that perhaps he had a reason back of this desire to make me presentable; but it was so intangible, I failed to grasp it.

I believe that was really the most satisfactory toilet I ever made, for she stood there, holding the towel, and then with her own hands gave me the brushes, while Robbins dusted my clothes with a little whisk broom.

Five minutes completed the metamorphosis, and I felt like a new man.

“Now,” I said, “let me greet you as a gentleman, and not as a tramp.”

She willingly allowed me to infold her, and held up her pretty mouth to receive my warm kisses, for two years is a long time in which to do penance for one’s sins.

All of which must have been highly edifying to bachelor Robbins; I remembered him at length, and closed the little seance.

The twinkle in his gray eyes may not have signified much, but I imagined he was more than a little amused.

“Now that ceremony is over, I’m ready to carry out any other suggestions of yours, old fellow. They’re all good, every one of them. So, kindly give your orders.”

I saw Hildegarde regard me with some surprise, as though she thought I should be the one to assume charge; you see, her ideas had jumped around to the other extreme, and she could not now conceive of my failing in any undertaking, however difficult.

“You see, my dear, Robbins is engineering this affair—turn about is fair play. Besides, while I’ve been cooling my heels in that blessed dungeon and juggling with the puzzling menu of frijoles, tortillas and water, he has used his time to advantage, and allied us with the revolutionary party, so that we are no longer friendless in an enemy’s country—perhaps to-morrow we may even be touching elbows with the new president himself—who knows?”

Plainly, I hardly believe Hildegarde understood one-half that I said, but her confidence in me was sublime, and she nodded and smiled as though it were revealed to her as plain as the largest bookprint.

Robbins went to the door and unlocked it.

I supposed we were about to make our exit from the casa in an orderly way, reaching the street and proceeding to some quarters already arranged for in this comprehensive scheme of the mate, whence we of the male sex could sally out when the alarm bells gave the signal that every revolutionist should be on the street.

It was not to be quite so easy.

Fortune had not grown weary of buffeting her votaries, and we were yet to experience the joy of winning what we secured.

When I heard the racket from below, I fancied the uprising had burst into a flame prematurely, and that the house of the alcalde was fated to bear its first fruits.

It was not so.

Robbins jumped at another conclusion, and, as it turned out, his hazard was the true one.

My escape had become known through some mischance—Heaven alone knows how; perhaps some fellow venturing below, with a little scheme of his own on tap, that concerned the wine bin of the mayor, had heard the agonizing groans of Cerberus, and, being more valiant than most of his kind, had investigated, with the result of discovery.

That was the most reasonable supposition.

However, men care little about cause when the effect is what they have to battle with.

And those cries told Robbins the enemy must speedily be at our door.

Already they swarmed up the stairs, and our escape in that quarter seemed cut off.

Hildegarde had turned very pale, but she was a brave little woman, and possessed an abiding faith in two men.

“We must run for it—this way, quick. There is one road out, only one.”

Robbins spoke even while in motion, for time when measured by heartbeats can not be wasted in long explanations.

My hand clutched her arm, and together we hurried in the wake of our big friend, the mate.

I had not the faintest notion regarding the immediate plans of Robbins, until we came to a short flight of steps leading aloft.

Here he stopped.

Then I saw where the desperate condition of affairs had hurried him.

To the azotea!

These stairs led to the flat roof, where, in common with houses in sub-tropical countries, the inmates have arranged things for comfort during many an evening when the breeze enjoyed here cools the heated cheek.

“Up with you, Morgan,” he said.

I did not waste breath in asking questions—Robbins ran the game, and mine must be the duty of blind, unswerving obedience.

Besides, the shouts were so close to us, I expected at any instant to see those who gave utterance to them.

So I assisted Hildegarde up.

As we emerged and gained the roof, I found the stars shining overhead.

It was a grand night for a revolution, the air so clear that all sounds must carry near and far.

Bending down, I discovered that the opening in the roof through which we had come could be closed in time of need by a couple of wooden doors.

Robbins, upon gaining the azotea, bent down and quietly dropped these; it would hardly have mattered if he had banged them, since the noise below was so very deafening—they had found the nest empty, the bird flown.

Of course, search would follow—every nook and corner of the big casa coming in for the closest investigation.

And some bright mind, groping for ideas, would think of the roof, when it must speedily be discovered where we were at bay.

What then?

The first thing to be done, of course, was to secure the trap by some means so that it could not be opened from below.

While Robbins stood upon it they might heave and batter all they pleased, without budging such a Colossus; but Robbins could not occupy all his time in making a statue of himself; besides, he would be needed elsewhere, and perchance, bullets might come soaring up through that trap that would make his tenure of office very uncertain.

I had an idea.

My eye in roving about the azotea had already lighted upon some chairs and settees gathered under a section near by that seemed to be protected by a temporary awning.

These I eagerly pounced upon, to discover to my great joy, they were for the most part of iron, painted to resist the weather.

And Robbins, seeing me stagger under the weight of the largest settee I could find, sprang to assist in looting the pile.

By the time we had deposited a few of those articles of garden furniture upon the trap, it must needs be a modern Samson who could lift it from below.

The wind seemed blowing from a favorable quarter so far as our cause was concerned.

Looking back after the lapse of time, when the mad excitement no longer sends the hot blood leaping like molten lava through the veins, and when one can weigh things calmly and dispassionately, I am still of the positive conviction that we made no mistakes, and in accepting chances as they came were wisely guided in our selection.

They had found us out.

Already eager hands were hammering at the double trap, and a dozen voices united in declaring their ideas regarding the why and wherefore of such strange obstinacy on the part of the doors.

I heard the alcalde’s resonant voice—no danger of mistaking it even among two score—the same old stock of favorite Spanish swear words that had done such noble duty in the gardens at the time we had held the roof of the toolhouse.

Where would they attack us, now that this avenue of escape was cut off? Was there another trap which we had failed to notice, or might we expect them to climb over the raised parapet that ran around the azotea?

I was trying to clear my mind of this puzzling question when a shriek from Hildegarde smote upon my hearing, and galvanized me into action.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.

My opinion of Hildegarde had undergone a most miraculous change of late.

Time was when I had been sorely inclined to believe her the most frivolous and exacting of her sex; but a complete revolution seemed to have taken place within my mind; old things had passed away, and in the new dispensation she stood out in transcendental glory, a queen among women.

Believing, then, that she possessed uncommon attributes of good sense, I was quite positive she would not give tongue in such a clamorous way unless she saw reason for it.

There was.

A galvanic shock could not have given me a more rapid start than was brought about by her voice. I charged across that azotea with hurricane fury.

It did not take me long to understand what was up, for Hildegarde was pointing to the parapet, where, in the starlight I could see some sort of a figure crouching.

The man was in the act of crawling over, but when I made a plunge in his direction he appeared to be seized with a sudden vertigo of fright, for his haste to retreat caused him to lose his grip.

I heard him crash through the branches of a flowering tree below, and made up my mind we would not be seriously inconvenienced by this same climber again.

Where one had dared, there might be others.

I heard Robbins rushing along the escarpment opposite, and knew he had also caught a glimpse of some daring chap.

It became quite lively just then, what with our mad plunges, the battering on the trap, the resonant voice of our excited alcalde, and the shouts of his henchmen.

How it would end, I must confess, I had not the remotest idea.

Suppose they kept up this harassing, guerrilla method of warfare indefinitely, we must sooner or later find ourselves utterly tired out, until finally we dropped from mere exhaustion.

For myself, I could see no remedy, unless we made a bold move, opened the trap and fought our way through the lot; perhaps the bark of our six-shooters might keep the enemy at bay until we reached the street.

What would happen then I had not the least idea—my mind refused to grapple with so intricate a problem, especially while my body was so vigorously engaged.

And, besides, with Hildegarde to protect, it was an utter absurdity.

The fun grew fast and furious, though for the time it was apparently all on one side.

We tumbled several more citizens from their perch before they could actually secure a footing on the roof, while others, seeing us approach, withdrew to a lower and safer coign of vantage.

I almost pitied the poor devils, they were in such hot water, with the terrible Yengees storming above and the explosive alcalde shouting execrations at them below.

It might have been amusing enough to a disinterested spectator, to see the labors of Hercules that Robbins and I performed, but to us it was a most serious matter, indeed.

My legs began to grow unsteady on account of so much unwonted exercise on a warm evening, and I could feel my tongue clinging to the roof of my mouth for want of moisture.

Still they came—I wondered if the supply were inexhaustible, whether we were pitted against the whole city of Bolivar.

At any rate, matters began to look exceedingly serious to me.

Unable to grasp the situation and squeeze any comfort out of it, I turned to Robbins for aid. He had a fertile mind, and might be able to stir up some promising idea.

Besides, Robbins was running the campaign, and knew what connection he had with other sources of strength.

When I found myself near him, I gathered my breath and gasped:

“It’s a bad go.”

He said it was, and his readiness to agree with me rather knocked the props from beneath my hopes.

“I’m nearly out of wind,” I ventured.

“Ditto,” he replied.

That was not very encouraging.

“What can be done?” I demanded, boldly.

“I know only one thing.”

“Then, let’s do it,” I shouted, as I made a wicked dash at a fellow who showed his head above the line of our parapet barricade, and, having caused him to temporarily suspend his intentions, I rushed back to Robbins.

Even his last idea, dernier ressort though it might be, offered a gleam of hope.

“I hate to—it ain’t time by an hour—perhaps the whole thing might be ruined,” he said.

“Hang it! let her ruin—we’re gone if something doesn’t happen pretty quick,” I cried, desperately.

I might have continued in a similar vein, even growing satirical and bringing in the early bird and worm fable to prove that it was no crime to be an hour ahead of time—where would we be sixty minutes later if this sort of thing kept up—but, really, I lacked both the time and breath to say it.

