our struggle went on," he returned to Andres, "and we were
victorious, with, at the most, fifty thousand men against how many?
One, two, hundred thousand. And we began to be recognized abroad, by
Bolivia and Columbia and the Mexican Congress. The best Cubans, those
like ourselves, were in sympathy with the insurrection. Everything was
bright, the climate, too, was fighting for us; and then, Andres, we
lost man after man, the bravest, the youngest, first: they were
murdered, as I may be tonight, killed among the lianas, overtaken in
the villages, smothered in small detachments by great forces, until
now. And it is for that I have said so much, when it is unnecessary to
pronounce a word. What do you think is our present situation? What do
you think I left of our splendid effort in the interior? General
Agramonte and thirty-five men. That and no more!

"Their condition you may see in me--wasted, hardly stronger than
pigeons, and less than half armed. What, do you think, one boy
from Pennsylvania is worth to that? Can he live without food more
than half the time, without solid land under his feet, without
protection against the mosquitoes and heat and tropical rains? And
in Havana: but remember your friend, Tirso Labrador! You, Andres,
have no alternative; but your Charles Abbott he would be a danger
rather than an assistance." Charles, with a prodigious effort at a
calm self-control, answered him.

"You are very thoughtful, and it is right to be cautious, but what you
say is useless. Andres understands! I'd never be satisfied to be
anything except a Cuban patriot. It isn't necessary for you to
understand that in a minute, an evening. I might be no good in
Camagueey, but I am not as young as Tirso; I am more bitter and
patient. By heaven, I will do something, I will be a part of your
bravery! Not only the soldiers in the field, not only Agramonte, but
sacrifice--"

* * * * *

Charles' throat was closed, his words stopped, by the intensity of his
feeling; his longing to be identified, lost, in the spirit of General
Agramonte and the faithful thirty-five burned into a desperation of
unhappiness. Vincente Escobar, it was evident, thought that he wasn't
capable of sustaining such a trust. Still there was nothing to be
gained by protests, hot asseverations; with difficulty he suppressed
his resentment, and sat, to all appearances, calm, engaged with a
cigar and attending Vincente's irregular