nued with
pride. "We are now more than Escobars--brother Cubans. He has been
both shot and sabred and he has a malaria. But nearly all his friends
are dead. Soon, he says, we, Jaime and Remigio--and, I added,
you--will have to go out. He is to let us know when and how."

"Do the police know he is in Havana?"

"We think not; they haven't been about the house since the investigation
of the de Vaca affair, and our servants are not spies. You must come
and see Vincente this evening, for he may leave at any hour. It seems
that he is celebrated for his bravery and the Spaniards have marked
him for special attention. Papa and mama are dreadfully disturbed,
and not only because of him; for if he is discovered, all of us, yes,
little Narcisa, will be made to pay--to a horrible degree, I can tell
you."

* * * * *

There was, apparently, nothing unusual in the situation at the
Escobars' when Charles called in the evening. The family, exactly as
he had known it, was assembled in the drawing-room, conversing under
the icy flood of the crystal chandelier. He found a chair by Narcisa,
and listened studiously to the colloquial Spanish, running swiftly
around the circle, alternating with small thoughtful silences. Soon,
however, Charles Abbott could see that the atmosphere was not
normal--the vivacity palpably was forced through the shadow of a
secret apprehension. Domingo Escobar made sudden seemingly irrelevant
gestures, Carmita sighed out of her rotundity. Only Narcisa was beyond
the general subdued gloom: in her clear white dress, her clocked white
silk stockings, and the spread densely black curtain of her hair, she
was intent on a wondering thought of her own. Her gaze, as usual, was
lowered to her loosely clasped hands; but, growing conscious of
Charles' regard, she looked up quickly, and, holding his eyes, smiled
at him with an incomprehensible sweetness.

He regarded her with a gravity no more than half actual--his mind was
set upon Vincente--and her even pallor was invaded by a slow soft
color. Charles nodded, entirely friendly, and she turned away, so
abruptly that her hair swung out and momentarily hid her profile. He
forgot her immediately, for he had overheard, half understood, an
allusion to the Escobars' elder son. With a growing impatience he
interrogated Andres, and the latter nodded a reassurance. Then Andres
Escobar rose, punctiliously facing his father--he would, with
permission