rnoon when she and Marm Prudence took their way
back through the forest. At first Rita was silent; but as distance
increased between them and the dell, she could not restrain her
curiosity.

How was it, she asked, that this young man was there alone, separated
from his companions? He said he was in hiding. Hiding! a detestable, an
unworthy word! Why should a son of Cuba be in hiding, she wished to
know! She had worked herself into a fine glow of indignation again, and
was ready to believe anything and everything bad about the agreeable
youth with the blue eyes.

"I must know!" she repeated, dropping her voice to a contralto note that
she was fond of. "Tell me, Marm Prudence; tell me all! have I broken the
bread of a recreant?"

"I thought it was my bread," said Marm Prudence, dryly. "I'll tell you,
if you'll give me a chance, Miss Margaritty. I supposed, though, that
you'd have heard of Jack Delmonty; Captain Jack, as they call him. Since
his last raid the Gringos have offered a big reward for him, alive or
dead. He was wounded in the foot, and thought he might hender his troop
some if he tried to go with them in that state. So he camped here, and
we've seen to him as best we could."

Rita was dumb, half with amazement, half with mortification. How was it
possible that she had been so stupid? Heard of Captain Jack? where were
her wits? the daring guerrilla leader, the pride of the Cuban bands, the
terror of all Spaniards in that part of the island. Why, he was one of
her pet heroes; only--only she had fancied him so utterly different. The
Captain Jack of her fancy was a gigantic person, with blue-black curls,
with eyes like wells of black light (she had been fond of this bit of
description, and often repeated it to herself), a superb moustache, and
a nose absolutely Grecian, like the Santillo nose of tender memory. This
half-Yankee stripling, blue-eyed, with a nose that--yes, that actually
turned up a little, and the merest feather of brown laid on his upper
lip--how could she or any one suppose this to be the famous cavalry
leader?

Rita blushed scarlet with distress, as she remembered her bearing, which
she had tried to make as scornful as was compatible with good manners.
She had meant, had done her best, to show him that she thought lightly
of a Cuban soldier who, for what reason soever, proclaimed himself
without apology to be "in hiding." To be sure, he had not seemed to feel
the rebuke as she had expected h