Nor did I feel in a particularly jovial mood just then, with anxiety for Hildegarde hanging like a millstone around my neck.

“I’ll do it,” said Robbins, vehemently, after the manner of an impulsive man who has swept all obstacles aside.

“Eureka! let her go!” I shouted, and immediately resumed my Pawnee war dance around the combing of the wall in order to convince all bold spirits below what a dangerous thing it would be for any among them to attempt the raid.

Now, I was in the blackest state of ignorance concerning my comrade’s intentions—I knew not whether he expected to blow up the hacienda, together with all in it, or, conjuring a balloon from space, carry the three of us to a place of safety.

All the same, when he declared he would “do it,” I believed him, such was the implicit confidence I placed in the man.

Besides, something had seemed to tell me all along that Robbins had a card up his sleeve which he was loath to play except the game reached a desperate stage.

My curiosity was naturally awakened, for I felt desirous of learning just how far Robbins might have dabbled in the black arts, and what manner of magician he would prove.

Never wizard who brought about more astonishing results.

I saw him run the gamut of the line, whacking away at one or two imaginary heads in order to let those below know he was on duty.

This little promenade brought him slap up against the small tower where the alcalde’s alarm bell hung, the same that had two nights previous thrilled us with its clamorous harangue.

I saw him lean over, and something of the truth flashed upon me—he groped until he had found the clapper, which with one mighty wrench he dislocated, holding it in his hand after the manner of a hammer.

Then he started in.

With quick, energetic strokes, he rang the anvil chorus, each brazen note smiting the air with the power of a cannon shot, and rolling over old Bolivar as though a burst of tropical thunder had broken loose.

How it thrilled me!

As yet I had not fully grasped the whole idea—my first impression seemed to be that Robbins was trying to create a diversion, to add all he could to the clamor, under cover of which we might in some way escape; just as the pearl diver, upon finding a man-eating shark hovering above him, stirs up the sand until the water is no longer clear, and he is able to gain his boat unseen.

For once, however, I failed to give my comrade sufficient credit.

He had a better plan than this.

There was a deep significance in the wild alarm that pealed out from the brazen-throated bell under his throbbing strokes.

As I listened and wondered, I heard another bell begin to give tongue some distance away. Then a third took up the refrain.

The air thrilled with the increasing din—I had never heard a greater racket save in a boiler factory.

Nor was the noise confined to this one particular species of sound; men of leathern lungs bellowed upon the streets, sometimes singly, anon in chorus, guns were fired, and horns blown as vigorously as though it were the Angel Gabriel with his trumpet on resurrection day.

Altogether, the ringing of the alcalde’s bell, sending those sharp, strident notes, appeared to have been a signal success, if one could count the noises of pandemonium as a criterion.

Of course, all this must have an effect on the forces by whom we were assailed.

Would they consider it an encouragement to continue their attack—that the whole city was up in arms, determined that this time the Americans, the hated Gringoes, should not escape scot-free?

If so, of what avail would Robbins’ anvil chorus be—surely, we had our hands full as it was, without fresh recruits.

I confess I was exceedingly stupid, it took me such an age to grasp the truth, and once seen the wonder was how I had ever been able to miss it.

In a very few minutes the whole city was apparently engaged in the wildest confusion imaginable—why, the night of the flower festa could not begin to compare with this.

Squads and companies of men ran through the streets, bawling at the top of their voices.

At first this did not strike me as in any way singular, until the discharge of guns became more frequent, and the heavy detonation of the brass cannon kept at headquarters brightened my intellect.

Then, thrilled by a sudden suspicion, I bent my ear to catch the word these brawlers were constantly shouting—it was hard to accomplish this, such was the awful jumble of sounds, but at length I succeeded.

“Toreado! Toreado!”

That was our old fire-eating general’s name; what Robbins had said flashed into my mind, and in that second of time I realized what the clang of the alarm bell had brought about, and that poor old Bolivar was wrestling in the throes of another annual revolution.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ONE GOOD TURN AND ANOTHER.

Perhaps there did not exist in that metropolis any one who felt a keener interest in the uprising than myself.

True, some men flung ambition into the arena, and like old Gen. Toreado, risked life and reputation in the affair.

I had the safety of Hildegarde to consider, and surely that was of far more importance than my own individual ambition.

Now that I had guessed what Robbins was up to, my position on the azotea gave me a good chance to ascertain how affairs were progressing elsewhere.

The tumult, instead of dying out, increased in volume as new recruits joined the shouting insurgents.

What of our own enemies? Not a man jack of them had shown himself since the alarm burst out.

Were they gone?

Had the coast been left clear?

Delicious thought; if true, how quickly had Robbins’ muscular efforts borne fruit.

I quite yearned to put it to the test, to leave the roof and seek a more congenial atmosphere.

Robbins still whanged away.

He was a tireless plodder, yet I noticed that the tongue of the bell was now held in his left hand, and that hardly the same energy was being expended as at first.

What did it matter, since his object had been accomplished, and the revolution was on—a full hour ahead of the arranged time.

I drew Hildegarde into my arms.

“Don’t be alarmed—it is only a little revolution down below; they seldom last long; and our friends, Carmencita’s friends, are even now storming the citadel. Hark!”

As I spoke the brass cannon boomed again, proving that sturdy resistance had been met.

This worried Robbins a bit.

He dropped the clapper, abandoned the bell, and hurried over to my side.

“We must get away,” he said.

That agreed with my fancy, and I immediately gave him to understand as much.

“The boys haven’t made the clean sweep they expected; you heard the gun—it may ruin all, for they won’t stand up long before that. Once the tide sets in against Toreado, all is lost. That’s the way things go down here, I’m told. Now, they need me.”

He never spoke truer words, and what was better, there could be no boastfulness found in that simple declaration.

They did need some one at their head, some one who could show more military strategy than the pompous Gen. Toreado.

It was settled—we must go—on my part to find a place of refuge for Hildegarde, while Robbins sought fields of glory.

Of course, it must be via the trap, since there was no other available route.

We hurried over to where the iron chairs and settees were piled up so very like a pyramid, and set to work destroying its symbolic perfection.

When the last impediment had been hurled aside the doors were quickly raised.

I would have led the van, but Robbins pushed me back.

“That’s my duty,” he declared, as he dropped out of sight into the breach.

I half expected to hear the bark of his gun, but instead came his cheering roar:

“All clear below. Avast there, Morgan, down with you!”

So I drew Hildegarde with me, and we left the roof that had been the scene of this last escapade in our adventures.

There was just room for us to descend side by side, and below we found Robbins eagerly waiting to lead the way out.

Where was the doughty alcalde, where his merry men at this time?

A few minutes before they had been storming our fortress with a pertinacity that deserved commendation, and now the place where they had once been, knew them no longer; the rooms and corridors of the great casa appeared deserted, and not a hand was raised in protest as our little party made for the main exit.

There was no legerdemain about it.

Our worthy alcalde had doubtless passed through many revolutions in his time—he knew only too well what those cries and that tumult portended, and when a change of dynasty was imminent far be it from him to allow such minor matters as the capture of two Yengees to keep him from weightier business.

They were on the street, just as every man in Bolivar was at that hour; when morning came the result would be unanimous, whether the revolution succeeded or not, for in that region every one is outwardly heart and soul with the powers that be.

We walked through deserted apartments, we traversed a patio where no sign of porter or watchman might be seen, and thus we came once more to the calle.

I felt a savage joy at being free—thirty hours in a Bolivar dungeon is about all any ordinary man can stand, and since my rescue Robbins had kept me so busy that up to the present I was hardly in a condition to realize how much cause there was for rejoicing.

The riotous proceedings did not occur near the home of the alcalde—it was at the public plaza where the exciting drama was being played.

I knew Robbins was desirous of immediately thrusting his individuality into the game, and now that the way appeared clear, there seemed really no apparent reason why he should not be allowed to follow his bent.

Surely I ought to be able to protect one little woman, armed as I was.

I told him this, at which he shouted:

“Good, Morgan! It was what I wanted to propose, but hardly knew how you’d take it. Go right along this street until you come to the cathedral—you know the place. I think about there you’ll find the girl waiting to conduct you to safe quarters.”

“Hurrah!” I cried, enthusiastically.

“And, Morgan, one word more——”

“Go on—a dozen, if you like.”

“When you see her safe, come and help win. We’ll need you—we owe the boys something for their good will, and—I want ’em to see you in the thick of it, for, I forgot to tell you, they’ve adopted us, and we’re already citizens of this turbulent country.”

That was just like Robbins, rushing things, and without so much as “by your leave.” How did he know I would agree to forfeit my allegiance to the Stars and Stripes, and join a little picayune revolutionary dot of a Central American republic?

Then I remembered that I had been in a bad way when he did this; such a sacrifice was not of enormous magnitude when one considered that his liberty and life were endangered. I swung around to his way of thinking that there was conditions requiring heroic measures—I would sooner be alive and a citizen of Bolivar than buried under six feet of black soil.

“It’s all right, my boy—count on me before long. I couldn’t keep out of it, you know. Now, get along with you, and silence that gun,” as another tremendous discharge made the adobe buildings around us shake.

Robbins ran off.

I declare, he seemed as happy and frolicsome as a school urchin let loose; some among us are so peculiarly constructed that they never seem so joyous as when there looms up a chance for a ruction.

Hildegarde had come through all right.

How she clung to my arm, and with what eagerness she looked up in my face when we chanced to pass under a lamp which some worthy Bolivar citizen had placed above the door of his dwelling.

It was worth going through fire and flood to feel that I had won the love and worship of my wife for all time.

We walked along the gloomy calle in the direction of the cathedral of which Robbins had spoken, and all the way I saw not a single citizen abroad—without doubt they had been attracted early in the direction of the plaza, where momentous events, big with the future welfare of the country, were being enacted.

