d his way into
the arch on the patio. He went up the wide stairs unceremoniously to
the suite of formal rooms along the street, where, to his amazement,
he found the Escobar family seated in the sombreness of drawn
curtains, and all of them with their faces marked with tears.
Surprised by his abrupt appearance they showed no emotion other than
a dull indifference. Then Andres rose and put his hand on Charles'
shoulder, speaking in a level grave voice:

"My dear Abbott, Vincente, our brother, has made the last sacrifice
possible to men. He died at noon, sitting in his chair, as a result of
the fever."

This was tragic, but, with a deeper knowledge of the dilemma facing
them, Charles was actually impatient. "What," he demanded, "are you
going to do with the body?"

"It is placed in dignity on a couch, and we have sent to Matanzas for
a priest we can trust. He'll be here early in the morning, and then,
and then, we must forget our love."

"You must do that now, without a minute's loss," Charles urged them.
"You can wait for no priest. The Spanish Government knows he is here;
tonight, after dinner, he was to have been taken. The house will be
stood on its roof, every inch investigated. You spoke, once, of
Narcisa, what might horribly swallow you all. Well, it has almost
come."

Andres' grip tightened; he was pale but quiet. "You are right," he
asserted; "but how did you find this out, and save us?" That, Charles
replied, was of no importance now. What could they do with Vincente's
body? Carmita, his mother, began to cry again, noiselessly; Narcisa,
as frigid as a statue in marble, sat with her wide gaze fastened on
Charles Abbott. "What?" Domingo echoed desperately. It was no longer a
question of the dignity, the blessing, of the dead, but of the
salvation of the living. Vincente's corpse, revered a few minutes
before, now became a hideous menace; it seemed to have grown to
monumental proportions, a thing impossible to put out of sight.

Undoubtedly soldiers were watching, guarding the house: a number of
men in nondescript clothes were lounging persistently under the rows
of Indian laurels below. A hundred practical objections immediately
rose to confront every proposal. Carmita and Narcisa had been sent
from the room, and a discussion was in progress of the possibility of
cutting the body into minute fragments. "If that is decided on,"
Domingo Escobar declared, with sweat rolling over his forehead, "I
must do it;