, take Charles to the upper balconies, the wide view from
which he had never seen. Domingo was plainly uneasy, displeased; but,
after a long frowning pause, gave his reluctant consent. Charles
Abbott was acutely aware of his heels striking against the marble
steps which, broad, imposing and dark, led above. Vincente, it
developed, without actually being in hiding, was limited to the scope
of the upper hall, where, partly screened in growing palms, its end
formed a small salon.

There was a glimmer of light though sword-like leaves, and a lamp on
an alabaster table set in ormolu cast up its illumination on a face
from which every emotion had been banished by a supreme weariness.
Undoubtedly at one time Vincente Escobar had been as handsome as
Andres; more arbitrary, perhaps, with a touch of impatience resembling
petulance; the carriage, the air, of a youth spoiled by unrestrained
inclination and society. The ghost of this still lingered over him, in
the movement of his slender hands, the sharp upflinging of his chin;
but it was no more than a memento of a gay and utterly lost past. The
weariness, Charles began to realize, was the result of more than a
spent physical and mental being--Vincente was ill. He had acquired a
fever, it was brought out, in the jungles of Camagueey.

At first he was wholly indifferent to Charles; at the end of Andres'
enthusiastic introduction, after a flawless but perfunctory courtesy,
Vincente said:

"The United States is very important to us; we have had to depend
almost entirely on the New York Junta for our life. We have hope, too,
in General Grant. Finally your country, that was so successful in its
liberation, will understand us completely, and sweep Spain over the
sea. But, until that comes, we need only money and courage in our, in
Cuban, hearts. You are, I understand from Andres, rich; and you are
generous, you will give?"

That direct question, together with its hint at the personal
unimportance of his attachment to a cause of pure justice, filled
Charles with both resentment and discomfort. He replied stiffly, in
halting but adequate Spanish, that there had been a misunderstanding:
"I am not rich; the money I have you would think nothing--it might buy
a stand or two of rifles, but no more. What I had wanted to spend was
myself, my belief in Cuba. It seemed to me that might be worth
something--" he stopped, in the difficulty of giving expression to his
deep convictions; and Andres