It was just as well, for I was in no humor to have my motives questioned, and perhaps it might have gone sore with any one who dared stand in the way.

Then the cathedral with its minarets and spires hove in sight.

It was lighter now.

We had reached another street, where it appeared to be public or private policy to keep lamps burning during half the night.

I looked around.

This place, at least, was not deserted.

The church doors were wide open, and I could see numerous people hastening within—whereupon I recollected that it was more or less the custom of the country to spare even enemies who threw themselves before the altar.

Many were veiled women, trembling with fear, hastening to pray for the safety of those who were near and dear to them, and who might just then be engaged in warfare at that point where the crisis of the revolution was being waged; but a few men came also, eager to seek safety within those sacred walls until morning came and brought intelligence which side had won the game.

All this gave me only passing interest, for I was not in the humor to observe matters that failed to immediately concern my affairs.

Carmencita—was she here?

We walked full in the light, so that we might be readily seen by any one on the watch.

The move was rewarded, for I saw a figure dart out from behind a gargoyle that marked one portion of the cathedral front.

It was the girl.

She could not restrain her ecstasy, and gave a little scream of delight as she pounced upon Hildegarde, kissing her hand and wetting it with her tears.

Bless her heart! She had never known so good and loving a mistress, and I was not the one to blame her for showing emotion.

It was not my desire to linger.

The tumult kept raging, and I knew I was needed at the front—Hildegarde was safe, and, as Robbins said, I owed something to “the boys,” as he called them, whose uprising an hour before the time appointed had rendered our escape possible.

So I begged Carmencita to lead the way to where she meant to keep her mistress, incidentally declaring myself eager to return and assist her compatriots to victory.

That inspired her, and in a very few minutes she led us into a modest house just beyond the cathedral; here I kissed my wife a brief good-by. I rushed off to witness and participate in the strange scenes that were occurring at the citadel.

CHAPTER XXXV.

HOW I CHARGED THE CITADEL.

Now, I reckon that during the course of my nomadic life I have looked upon as many strange scenes as fall to the lot of the average biped; but it so chanced that up to this particular time it had never as yet been my fortune or misfortune to participate in an actual, bona-fide revolution.

Of course, I had a pretty fair idea as to what such an upheaval might be, especially in these small but seething countries bordering the Caribbean Sea, and experienced more or less of a desire to ascertain at close quarters whether my impressions were correct or faulty.

When I quitted the modest little building that sheltered Hildegarde, I ran down the street to the cathedral first of all.

This being somewhat of a central point, I was in a fair position to get my bearing and head straight for the plaza.

At least, one thing was positive—the little affair had not as yet been decided in favor of either party, for the tumult was still in full blast.

Indeed, I was myself of the opinion that it had increased rather than diminished, and found considerable to amuse and interest me in the remarkable lung power of these inflammable people.

As I advanced, I found that I had no longer cause to complain on account of a scarcity of people upon the streets, for men were to be seen in knots and clusters, men carrying guns and men without, but all apparently eager to have a hand in the fray.

I also noticed that they wore green in their hats, green being the sign manual of the party that was out—if the government won the fight it was a very simple matter to change this for a red feather or ribbon; thus readily does the average Central American republican adapt his politics to the present need.

That these revolutions were a sort of guerrilla warfare I knew from hearsay—no pitched battles were fought, or rarely, at least; and the party that by stress of circumstances was forced to give ground in the encounter, after a fair trial of strength, accepted the decision philosophically, the leaders ran for the friendly border, the rank and file affiliated with the victors, and peace once more descended for a brief interval on the republic.

But such a thing as continued peace has not as yet been known in these countries, nor was it in Mexico until the firm hand of Diaz seized the wheel of the ship of state.

Let us hope for a Diaz in each republic, whose astute statesmanship and unbending will can force them along the path of progress and crush every threatening evil.

The soldiers holding the citadel were few in number, but they had the gun.

That was what dismayed the enemy, who had never been drilled to face cannon; had it been a Gatling or a pompom, I could not have blamed them, for such destructive weapons might sweep the plaza, and leave winrows of disabled revolutionists there; but a simple brass gun—well, they were away behind the times.

What I wanted now was to find Robbins.

Many of the insurgents looked at me curiously while they skulked behind angles and were ready to drop flat on the ground whenever the big gun roared.

Carmencita had, with her own hands, fastened a green ribbon upon the sombrero I had secured, so that I appeared to be en regle.

Even as I reached the plaza, I saw a brilliant flash of fire from the citadel opposite, then came a thunderous discharge, a rattle of adobe bricks in a building just to the right of me, followed by an angry outburst of shouts.

Jove! I fancied I felt the windage of the ball as it sped past.

At any rate, it appeared that the gunners were not firing blank cartridges—they meant business.

Instead of giving me a fright, this thing did just the contrary—it aroused my fighting blood. I felt a hot thrill pass over my whole frame, as though I had been suddenly immersed in a fiery furnace like Shadrach and his comrades of old. Yes, it was easy for me to understand now what was meant when they spoke of the fierce battle spirit sweeping over a man, and transforming a novice into a veteran.

That one shot, added to the warlike shouts, had accomplished this transformation.

I seemed to see in that gun the one thing on earth I longed to possess—all else faded into insignificance beside it, and I was even willing to undergo every manner of bodily torment and deprivation in order to accomplish its capture.

Alone, I could do nothing.

Here were men—if I could only harangue them and inflame them with but a modicum of my fierce desire, how easy it would be to accomplish the overthrow of the citadel.

Apparently, it took the defenders several minutes to charge their gun after a shot; this gave oceans of time for a rush across the open to gain the shelter of such buildings as flanked the barracks.

And, wonderful to relate, this simple trick had not been turned—indeed, to all appearances, had not even been considered.

Truly, there was a crying need of leaders among these good people, men who had the brain to plan and the nerve to execute.

They had fallen into a rut, and even the uncommon bark of a cannon appeared to have paralyzed their powers.

Could I enthuse them?

At least, it was worth the effort.

Accordingly, I sprang upon the step of a house around the corner, and began to hold forth as best I could—it was necessary for me to bellow at the top of my voice, but this helped to disguise any blunders of which I might possibly have been guilty.

The wearers of the green came flocking around.

Doubtless, it was no novelty for them to hear a hot harangue, but my style was entirely different from that to which they were accustomed; instead of urging them on, I asked them to follow me in an assault on the citadel—moreover, I explained my simple plan.

It was an easy task to work upon these fellows, already at the battle pitch—it required few of the orator’s tricks to arouse them until they were a shouting crowd, breathing vengeance on the defenders of the barracks, and clamorous that I should lead them into the breach.

This was as I wanted it.

I asked for nothing more.

At the time, I was not moved by any other purpose than a desire to assist these friends, who, in a measure, had been the means of my own rescue, as well as that of Hildegarde; perhaps, too, I forced myself to believe in the corruption of the government, and that an upheaval might purify the atmosphere.

At any rate, I am very sure I entertained no selfish motives, beyond the natural longing of a soldier enlisted for the war, who is desirous of seeing victory perch upon his standard.

And yet, although ignorant of the fact at the time, I was making history.

Of that, more anon.

Having raised the fighting spirits of my compatriots to the desired pitch, it would not do for me to let them cool down again—I must strike while the iron was hot.

There were at least twenty of them, all told.

Whether every man would follow me across the open remained to be seen.

So we clustered near the corner, only waiting for the heavy discharge that was to serve as the signal for our rush.

I cast one last glance over the scene, so that I might never forget it—the swarthy faces, the glittering eyes, the determination to be discovered on every set countenance—all these things were a part of that weird picture on which the flickering lights of the plaza fell.

Then came a thunderous roar, a crash of falling masonry, and a house toppled over just where we gathered for the tiger spring, as though the gunners had suspected the danger that lurked around our corner.

I remember shouting at the top of my voice, of whirling around the corner, and seeing the whole crowd follow me.

Another moment, and we were hustling across the wide square, heading for the barracks.

It was not in the nature of things that we could thus dash across the open, with plenty of light to disclose our movements, and expect to escape without a baptism of fire.

The soldiers who held the citadel were armed with good guns, and could send volleys of lead into the plaza; but I had a contempt for their marksmanship, and believed that if my force suffered it would be through accident.

Of course, we took precautions; every man as he ran leaped from side to side, or sprang into the air like a deer.

Altogether, I imagine we must have presented a most astonishing spectacle as we thus moved across the open square, where, on most nights, the military band was wont to discourse sweet music to the keen enjoyment of a different kind to-night—the boom of cannon, the crackling of rifles, the fierce shouts of excited rivals and perchance the wailing of unfortunates in whom flying missiles had found a lodgment.

This sight, which I would have given something to have seen, I missed, for my attention was wholly taken up with what lay in front.

Our sudden and surprising appearance had, I imagine, somewhat disconcerted and demoralized the defenders of the barracks, for we were allowed to cover at least one-third of the distance before a single shot was fired.

After that they came hot and fast enough, but sent at random, after the manner of men who had become so rattled that they no longer thought it incumbent to take aim, but simply discharged their pieces.

Two-thirds over, and now we opened on the home stretch.

I kept my eyes on the buildings, determined to know what was transpiring, so that I might take advantage of any opening that appeared.

One came, but, singularly enough, I shrank from it as from the black plague; for, through the embrasure in the heavy wall a shining object was thrust forth which I had no difficulty in recognizing as the muzzle of the cannon.

It bore directly on me, as I could readily see.

My ideas of valor and glory did not necessitate my remaining there to accept the compliments of the brass gun—indeed, I never made a more rapid change of base in my life than when I discovered what I was up against, at the same time whooping out a warning for the men who were supposed to be following pell-mell at my very heels.

That was as close to eternity as I have ever come thus far on my journey through life—even when struggling in the mad surf after the wreck of the yacht I hardly think I made a more narrow escape, for the windage of the passing ball knocked me flat upon my back.

