s docking early in the morning. He closed his bag
thoughtfully, the derringer on a shelf. Escobar had spoken about it,
warning him, again; and it was apparent that no obvious place of
concealment would be sufficient. At last he hit on an excellent
expedient--he would suspend it inside the leg of a trouser. He fell
asleep, still saturated with the placid blue immensity without, and
woke sharply, while it was still dark. But it was past four, and
he rose and dressed. The deck was empty, deserted, and the light in
the pilot house showed a solitary intent countenance under a glazed
visor. There was, of course, no sign of Cuba.

A wind freshened, it blew steadily with no change of temperature, like
none of the winds with which he was familiar. It appeared to blow the
night away, astern. The caged light grew dull, there were rifts in
the darkness, gleams over the tranquil sea, and the morning opened
like a flower sparkling in dew. The limitless reach of the water
flashed in silver planes; miniature rainbows cascaded in the spray at
the steamer's bow; a flight of sailing fish skittered by the side. Far
ahead there was a faint silhouette, like the print of a tenuous
green-grey cloud, on the sea. It grew darker, bolder; and Charles
Abbott realized that it was an island.

Cuba came rapidly nearer; he could see now that it wasn't pale; its
foliage was heavy, glossy, almost sombre. The Morro Castle bore to the
left, but he was unable to make out an opening, a possible city, on
the coast. The water regained its intense blue, at once transparent,
clear, and dyed with pigment. The other travellers were all on deck:
Charles moved toward Domingo Escobar, but he eluded him. Undoubtedly
Escobar had the conjunction of the derringer and the Spanish customs
in mind. A general uneasiness permeated the small throng; they
conversed with a forced triviality, or, sunk in thought, said
nothing.

Then, with the sudden drama of a crash of brass, of an abruptly
lifting curtain, they swung into Havana harbor. Charles was
simultaneously amazed at a great many things--the narrowness of the
entrance, the crowded ships in what was no more than a rift of the
sea, a long pink fortress above him at the left, and the city, Havana
itself, immediately before him. His utmost desire was satisfied by
that first glimpse. Why, he cried mentally, hadn't he been told that
it was a city of white marble? That was the impression it gave him--a
miraculous whiteness, a