It was getting light when the man on watch called Kit, who went to the gap in the wall. Thin mist drifted about the trees and trailed across the road. There was some open ground in front of the building, but behind this the forest loomed in a blurred, shadowy mass.

"I reckon I saw something move where the fog's on the road," the man remarked.

Kit saw nothing. His eyes were keen, for he had searched the hillsides for sheep, but it looked as if they were not as keen as the sailor's, and standing in the shadow he watched the indicated spot. After a minute or two, a figure came out of the fog and signaled with a lifted hand.

"More of them around!" said the sailor grimly. "There's trouble coming to them if they mean to corral us. Jake's at the side window, and he had to get out of Mobile because he was too handy with his gun. Not often had to pull mine, but I can shoot some."

"Quit talking!" Kit rejoined, and his mouth set firm when the figure vanished.

He thought the rebels meant to surround the building. If so, they were probably numerous, and the rifle shot some hours before justified the supposition. They had first tried to kill him quietly and, finding this impossible, had resolved to seize the party. Well, there was good cover behind the broken walls, his men were a reckless lot, and he meant to fight. He wished the others would begin, for standing, highly-strung, in the dew was nervous work.

The light had got clearer when he noted a movement in a festoon of trailing vines. The wet leaves shook as if somebody were cautiously pulling them back, and Kit stiffened his muscles. It was a comfort to feel his hand was steady, and although he had not used a pistol much he was a good shot with a gun. He thought he could send a bullet through the moving leaves, but wanted his lurking enemy to begin the fight.

A face appeared at an opening and an arm pushed through. The man was coming out and Kit felt his nerves tingle. Then, as the fellow's body followed his arm, the sailor said quietly, "Don't move, boss. I'll fix him."

Next moment, Kit swung round, for the man who stepped out into the road wore a white uniform. The sailor leaned against the wall to steady his aim, and his tense pose and rigid hand indicated that he was pressing the trigger.

"Hold on!" Kit shouted. "Don't shoot!"

The sailor lowered his pistol and Kit, springing out of the shadow, waved his hat.

"Come forward. We are friends."

The rural turned and called to somebody, and then joining Kit glanced at the sailor's pistol with a dry smile.

"It looks as if I had run some risk. You did not mean to be surprised."

"No," said Kit; "one takes precautions. I came very near being surprised last night."

"So the Galdareros are about? We suspected something like this."

"I suppose it was why you meant to search the hacienda. But did you see us?"

The rural indicated a plume of smoke that curled up from behind the ruined wall.

"We saw that. When one takes precautions it is prudent to see they are complete."

Kit nodded. There was no use in getting angry; his men were rash and careless, but, to some extent, this was why he had chosen them. They had, no doubt, lighted the fire to cook breakfast.

"Where is your companion?" he asked.

"There are three of us; you will see the others in a few moments. They watch the road farther on. It is usual for us to patrol in twos, but of late some have not returned. A revolution is a bad time for rurales; one pays old reckonings then."

Kit smiled. "I imagine it would have been bad for any Galdarero who had tried to steal away down the road. But I expect you know me?"

"We have orders about you, seÑor; you see a servant of yours," the rural answered with a bow. "But it might be better if you told us your plans."

After giving him a cigarette, Kit sent the sailor to tell the others and when the rurales came up offered them a share of the breakfast his men had cooked. While they ate he told them what had brought him there and where he was going.

"So the American is dead? I have seen him at the presidio," one remarked. "Well, seÑor, it would be prudent to finish your business at Salinas to-night. After that, I do not know. There has been fighting and some of the president's soldiers have been killed in the swamps."

"I must finish the business," Kit replied. "It does not matter what happens afterwards."

The rural nodded. "The American talked like that. Quick and short, but what he said went. However, we will go to Salinas with you when you are ready."

Kit got up and gave his men an order. "I am ready now."

They set off soon afterwards and reached the mission as the light was fading. Two small, mud buildings and a little church stood among some ruins in an opening, and a frail old man met the party at the gate. He took off his hat when the sailors put down the coffin, and then listened to Kit's quiet narrative.

"This poor place is yours; it was a prosperous mission long since," he said. "In this country, men no longer build, but plot and destroy—it is easier than the other. Now we will put the coffin in the church and then I will give you food."

Father Herman drew back an old leather curtain and the smell of incense met Kit as he stood at the door while the sailors went forward with their load. The church was nearly dark, but Kit saw it had some beauty and there were objects that hinted at more prosperous days. At the other end, a ruby lamp glimmered and a wax candle burned with a clear flame before a statue of the Virgin. Kit knew whence the candle came and that Hattie Askew had knelt on the stones, beneath it, praying that her husband might get well. Then he looked at Father Herman, with a doubt in his mind.