I was not hurt, at least seriously, and, having the same old fierce desire to overwhelm these gunners and take the fort by storm, I struggled to my feet, expended what little breath I had remaining in a shout of defiance, and once more took up my charge.

Impulse, not reason, carried me on—I could not have told why I did this thing had the question been fired at me—perhaps some power beyond my control. Destiny, if you please, was in charge of my affairs.

Again the rattle of guns burst out—flashes came from various parts of the building, and the bullets tore all around me, but I was unharmed; I, who seemed to bear a charmed life, ran on, still shouting defiance, until at length, I arrived in front of the heavy door of the citadel.

Then, having covered the ground, I turned to give my valiant band orders to attack, only to find that not a moving figure was to be seen upon the whole broad plaza.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE LAST STRAW.

The discovery appalled me at first.

Had they all been borne down by that last cannon discharge, even as I was, and failed to rise again? I glanced hither and yon about the open square, seeking piles of mangled bodies; but, strange to say, they were not visible.

The mystery increased—I could swear the men had started out all right when I did—what, then, had become of them?

It is hard to break through established custom, and as soon as the rifles of the besieged began to spit out fire, habit compelled my followers to seek some sort of refuge—they were not there to be killed, if such a thing could be averted.

Consequently, some dropped behind the band stand in the center of the square, while others ran helter-skelter to either side, seeking shelter under the protecting walls of neighboring buildings.

I could not blame them, for it had been pretty warm out there.

When these valorous souls saw me beating upon the door of the citadel with a rude battering ram I had picked up, they grasped the situation, and began to run in my direction, always bending low, as if in fear of sudden shots.

They are a cautious race, these citizens of Bolivar, which accounts for their living through so many revolutions.

Speedily I found I had at my beck and call a devoted little band, at least half a score in number, with which I might accomplish wonders.

We laid out to smash that door in a hurry, and though it was supposed to be made in a very substantial way, it could not withstand so vigorous an assault as the beam, rushed by ten pairs of arms, brought against it.

I had made a pleasing discovery.

Among the many shouts that went to make up the chorus all around, I distinguished plain English huzzas, and made out that Robbins was leading a party in a desperate charge upon the rear of the citadel.

Well, that was a hot time in Bolivar, an occasion never to be forgotten in any change of administration the future might bring.

Never had so desperate a battle been waged between the opposing forces, never such a charge made as our rush across the open.

Guerrilla tactics must be relegated to the past in Bolivar; henceforth one would hear of Gatling guns and Mauser rifles, and the party in power would be hard to dislodge; and perhaps with the increased slaughter the desire to revolutionize might weaken.

Thus would Robbins and his Gringo comrade have played the part of missionaries.

That door—how it hung on.

We battered for all we were worth—why, the men had by this time become so enthused that they forgot the respect they had formerly entertained for hot lead, forgot to dodge when a shot of vivid fire shot out from the wall, and in consequence several were knocked over.

Others arriving, eager to be in at the death, were ready to take their places.

And the door was already a sad wreck.

I encouraged them by precept and example.

It was really fine to see how they caught the spirit of the affair—they looked to me for orders as though I had been a god sent down from above to win their cause, which had seemed forlorn enough up to the time of my appearance.

I really enjoyed the experience—it does not come to every man to be suddenly elevated to the top of the heap.

A few more affectionate taps and that tenacious old door must let go; who would have thought it could have maintained such obstinacy after starting so easily?

And then—well, unless the brave garrison quickly ran up the white flag there was bound to be serious trouble in store for them—my hearties had reached that fever pitch where no mercy would be shown an unyielding foe.

The door gave way with a crash, just as the gun boomed for the last time.

I could hear Robbins shouting still, and this told me he was in the land of the living—I also had reason to believe he had succeeded almost as well in the rear as we had in front, which complication must convince the government forces their cause was in a bad way.

When the last push sent the battered door in, we gave a fierce shout of joy, and sprang forward to storm the citadel.

Having gone through such a whirl of excitement, I had no longer any thought concerning myself or my personal safety; men under these same conditions lead forlorn hopes into the jaws of death, either to lay down their lives or come out heroes for history’s pages.

I did neither, but, all the same, I had the experience, and would always cherish the memory of what was the most remarkable sensation of my life.

We went in.

I was the first man to cross the smashed door.

The interior was dim with powder smoke that almost choked me with its suffocating fumes.

Never mind, we had made a breach through which it could escape readily enough.

Through this haze human figures appeared but dimly, though they loomed up giant-like in size.

“Surrender!” I bawled, in Spanish. “You are brave men, but the day is ours. We would spare your lives! Surrender!”

“Toreado! Toreado!” howled my followers, as they scrambled wildly over the broken door.

That was a shibboleth with which to conjure, now that the revolution had been won, and I was not in the least surprised to hear it echoed by the soldiers of the citadel.

They had done their duty; they had stood by their guns as long as any hope remained, and now that they found themselves up against the inevitable, it was only the part of policy to accept it with a fair degree of equanimity.

So they, too, shouted for the pompous old general, proving that they were as ready to serve him as they had the late president, Salvator.

It was charming, idealistic, this change of front—“the king has run away! Long live the king!”

I was somewhat out of breath, which could not be much wondered at, considering all I had gone through in the past half an hour.

Now that the fierce conflict was over, and the shouts of anger changing to those of triumph, I discovered how weak I was, and that my knees actually knocked together, such was the baneful effect of the intense nervous strain.

So I leaned up against the still warm cannon to recover a little of my lost powers.

I found time now to be astonished at myself, and to consider how it was this wonderful battle spirit, inherited from worthy ancestors, had lain dormant in me all these years, its presence unsuspected.

My work was done.

I felt that I had surely repaid my debt, and with compound interest, too.

After all, it would be something to remember, something to talk about in the future, that I had taken an active part in such a hot night’s work.

Grimly, I hoped the boys would not be disappointed in the pompous old warrior they had selected for their next president; it would be sad if, after all this meritorious work, the whole thing would have to be gone through with again ere another year rolled around.

Still, what did it matter to me? I hoped and expected ere two months had gone by to have found a steam yacht to my liking in English waters, and to be flying my pennant far up the storied Nile, with Hildegarde, no other, as my guest and comrade.

Robbins loomed up.

The smoke had grown lighter, so that we were able to discover one another.

He descended upon me with his usual impetuous rush.

“You’ve gone and done it, my boy—fate is in this thing, dead sure. That charge of yours was the finest thing I ever saw. Come, now, no laughing it off; I’m in earnest. And, as for the boys, they’re fairly paralyzed—it’s on every man’s tongue: ‘Señor Morgan won the fight alone! Everything we owe to him!’ Haven’t I heard them? They fairly worship you, my boy. Yes, it’s surely fate.”

That was the way he rattled on.

I had to smile.

Think of it, just two nights before, and these same “boys,” some of them, at least, were hot for my blood, chasing me through the twisting calles of Bolivar, and over the bay.

Well, they say time brings its revenges.

“What of the fort out on the point?” I asked.

He snapped his fingers.

“Never has held out from a land attack. A messenger will bring ’em to terms. The whole shooting match is ours, Morgan. It’s a big thing for us, d’ye know?”

“At any rate, we’ve paid our debt, and can leave Bolivar in good standing.”

“Leave Bolivar—h’m! I don’t know about that—perhaps our duty is not yet done.”

“But—President Toreado—he will not try to detain us after we stood by him?”

I said this with growing uneasiness, for Robbins appeared so deucedly mysterious.

“It won’t be, and never can be President Toreado—the old general has flunked.”

“What—killed?”

“One of the few who fell—shot down at my side in a skirmish—yes, he’s a dead herring.”

“But—there came a king who knew not Joseph—who will be president—not the alcalde, surely?”

Robbins burst into a guffaw.

“Humbug! You ask me who the new party have selected for their leader, their president? Listen, and you will hear his name.”

He left me, and ran out. I heard his haranguing the crowd in a horrible jumble of English and dog Spanish; then came tremendous shouts, and one mighty roar burst upon my tympanums:

“Señor Morgan!—el presidente!—Señor Morgan!”

Great Scott! they meant me!

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE AGE OF ENCHANTMENT.

They say some men are born great, some achieve greatness, while others have greatness thrust upon them.

I must have been of the class last named.

You could have almost knocked me down with a feather when the tremendous truth burst upon my intellect.

Various significant hints which had been dropped of late by this wonderful companion of mine now seemed to take form and substance, and all pointed toward this one grand climax.

I had been densely obtuse not to guess it, but my mind was occupied by so many other things, principally concerning Hildegarde, that, after all, there was some excuse.

And, without knowing it, I had of late been an understudy of the great Gen. Toreado—been in training, as it were, for the exalted office to which he aspired.

Well, it was more than a joke.

My first inclination was to decline; to put my foot down firmly and decline that not on my life would I accept the position, even though it were offered on a golden salver.

Then I hesitated.

I believe that it is commonly accepted as a truth that the man who deliberates is lost.

I seemed to grasp the whole business in one comprehensive sweep; there was Robbins, eager and expectant, who would be grievously shocked if I declined; then there were the dear “boys,” howling away so merrily, and with such sweet assurance outside, it would surely give them pain if a candidate for the exalted station of president were to decline after their first choice had been shot down.

Besides, how about that debt I owed them? Could I grieve the honest fellows after they had so nobly received me as a citizen, and had risen one whole hour in advance of the programme, just to oblige us, who were in sore straits?

Perish the thought!

I would temporarily make a martyr of myself, and remain as long as Hildegarde were satisfied. It would be something to lord it in the city where I had met with such a strange mingling of good and bad luck.

Besides, there was a temptation to a man of my Yankee blood to see how these people would take to reform government, and the advantages of the day.

Why, perhaps in a year’s time a score of wonderful things might mark the footsteps of progress—telephones, electric cars, modern guns for defending the forts, and an army that meant business, and would command the respect of all neighboring republics.

It loomed up before me.

Such is the magic of ambition; the calling of my name outside beckoned me to fields of glory, and—I yielded.

Perhaps the excitement through which I had passed had something to do with it, for the smell of burnt powder was still in the air, and my nerves quivered with their recent flush; but deep down in my heart, I am free to confess that this sudden ambition was born in quite another desire—Hildegarde would see how grievously she had wronged me in the past when she contemptuously declared that I must be lacking in those attributes that go to fashion a man into heroic mold.

True, I had already proven the falsity of that belief, and her repentance had been sincere; but man is weak, and the temptation to shine, even temporarily, in this fierce light of a public idol, was irresistible.

A president in an hour—few men could boast such sudden elevation to power.

Unconsciously, I drew my figure erect, and assumed a consequential air.

Upon which Robbins laughed outright, knowing, the sly dog, that the golden bait had been swallowed, and that I was hooked fast—but he never guessed the true reason of my acceptance.

“Hurrah! It’s arranged, then—you’ll give them a run for their money!” he said, shaking my presidential hand with great enthusiasm; and I really believe he enjoyed my sudden rise to popularity better than if it had been himself whom the good people had selected.

“On one condition,” I replied, soberly.

“What’s that?”

“Your promise to remain, and be my right-hand man—secretary of war.”

Whereupon, Robbins whistled.

“Just as you say, Mr. President. If you can stand it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t. And won’t we have fun reforming abuses and bringing about wonderful changes in this country?”

You see Robbins must have been possessed of the same philanthropical spirit that moved me—the mule-drawn street car, the dingy lamps on the corners, the slow delivery of messages, and the chaotic condition of the “army,” had all appealed irresistibly to his progressive nature; what he yearned to see, believing destiny had wrought this miracle in my behalf, was a city lighted by electricity, palatial cars driven by the same power, telephone wires reaching in every direction, messenger boys darting over asphalt streets on wheels, and a model little army, well dressed, armed with the latest weapons, and capable of crushing any incipient rebellion.

“Then we’ll call it settled, Mr. Secretary; only I reserve the right and privilege of resigning at any time I wish. I have a wife, you know, and she may desire to return to New York, when the novelty of seeing me president has worn off, and I would not let her go alone.”

“That’s right. Now, let’s show ourselves to the boys—they’ll expect a speech, I reckon.”

“They’ll get all they want,” I declared.

So Robbins led me outside.

It was a proud moment.

The plaza had almost filled up with citizens, and every man and woman wore green, which would be the fashionable color now that the revolution had been an accomplished fact.

They fairly howled at sight of me, though I am of the opinion many of the same worthy fellows had howled at me quite recently.

Perhaps the majority of them were as yet somewhat in the dark as to what the whole thing signified; but they were always ready to join in the general shouting.

I felt my position, and became imbued with a sense of my responsibilities.

Raising my hand, I begged an opportunity to speak a few words, and at the silenzio that passed around, the shouts gradually ceased until not a sound was heard.

Five hundred pairs of eager eyes were fastened upon my face.

Then I addressed them.

What I said has passed beyond my memory, but Robbins declares it was the best thing he ever heard—a “corker,” he called it, in his original and emphatic way.

I believe I thanked them for the great honor, expressed my deep regrets at the untimely death of so valorous a warrior as Gen. Toreado, and then launched into a prophecy of what the nation would be within two years, when her full greatness came upon her.

Enthusiasm was in the air—they shrieked and shouted at my predictions concerning their standing at the head of all Central American republics, and I believed I had them with me heart and soul.

Alas! I had something to learn concerning the fickleness of these changeable people.

In the front rank was the stout alcalde, who wore the biggest kind of a green feather in his hat, and shouted more vociferously and more frequently than any two of his neighbors.

He always amused me, and I contemplated having much fun at his expense during my tenure of office.

There were padres in the crowd—I could see their peculiar shovel-shaped hats here and there, but they did not join in the racket, and I noted that their faces wore frowns.

Here, then, was a cause for trouble; they evidently feared I might attempt to bring the Yankee idea of freedom of religious worship to be a part of the national constitution, knocking out the established church.

Sooner or later I might expect trouble from these worthies.

When my impassioned harangue was finished—and how I wished Hildegarde could have been present to have heard me make that address and see how they cheered me to the echo—I stood there for an hour, shaking hands in the good American way, with all comers.

They laughed and joked and seemed to take it as a species of novel entertainment; but secretly, I promised ere long to spring upon Bolivar and its citizens some surprises that would startle them out of their Rip Van Winkle sleep.

My arm grew sore and weary.

I was beginning to learn what it means to be a popular president; but, of course, I would grow accustomed to all these things in time.

Robbins did likewise.

He seemed to enjoy it hugely, for he did not allow anything like worry or anxiety to disturb the pleasure of the auspicious occasion.

At length, when I believe I had shaken hands two or three times with every man, woman and child inside the precincts of Bolivar, the function was declared closed.

Robbins, as master of ceremonies, called for three cheers, and they almost shook the citadel with the volume of sound; really, it looked as though the new Gringo president had jumped into the affections of the people at a single bound, if one could judge from the enthusiasm they manifested.

Sounds are easily made—brawling brooks are ever shallow—still water runs deep.

I know that now, if I forgot it then.

“Come, I’m tired,” I said to the secretary of war.

He gave me his arm, like a true diplomat; I waved my hand to my people, and received another series of cheers, and yells, and—well, what in an American city would be termed “cat calls,” but which I suppose in Bolivar represented the best effort at applause of a community yearning to be elevated.

We walked away in a dignified manner.

Already I seemed to feel the carking cares of public office upon me.

Yes, I even fancied I saw a skulking figure of a padre dodge around a corner, and the remembrance of the summary way presidents are frequently changed in these hot revolutionary countries gave me a shiver.

“Well, how d’ye like it as far as you’ve gone, Mr. President?” chuckled Robbins.

I told him I was not prepared to answer that question, as I had had no opportunity to analyze my feelings on the subject; perhaps inside of twenty-four hours I could tell better.

“They gave you a good send-off, Morgan.”

“Well, yes; but we presidents early learn to measure public applause lightly. Those same boys, as you call them, chased us two nights ago, eager for our blood, and may be doing the same thing at some future time,” I remarked, loftily.

Robbins laughed gleefully.

“Glad to see you haven’t had the wool pulled over your eyes by all that racket, governor. We must be eternally on the alert down here, and meet danger on the wing. You can depend on me to keep in touch with things, and if the kettle boils over soon or late I’ll have the path ready for skipping out.”

His words lifted a load from my heart, for I was worrying about Hildegarde, should any trouble result from this yielding on my part to the impulse of high ambition.

With such a steady and true comrade at my side, who could blame me for accepting the office that had been thrust upon me, fraught with peril though it be?

Now we passed the cathedral; people were still going and coming, and I could hear the chant of praise from within, as though the victory had reached even this holy place and been favorably received.

It calmed my excited spirits, for, somehow, the sweet music seemed like a benison—I felt that I had been instrumental in working good to this people, and all sorts of ridiculously Quixotic resolutions passed through my brain.

The little house at last.

In answer to our knock the door opened, and I saw Hildegarde, eager and trembling, awaiting me.

“Madam,” said Robbins, seriously, “it is my duty, as well as pleasure, to inform you that your husband has just been declared president of this glorious republic.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

A PRESIDENT FOR ONE NIGHT.

Hildegarde had intended to rush forward and throw herself into my arms. Poor girl! She had suffered torments during the last two hours, while the uproar continued around the citadel.

At Robbins’ astonishing declaration she stood still and looked at me with startled eyes.

Really, there was cause for surprise; it is not every woman who bids her husband adieu as a plain, everyday American citizen, and welcomes him back two hours later as the president of a bellicose little republic.

“Morgan—is it true?” she gasped.

“I’m afraid I must plead guilty to the indictment. I didn’t dream of accepting the honor, but, you see, they were so very urgent, under the belief that I had been of some little assistance in the capture of the citadel, that I was overwhelmed.”

“Some little assistance? Madam, he is too modest by long odds; why, he carried the whole business by the might of his valor, and made the most gallant charge I ever saw or heard of, barring none—why, the whole city resounds with his praise, and there was no other choice for the presidency after Toreado went down; they demanded it, and public opinion is irresistible here as in the States.”

“Come, Mr. Secretary, you draw it too strongly,” I said, in expostulation; but, all the same, this fervid praise was as balm of Gilead to my soul, for Hildegarde’s face shone with ardent admiration.

Truly, my cup was running over, and the hour of my triumph at hand.

Perhaps I should have remembered that pride usually goes before a fall.

“Oh, Morgan, to think of you a president in a night! I must be dreaming,” she said, from the shelter of my arms, to which she had fled.

“Think how little I expected such a thing a few hours ago when in the alcalde’s old dungeon. Liberty was then the height of my ambition, and I would have laughed any one to scorn had they prophesied such a tremendous push up the ladder of fame. But this is a wonderful country, my dear, and men are made or unmade in an hour. It’s philosophy to take things as they come. Honors are fleeting—some day it will be ex-president with me, and perhaps we’ll be making a bolt for the border.”

I might have said more in this vein, but I saw that it worried her, and no matter what anxieties might loom above the horizon. I felt that I had no right to burden her with them.

Anyhow, she seemed very proud to have a president for a husband; it was an experience few women may enjoy.

Her admiration made me forget what I had endured since we separated; why, all that was an ugly dream, to arise at times like a phantom, conjured to existence by a desire to compare present happiness with past misery, and then allowed to sink back into its grave again.

She insisted on hearing the story of the attack on the citadel, and between us we gave it to her. When Robbins thought I faltered in touching upon my own share in the exploit, he rushed in and described with the tongue of a romancist the tragic events preceding and succeeding the smashing of the door. So that, taking it in all, I rather imagine the little woman received a pretty strong impression of what that affair was like.