The other met his glance and smiled. "The greatest of these is charity," he said in Latin, and resumed in fine Castilian: "He was our benefactor, a man who kept his word, and with such a wife I think our faith was his. It is a gracious sentiment that they should not be parted."

"In a sense," Kit said quietly, "I think they have not been parted yet.
At the last he said, with confidence, he was going to meet his wife."

"Who knows?" said Father Herman. "There is much that is dark; but one felt that his spirit reached out after hers. Well, I knew he would come back; I have long expected him."

He went forward and lighted more candles when the sailors put down the coffin, and the noise their boots made jarred Kit's nerves as they came back. The light spread, touching the bare walls and tawdry decorations about the shrines. It was a poor little church, falling into ruin, and the beauty its pious builders had given it was vanishing. Yet something redeemed it from being commonplace, and Kit felt a strange emotional stirring as his eyes rested on the dim ruby lamp and the rude black coffin. He thought the light of love could not be quenched and knew the tender romance that had burned in the heart of the old Buccaneer. It was with something of an effort he turned away, and followed Father Herman across the corral.

Two hours later, red torches flared in the dark as they laid Adam in his grave, and Kit, worn by anxiety and physical strain, listened dully to the solemn Latin office. Then, when the old priest's voice died away, he went back to the mission, where he fell asleep and slept twelve hours.

In the morning, he sat beneath a broken arch that had once formed part of a cloister. Outside the patch of shadow, the sun beat upon dazzling sand, and a few vivid green palm-fronds hung over a ruined wall. Beyond this the forest rose, dark and forbidding, against the glaring sky. Although the rest had refreshed Kit, he felt as if he had got older in the last few days and now the strain had slackened he was lonely. So far, he had obeyed orders and when doubtful looked to Adam for a lead, but Adam had gone and left him control. All that belonged to his youth had vanished; he was a man, with a man's responsibilities, and a man's problems to solve. Presently Father Herman came up and sat down opposite. Although he looked feeble, his glance was clear and kind.

"This house is yours, seÑor, and I am your servant," he said. "Yet I cannot hope that you will remain long and the times are disturbed. If I can help—"

"Since the rebels know I am here, it would not be safe to stay, but I cannot reach Salinas Point before the steamer sails," Kit replied. "I must get to Havana as soon as possible."

Father Herman thought for a few minutes and then resumed: "A small schooner is loading at a beach not far off and I know the patron. He would take you to Arenas, where the president has supporters and you might get a ship. I think he sails to-night, but I will send a message."

Kit thanked him and went on: "You were my uncle's friend, and now I have taken his place, you are mine. As you let him send you things the mission needed, perhaps you will not refuse me."

"I had not hoped for this," Father Herman answered with a grateful look.
"The generous gifts meant much to us, for we are very poor."

"Friendship has privileges. Besides, it was my uncle's wish, and will be something I can do for his sake."

Father Herman's worn face got very soft and he gave Kit an approving glance. "You are his kinsman, seÑor; one cannot doubt that. Like him, you are staunch and do not forget, but in some ways you are different. I will take your gifts and pray that yours may be a less stormy life."

"Thank you," Kit said gently and went off to look after his men.

In the afternoon he left the mission, and a week later reached Havana, where he found a cablegram waiting. He got a shock when he opened it, and stood for a time with the message crumpled in his hand, for it told him that Peter Askew was dying at Ashness. Then he sat down on the long, arcaded veranda of the hotel, with a poignant sense of loss, for the last blow was heavier than the first. It would be too late when he got home; Andrew, his English relative, would not have sent the message had there been any hope.

After a time, Kit began to pull himself together. He felt dull and half stunned, but saw that he must brace up. Although one duty was denied him, another was left. He could not bid his father good-by, but he could keep his promise to Adam, and there was much to be done. Getting up with a resolute movement, he went to the telegraph office.

Although Peter had not hinted that he was ill, Kit felt he ought to have gone home before, and now blamed Alvarez for keeping him. He knew this was not logical, but he hated the country, with its turmoils and plots. It was not worth helping, and in very truth he did not know if by supporting the president he were helping it or not. After all, however, this was not important; Alvarez needed a last supply of munitions that Adam had agreed to send. Kit doubted if they would be paid for, but the doubt did not count for much. Adam knew the risk when he agreed and his engagements bound his nephew. The goods must be delivered and then Kit would let the business go. When he reached the office he wrote a cablegram to Andrew at Ashness and another to Mayne, who had left Havana before Kit arrived.