She kept squeezing my arm sympathetically all the while, as though she appreciated how vast an amount of heroic blood it required to do such things in these days of modern destructive engines of war; and when I incidentally mentioned being knocked down by the discharge of the cannon, she threw her arms suddenly about my neck—Jove! I would cheerfully allow myself to be prostrated by such concussion of air again and again if by so doing I could merit so sweet a recompense.

At last it was all told.

The hour had grown very late.

We began to realize how sleepy we were, and I knew I must personally secure some rest if I expected to take up the burden of my official business on the following day.

Then it was I experienced the first qualms of burning regret at having been lured into acceptance; why, only for that I could look forward to sweet idleness, sailing a handsome yacht over the blue waters of the summer seas, and up the grand, historic Nile; whereas now I must assume the burden of governing a nation.

It made me sad.

Still, why should I complain, so long as Hildegarde were content to remain with me and share my lot? Paradise would be where she was.

I ought to be thankful indeed.

Carmencita was so very proud of me she could not seem to take her eyes from my face, and I even felt embarrassed, which showed I had not yet become accustomed to being worshiped as a hero.

There was but a poor chance of securing much comfort on this night in these humble quarters; perhaps, when I had been duly inaugurated, we might have a presidential palace on the order of the alcalde’s big affair, where we could entertain.

Hildegarde was led to a cot where she might snatch a little sleep, covered with a shawl; while I, being an old campaigner, asked for nothing better than a chair.

As for the secretary of war, he promptly declared that since old Bolivar seemed determined to make a night of it, he believed it a part of his new duties to be upon the street, studying the character of the people, and entering into the spirit of the hour.

If ever there was a watchdog, Robbins was one—a jewel beyond compare; and so long as he remained on guard, small reason had I to worry.

I busied myself in seeing that Hildegarde was comfortable, and even insisted upon placing the Mexican shawl over her.

Then I kissed her good-night, and went away to the outer room, where I was to compose myself in a chair as best I could.

Little did I expect to sleep—there were too many wonderful things rioting through my mind to allow of my settling down.

I began to believe that, after all, Dame Fortune, weary of giving me hard knocks, had determined to shower favors in my lap; my recent experience was almost as dazzling as anything from the romantic pages of the “Arabian Nights,” of which I had been so fond as a boy.

Where would it end?

Had I done wisely to accept this new burden?

Would not my lot have been more abundantly blessed with happiness had I put aside ambition and refused the crown, like Cæsar is reported to have thrice done?

Now that the thing had been carried through, I was sorry, and wished to be free—free to go where I willed with my sweet Hildegarde, and leave these regions of plots and counterplots, of uprisings and revolutions, and presidents who were made in an hour.

Would the city of Bolivar ever quiet down again, I wondered.

It was just as noisy as before, and to all appearances the people meant to make a full night of the change in dynasty; revolutions only occur periodically, and must be taken advantage of.

The inhabitants were a queer set.

Would I ever understand them?

When the novelty had worn off, would their old-time prejudices, fanned into a flame by the sly padres, arouse a storm which might threaten to overwhelm me and my mushroom fortunes?

But there was sagacious Robbins to stand between, to swing the army to my side, and quench the rising fires.

Bah! what need of worry, and on the first night too.

All might go well, and a grateful country, yoked to progress, rise up and call me blessed.

At least the thought was pleasant.

So I sat there and conjured up all these fancies, being in the humor to enjoy them. You see, I had never been a president before, never even had the yearning for office, and the experience was so very novel it quite demoralized me.

Other men have worked to that end, have laid wires to gain the office, and pulled them, too, so that when the result was attained they only realized their dreams.

With me it was so sudden.

Sleep? I could not have lost myself had I been offered a premium for so doing.

I remember, distinctly, that three times I arose and tiptoed to the connecting door, to peep into the other room. You see I was a bit skeptical, and wished to assure myself she was there, and that the whole thing was not the fabric of a dream.

Carmencita sat beside her in a chair; the child was sound asleep, and yet the smile on her face told that she dreamed pleasant things.

Troubles are but fleeting things with such young minds; only the present affects them.

The night was wearing on.

I thought of Robbins—and hoped he was enjoying himself after his own fashion out on the streets.

Several times I heard voices without, and once I sat up as a couple of citizens stopped before the door, for I distinctly heard one say in Spanish:

“This is the house—I saw him enter.”

Presently they went on.

No doubt it was only curiosity or hero worship—they wished to know where the new president lodged.

Something made me get up and glance out of the window—the two figures neared the lights by the cathedral, and when I discovered that one of them wore the remarkable hat of a padre I felt a little uneasiness.

That might be the rock on which my ship of state would founder, for no man has as yet been able to successfully antagonize the religious elements in one of these hide-bound republics.

Perhaps half an hour more passed—I could not say exactly, as I had no means of measuring time.

Then I heard quick footsteps that I knew must indicate Robbins’ coming; instinctively I felt there was something wrong, else he would not return in such a hurry.

I stepped over and opened the door just as he arrived outside, and as the light in the room fell on his rugged features I realized that my guess must have been pretty near the truth.

There was something out of joint.

“Well, what is it, Mr. Secretary?” I asked, grimly.

“Nothing much, only old Toreado has refused to stay dead; he has reappeared, is haranguing the boys, denouncing us; you are already a ‘has been,’ and I reckon they’ll soon follow me here demanding tropical vengeance. We must levant, Morgan, my boy.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE HAND OF THE WIZARD.

Another kaleidoscopic change had occurred in my fortunes. I think I had been president almost three hours, which was quite enough; some men have not enjoyed the luxury even that long.

And, singular to relate, my first feeling upon hearing the news of the ex-secretary of war was something in the line of keen pleasure.

I was relieved of a load—so poor Sindbad the Sailor must have felt when he finally shook off the Old Man of the Sea from his shoulders.

Yes, and in that exceedingly brief space of time, which the hustling Robbins allowed me in order, as he thought, that I might swallow the keen regret and chagrin that a deposed president should by right experience—in that breathing spell, would you believe it, I had a very distinct and very attractive vision of a jaunty English steam yacht plowing the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with storied Algiers in sight, the uniformed captain being Robbins himself, while the passengers consisted solely of two persons, myself and Hildegarde.

Which must have been conclusive evidence as to the lightness with which I held my receding presidential glory.

Republics might come, and republics might go, and it was very little I cared so long as they left me Hildegarde.

So constituted is man that for the sake of a woman he often counts the world well lost.

Robbins considered that I had had enough time to recover from his staggering blow.

So he began to speak again.

“Are you all right, governor?”

“Splendid,” which was really far from the truth because lack of sleep told upon me.

“Good! Thought you weren’t the man to sit down and cry over spilled milk.”

“Bosh!” I said; “glad the old farce has come to an end. Rather be an American citizen any day than the uncrowned king of this hot region.”

“Well, then to business. We must get out.”

“Why is that necessary? I’ll gladly resign in favor of Toreado, bless his fat old heart! No reason we shouldn’t be friends.”

“I tell you he won’t have it. Jealous of your popularity, I reckon, or else hand in glove with your charming dad-in-law, and sees a chance to make a pile. Anyhow, he’s gathering his men to march here and throw us all in prison.”

“What! more dungeons, more tortillas, frijoles and water! That settles it. Robbins, I’ll do whatever you say. Have you a balloon handy?” I asked in a humorous vein.

“No, but I’ve made sure to have horses ready,” was the quick response.

I was staggered.

It was simply astounding the way in which this wonderful man anticipated things. Here he had been secretary of war less than three hours, yet in that period of triumph, when the ordinary person would have been heedlessly celebrating, my comrade took time by the forelock, and made ready for flight.

Really, those hot-headed people never knew what a treasure they let slip through their grasp when Robbins was turned adrift; in less than a year I believe the country would have emerged from its swaddling clothes and made to assume a position among second-class nations.

Their loss was my gain, however.

“Horses? Then it’s over the mountains to Jalapa?” I said, quickly.

“Exactly. Tell your wife and the little one.”

Thus suddenly had the thunderbolt fallen, but fortunately I had plenty of reserve nervous energy to meet the new crisis.

When I went to the other room I found Hildegarde sitting up; she had heard voices in the front chamber, and, knowing that this was hardly the appropriate hour for a cabinet meeting, had begun to be curious, as well as to worry.

“What is it, Morgan?” she asked.

“Sam has been shorn of his locks—I am a back number. It seems old Toreado was not dead, after all, so they rallied to him, and I’m no longer the exalted president.”

“Oh! I’m so glad,” was what she said, embracing me.

“Are you? That’s good. You are no happier over it than I am, for now we can take that cruise to Egypt—if we ever get out of here safely.”

“Morgan, is there danger?” she said, standing up.

“It would be folly to deny it. Robbins says they are soon coming, inflamed by the sly old padres and Toreado’s jealousy of me—coming to put me in that dungeon again and feed me on—— Bah! it makes me tired to even think of it; and consequently I’m afraid we must get out of Bolivar in a hurry.”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m ready to go anywhere with you, Morgan.”

Of course, I kissed her—who wouldn’t?

“You are a good rider, darling?”

“Yes; is it to be on horses, then?”

“So Robbins says, to Jalapa over the mountains. That wonderful man has everything ready. He’s a perfect marvel to me. But time is valuable. Wake the girl, and we will start.”

It was awfully sudden; she had gone to sleep the wife of a president, to dream perchance of marble halls and grand palaces; then to awaken to the fact that she was plain Mrs. Kenneth, and must make a wild fight over a mountainous country, to save her wretched husband from a daily diet of miserable fare, was quite enough to unnerve the best of them.

But Hildegarde, bless her! was a thoroughbred.

It was quickly done.

Carmencita proved game enough, and ready to accept of anything rather than be parted from the only being on earth she loved.

“All ready,” I announced to Robbins, as we fled into the other room.

He was looking a bit anxious as he stood by the door listening to the confused jumble of shouts over near the cathedral; at our coming I thought I saw him hustle something bright and steel-like into his pocket, and could easily guess he had feared there would speedily be use for it unless we made haste.

“We’ve just got time. Sorry to have our castle tumbled down so suddenly, madam, but it is always an honor to be the wife of even an ex-president. There they come, by the church. This way, down the calle. A miss is as good as a mile, I reckon. There’ll be some mad hornets about here, presently.”

“Do you think they’ll try to chase us?” I asked, in a low voice, as we hurried away.

“Well, nothing surprises me nowadays, and in this beastly country. That old man—begging the lady’s pardon for referring to her dad—is hardly the one to let a good thing slip out of his hands for lack of a few horses, and golden ouzas to hire trackers. But we’ll give ’em the slip, see if we don’t?” was his reply.

“I’m afraid it is true—he is very determined. Why, it was his threat to injure you, Morgan, that made me obey him,” said Hildegarde, clinging to my arm closely.

“Why, I don’t believe the old villain had the remotest idea where upon the face of the earth such an individual as myself could be found, or that he was in any position to hurt me.”

“I think the same way now, but at the time he told such a plausible story I was forced to believe he had it in his power to injure you. Yes, I fear he will never give up the pursuit while he has life.”

There was no time to say more, but secretly I expressed a fervent wish that something might speedily befall the vindictive old schemer, whom I positively believed to be a fraud, yet whom my wife had accepted as her worthless parent.

The approaching party streamed down the calle; I could see the shovel hats in the van, and smiled to think how easily the affair had been won by them in the first round.

Little I cared—the game was not worth the candle to me; my honors had been unsought, and were relinquished without regret.

Luckily, they did not appear in time to discover the little group that hurried out of the other end of the narrow calle—perhaps they could not dream that the president of three hours would think of such a thing as flight, and expected him to be sound asleep, as he might have been, but for that remarkable secretary of war, who could sniff battle in the very air.

We made several turnings.

“Hark!” exclaimed Robbins, with a laugh.

Surely, those were angry shouts; the mob had discovered the empty nest, and some of the inmates of neighboring houses might give them points as to the direction we had taken.

“It doesn’t matter—here are the horses,” said our magician, simply.

He led them out of a shed.

I had to rub my eyes, for I feared this was all a dream—feared that I was a boy again; reading the “Arabian Nights,” and that when I awoke, gone would be the splendid steeds, my gallant comrade in arms, the fair lady, and all.

But it was real—the horses curveted and whinnied their delight, and I wondered how Robbins had managed to secure such splendid mounts, forgetting that as secretary of war he had the power to requisition anything he desired, that would be for the public weal.

And only three hours in office—think what he might not have done in a month—a year!

Wretched Bolivar! But, then, some people never know when they are well off.

Two of the horses had side saddles—I had no idea there was such a thing in Bolivar, but he had ferreted them out; nothing seemed to escape his scent when on the track.

Hildegarde had always been a fine horsewoman, and Carmencita would take to the exercise with the readiness ever shown by confident youth.

We were all quickly mounted, and Robbins led the way; perhaps many an ex-president had quitted Bolivar in the same fashion; but we were only too thankful to shake the dust of the tropical metropolis from our shoes.

CHAPTER XL.

WON AT LAST.

Of course, they pursued us—it was destined that our escape from Bolivar should be marked by one more dramatic scene, as though to round out the whole tragic business.

Daylight was just beginning to break when we clattered past the last scattering adobe huts, and struck out upon the winding road that led in the direction of Jalapa, climbing mountains, crossing wild valleys and presenting many dangerous features to a company without a guide.

Once free from the town and its noises, we experienced a remarkable sense of relief; and could we have been assured that no pursuit would be inaugurated, we might have enjoyed the journey very much.

That sunrise as seen from the side of the mountain was equal to any I ever witnessed even in Italy.

Robbins had even thought of food; he apologized because he had been unable to secure a pack horse on such short notice and load him down with all the paraphernalia of a camping outfit, but we united in declaring what he had done was really astonishing; given time, I think he would have bagged all the dainties in Bolivar.

We ate as we rode, for our enemies were too near at hand and our horses too fresh to think of making so early a halt.

The invigorating air gave us high spirits, and we could even converse about the wreck and the probable fate of Gustavus and Diana, as well as the men, without shuddering.

Still, I feared it was a theme that would cast more or less of a shadow athwart our happiness in the future, for it was a bitter thing to think of that bright society woman, one of the most charming of her sex, thus taken away so suddenly and cruelly.

Long before noon, Robbins secretly informed me we were being pursued.

Somehow, I was not much surprised—nothing appeared to strike me as singular nowadays. I understood that fate meant to make one more grand bluff at snatching happiness from my arms, and, if defeated this time, would be apt to give up in disgust.

All I did was to grimly set my teeth together and look down the wild mountain in the quarter whence we had come.

Robbins presently pointed out our pursuers.

They were a grand squad, and unless my eyesight deceived me old Gen. Toreado was at the head.

Strange, how vindictive the old chap was; instead of hunting Salvador, who had been president before the coup, and must be chasing hot-footed for the border at this hour, here he was, speeding after me, the man who laid down the reins of government only too willingly when news came that Toreado the Magnificent had not been killed after all, only stunned.

“How many?” asked Robbins.

“Not far from a dozen, all told.”

“Pretty big odds, if they catch us. We’ve got a good start—let ’em come,” said he.

We joined the others, who were ahead.

The trail had reached its highest point, and now a descent lay before us.

Of course, we could make quicker time, but it was often dangerous to hasten, for the narrow mule path led along the face of precipices where, hundreds of feet below, large trees looked for all the world like bushes, and a brawling stream seemed no larger than a silver ribbon.

Here we moved slowly and sedately; I confess my heart was almost in my throat when I reflected that a single stumble would precipitate horse and rider over the brink into eternity.

Robbins was berating himself for a fool; he wanted to know what was the use in being secretary of war unless one could command all the military supplies in the republic.

At first, I could not understand what ailed the fellow, until he pointed out a place where, as he said, a little dynamite cartridge would bring the narrow path into chaotic ruin after we had passed in safety, and thus effectually cut off pursuit.

Yes, it was a great pity he had not thought to requisition the whole outfit of the army.

Still, we managed to get on.

The trouble was, those fellows in our rear, from some cause or other, got on better; perhaps it came from their not having any women folks along, or because they were more accustomed to such mountain travel, for a chase after a fleeing ex-president is an event of frequent occurrence.

At any rate, our lead was slowly, but surely, being cut down, and it became an open question whether we would gain a safe refuge over the border at Jalapa or be forced to turn at bay.

I sincerely hoped the former might come to pass, though grimly determined that, should it be war, we would give a good account of ourselves as American citizens.

Hildegarde bore the rough ride admirably—not a whimper did I hear, though it must have been a cruel experience, especially toward the end, when our pace was fast and furious.

Something of this was due to her natural grit; but the fact that she had always been a lover of horseback exercise counted for considerable. As for the girl, nothing could tire her; her big black eyes glowed with excitement, and she sat her reeking horse like a little centaur.

None of us was positive how much farther we had to go—it might be leagues to the border. So much for not having a guide; but, truth to tell, Robbins had not been able to discover a single chap in all Bolivar whom he thought he could trust.

We only knew that the fellows in our rear were getting too close for comfort, and that the chances for a ruction seemed good.

I saw there were but nine now—the rest had dropped out, and with them, the white-headed old reprobate who claimed the ties of kindred with my Hildegarde.

I am not naturally a bloodthirsty man, but I fervently hoped on this occasion that his horse had carried him over where the gulch was deepest, so that he would never trouble us more.

Subsequent events have led me to believe that such a doleful tragedy actually occurred, for the old sinner disappeared from the face of the earth, and never again sought to acquire a claim to any of my wealth. I am sure that this could only have been brought about by his sudden demise; for, as Hildegarde declared, he was a man who would never give up a cherished object while breath remained.

As I rode beside Robbins I ventured to ask my ex-secretary of war how best we could defeat our pursuers, who seemed bent on bringing matters to a crisis.

Robbins was quick to answer; he had been looking ahead, it seemed.

“Look below—what d’ye see, governor?”

“Well, there’s a river of some sort in the valley—yes, and a bridge over it.”

“We’ll get there, all right.”

“That’s true, but beyond is a level stretch where they can overhaul us.”

“Wait. Once we cross, the ladies will ride on.”

“Ah! then we stop.”

“Thermopylæ again, Morgan. We’ll hold the bridge, as Leonidas and his Spartans held the pass. I reckon this tumultuous nation will have the novelty of four presidents in twenty-four hours.”

“Four?”

“I’ve made up my mind to shoot Toreado the first thing. He deserves it, the old fool! Some men never know which side of their bread is buttered. Well, here we are.”

The bridge was before us, and as we wearily galloped over, I hastily called to Hildegarde, telling her to keep straight on for a mile or so, and that we would surely come up.

She gave me one look over her shoulder, so full of love and misery that it brought a lump into my throat; but she knew what obedience meant, and rode straight on.

“Now,” cried Robbins, suddenly, as our horses cleared the planking.

So we drew the beasts upon their very haunches and sprang to the ground, and, sheltered behind their weary carcasses, faced about.

It was indeed time, for the squad of rough riders had just started to cross—indeed, the crash of horses’ hoofs upon the bridge marked our turning at bay.

We opened fire instantly—the old battle spirit surged over me, and human life was held in cheap account. Why should I care when these men hunted us like wild beasts, determined to slay us, or, worse still, imprison us in their filthy dungeons on a diet of atrocities?

The rattle of firearms was merry enough, and as both of us were extraordinarily good shots, we created quite a little havoc among them.

Horses leaped and burst over the rail, carrying their riders in some cases with them—men shrieked and swore and plunged about, as though crazed with fear; taken in all, it was a dreadful affair, which I sincerely trust I may never see the like of again.

Robbins had potted the old general the first thing, just as he promised—at least, he shot his horse, and that beast promptly tumbled over the rail, so that the last I saw of Toreado he was floating down stream, screaming for help.

It seems he did not drown, but lived to rule the little republic just seven months, when he was shot from ambush, and a new president took up the reins where he dropped them; but, of course, he found an empty treasury—they always do.

When we saw that the pursuit had been effectually brought to a sudden stop, we once more flung ourselves in the saddle, gave a cowboy whoop, and were off down the road.

So far as I can remember, I do not think we actually killed any of the Toreado possé, granting that those in the river got out safe and sound, but their ardor was effectually cooled, and they hunted ex-presidents no more that day.

A mile on we overtook our companions, and Hildegarde’s eyes sparkled with tears of joy when I drew alongside.

Jalapa proved to be near at hand; indeed, although we had not suspected it at the time, the river was really the border of the territory.

At Jalapa we lost all our fears.

Here even ex-presidents could breathe in peace.

We engaged passage on the first steamer soon to start for New York.

I would not feel entirely easy until I had shaken the republican dust of these Central American countries from my feet—they were much too hot for me.

At Jalapa we had some good news.

A party of shipwrecked persons had been brought in by the coast guard, hungry and nearly exhausted—among others a woman.

It was Diana—the sea had not claimed her, as I feared; and a year later at a London hotel I met Gustavus and his wife, so that, being together some days, we were able to compare notes of that fearful experience; and the ladies actually became friends.

Poor Cummings was drowned, also the cook and two of the men. I made it a point of honor to hunt up their relatives and liberally settle all that was due the poor fellows three times over.

We took the Nile trip on our own boat, and it was a glorious time; yet how often would my mind go back to old Bolivar and those exciting scenes that marked the finding of that lost, though loved, one—my Hildegarde.

THE END.

THE MOST COMPLETE LIST OF BERTHA M. CLAY STORIES IS REPRESENTED BY

The Bertha Clay Library

This line is devoted to the works of the popular Bertha M. Clay and other writers of the same school. Many of the titles listed herein are copyrighted and cannot be found in any other editions. This author has successfully demonstrated her ability to write high-class love stories, which charm the reader, from the moment the book is opened until the last line is read. Her name is known throughout the entire English-speaking world. Her style is peculiarly her own. She has the happy faculty of making the reader feel that he is interested, personally, in the wellfare and ultimate success of the principal characters.

GENEVIEVE ULMAN

202. The Siren’s Triumph

MRS. EDWARD KENNARD

201. Love’s Temptation

BERTHA M. CLAY

200. Fair as a Lily
199. Strong in Her Love
198. A Heart Forlorn
197. A Soul Ensnared
196. Her Beautiful Foe
195. For Her Heart’s Sake
194. Sweeter Than Life
193. An Ocean of Love
192. A Coquette’s Victim
191. Her Honored Name
190. The Old Love or New?
189. Paying the Penalty
188. What It Cost Her
187. A Poisoned Heart
186. True Love’s Reward
185. Between Love and Ambition
184. A Queen Triumphant
183. A Heart’s Worship
182. A Loveless Engagement
181. The Chains of Jealousy
180. A Misguided Love
179. A Supreme Sacrifice
178. When Love and Hate Conflict
177. The Price of Love
176. A Wife’s Devotion
175. The Girl of His Heart
174. A Pilgrim of Love
173. The Queen of His Soul
172. A Purchased Love
171. An Untold Passion
170. A Deceptive Lover
169. A Captive Heart
168. A Fateful Passion
167. From Hate to Love
166. Her Boundless Faith
165. On With the New Love
164. Lost for Love
163. Glady’s Wedding Day
162. An Evil Heart
161. His Great Temptation
160. The Love of Lady Aurelia
159. The Lost Lady of Haddon
158. The Sunshine of His Life
157. Love’s Redemption
156. A Maid’s Misery
155. Every Inch a Queen
154. A Stolen Heart
153. A Tragedy of Love and Hate
152. A Bitter Courtship
151. Lady Ona’s Sin
150. The Tragedy of Lime Hall
149. A Wife’s Peril
148. Lady Ethel’s Whim
147. The Broken Trust
146. Lady Marchmont’s Widowhood
145. A Sinful Secret
144. The Hand Without a Wedding Ring
143. How Will It End
142. One Woman’s Sin
141. The Burden of a Secret
140. A Woman’s Witchery
139. Love in a Mask
138. The Price of a Bride
137. A Heart of Gold
136. A Loving Maid
135. For Love of Her
134. The Sins of the Father
133. A Dream of Love
132. A Woman’s Trust
131. A Bride from the Sea, and Other Stories
130. The Rival Heiresses
129. Lady Gwendoline’s Dream
128. Society’s Verdict
127. A Great Mistake
126. The Gambler’s Wife
125. For A Dream’s Sake
124. The Hidden Sin
123. Lady Muriel’s Secret
122. Dumaresq’s Temptation
121. The White Witch
120. The Story of An Error
119. Blossom and Fruit
118. The Paths of Love
117. A Struggle for the Right
116. The Queen of the County
115. Queen Amongst Women, And An Unnatural Bondage
114. A Woman’s Vengeance
113. Lord Elesmere’s Wife
112. His Wedded Wife
111. Irene’s Vow
110. Thrown on the World
109. A Bitter Reckoning
108. Her First Love
107. From Out the Gloom
106. Wedded Hands
105. A Hidden Terror
104. ’Twixt Smile and Tear
103. Two Kisses, and The Fatal Lilies
102. Dream Faces
101. A Broken Wedding Ring
100. In Shallow Waters
99. For Life and Love, and More Bitter Than Death
98. James Gordon’s Wife
97. Repented at Leisure
96. The Actor’s Ward
95. A Woman’s Temptation
94. Margery Daw
93. Signa’s Sweetheart
92. At Any Cost, and A Modern Cinderella
91. Under a Shadow
90. In Cupid’s Net, and So Near and Yet So Far
89. A Coquette’s Conquest
88. If Love be Love
87. Beyond Pardon
86. Guelda
85. A Woman’s Error
84. Lady Latimer’s Escape, and Other Stories
83. A Fatal Dower
82. A Dead Heart, and Love For a Day
81. Between Two Loves
80. The Earl’s Atonement
79. An Ideal Love
78. Another Man’s Wife
77. A Fair Mystery
76. Guiding Star
75. A Bitter Bondage
74. Thorns and Orange Blossoms
73. Her Martyrdom
72. Between Two Hearts
71. Marjorie Deane
70. A Heart’s Bitterness
69. Fair But Faithless
68. ’Twixt Love and Hate
67. In Love’s Crucible
66. Gladys Greye
65. His Perfect Trust
64. Wedded and Parted, and Fair but False
63. Another Woman’s Husband
62. Sweet Cymbeline
61. The Earl’s Error, and Letty Leigh
60. A Heart’s Idol
59. One False Step
58. Griselda
57. Violet Lisle
56. The Squire’s Darling, and Walter’s Wooing
55. Golden Gates
54. The Gipsy’s Daughter
53. A Fiery Ordeal
52. Claribel’s Love Story; or, Love’s Hidden Depths
51. For a Woman’s Honor
50. A True Magdalen; or, One False Step
49. Addie’s Husband, and Arnold’s Promise
48. Her Second Love
47. The Duke’s Secret
46. Beauty’s Marriage
45. Lover and Husband
44. The Belle of Lynn; or, The Miller’s Daughter
43. Madolin’s Lover
42. Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Marriage Vow
41. A Mad Love
40. A Nameless Sin
39. Marjorie’s Fate
38. Love’s Warfare
37. Weaker Than a Woman
36. On Her Wedding Morn, and Her Only Sin
35. A Woman’s War
34. The Romance of a Young Girl; or, The Heiress of Hilldrop
33. Set in Diamonds
32. Lord Lynne’s Choice
31. Redeemed by Love; or, Love’s Conflict; or, Love Works Wonders
30. The Romance of a Black Veil
29. A Woman’s Love Story
28. A Rose in Thorns
27. A Shadow of a Sin
26. A Struggle for a Ring
25. A Thorn in Her Heart
24. Prince Charlie’s Daughter
23. The World Between Them
22. The Sin of a Lifetime
21. Wife in Name Only
20. A Willful Maid
19. Two Fair Women; or, Which Loved Him Best?
18. A Passion Flower
17. Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce; or, Put Asunder
16. His Wife’s Judgment
15. Lady Damer’s Secret
14. A Haunted Life
13. Evelyn’s Folly
12. At War With Herself
11. For Another’s Sin; or, A Struggle for Love
10. One Against Many
9. Her Mother’s Sin; or, A Bright Wedding Day
8. Hilda’s Lover; or, The False Vow; or Lady Hutton’s Ward
7. A Dark Marriage Morn
6. Diana’s Discipline; or, Sunshine and Roses
5. The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, Not Proven
4. Lord Lisle’s Daughter
3. A Golden Heart
2. Dora Thorne
1. A Bitter Atonement

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Transcriber’s Notes:

A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Some inconsistent hyphenation has been retained from the original.

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Table of Contents

- MY HILDEGARDE

- MY HILDEGARDE

- MY HILDEGARDE.

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- CHAPTER XXXI.

- CHAPTER XXXII.

- CHAPTER XXXIII.

- CHAPTER XXXIV.

- CHAPTER XXXV.

- CHAPTER XXXVI.

- CHAPTER XXXVII.

- CHAPTER XXXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXXIX.

- CHAPTER XL.

- The Bertha Clay Library

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE