The night was very dark. Here and there a lone star peeped out bravely, but it could shine but faintly through the heavy mist that was settling down over the Enchantress.

Grahame, the leadline in his hand, leaned anxiously on the rail, watching the foam boil about the vessel's side. Her keel stirred in the sand and the propeller was beating hard; but she did not move. To make things worse, the disturbed water broke noisily on the beach and the thud of engines could be heard at some distance. Grahame had not complied with the formalities required before leaving port, but he carried a dangerous cargo and he feared that he might be detained unless he got away at once. The Enchantress, however, was not yet afloat, and he reluctantly signaled for steam to be shut off.

Walthew came up when the engines stopped, and Grahame sat down on the ledge of the door. It was very quiet when the splash of water died away, and the darkness and silence reacted upon the men's tense nerves. They found inaction singularly hard.

"You have got to take her out the minute she's off the ground," Walthew said. "To be caught getting ready to leave would give us away.""Sure thing! The Port Captain's guard watches the beach; they've sentries at the fort and a wire to the town; and there's a gunboat in the entrance. Our job doesn't look easy."

"Ye have quarter o' an hour yet, but that's all," Macallister said as he joined them. "If I canna' give the engines steam then, she'll blow off and rouse the town."

They waited anxiously, Grahame glancing at his watch and walking to the rail, where he felt the leadline; but the water rose with exasperating slowness. Then suddenly a jet of steam broke with a muffled throb from the escape-pipe, and Macallister jumped up.

"Ye have got to start her noo!" he said.

Walthew followed him below; the engines clanked; the propeller spun; and Grahame hauled the lead in with a breath of relief, for the line grew taut as the vessel moved. Then he stood in the main rigging, where he could see better and where Miguel, at the helm, could watch his signaling hand. With screw throbbing gently, the Enchantress crept away into the dark. Her gray hull would be invisible from the shore, but phosphorescence blazed about her bows and her wake was a trail of fire.

The tramp steamer rode not far ahead, a mysterious shadowy bulk, with the gleam of her anchor-lights on the water, but as the Enchantress stole past a voice called out to her:

"Good luck!"

Grahame did not answer, but he was grateful. The tramp captain understood why his engineer had stayed ashore. Macallister's friends were staunch; the Scots stood by one another.The light in the plaza grew dim astern, and the blurred, dark beach was rapidly slipping by. There was a lift on the water as they drew near the harbor mouth; but the fort had yet to be passed, and Grahame searched the shore with his glasses. Little by little he made out a formless mound, which grew more distinct. There was no light in the building, but he knew that sentries were supposititiously keeping watch beside the guns. One or two of these were modern and no vessel was allowed to leave port at night without official permission and a notification to the commandant. If the steamer were seen, refusal to stop would be followed by the roar of a gun. But Grahame did not mean to stop so long as she was not struck.

For the next few minutes he felt his nerves tingle, but the fort was dark and silent and only the soft splash along the beach broke the stillness. The shadowy building dropped astern and he turned his glasses upon the harbor mouth. Two lights showed where the gunboat lay, and, some distance beyond them, a dim, pulsating radiance glimmered. This marked where the open water swell broke upon the shoals. Grahame hoped that it would cover the Enchantress's luminous wake; besides, the roar of the surf might drown the thud of engines, which carries far on a calm night.

Jumping down from the rigging, he rapped sharply on the engine-hatch, and Walthew ran quickly up the ladder.

"Throttle her down," Grahame said. "If I knock once, stop her; if twice, give her all the steam you can."

Walthew nodded to show that he understood, for it might be dangerous to use the telegraph gong; and then he disappeared below while Grahame stood still, steadying the glasses on the deckhouse top.

With screw spinning slowly, the Enchantress glided on, and the gunboat's hull grew into shape against the sky. Grahame was glad that he had the land behind him and his vessel was small, but he beckoned Miguel to let her swing inshore. There was a shoal on that side, marked by a line of foam; but he must take the risk of going too close.

A phosphorescent flicker played about the vague blackness of the gunboat's bows; the light from the lamp on her forestay showed part of the deck, and then receded as she rolled. Grahame could make out an anchor hanging ready to let go and a man standing by her rail, until the light reeled and the figure was lost in gloom. It seemed to him that the Enchantress must be seen, and he wondered whether the other vessel had her boats in the water. He suspected that she belonged to the government which Don Martin meant to overthrow, and it would be difficult to get away from her if she had steam up. She was now abreast of him, but there was no sign of activity on board. The Enchantress crept on. The gunboat dropped back to her quarter. Then there was a sudden harsh rattle, and Grahame gasped. But a splash relieved the tension, because he knew it was only the ash-hoist bringing up furnace cinders.

She drew further aft and began to fade; but Grahame now saw danger ahead. The Enchantress was throwing fiery spray about her bows and rolling as she forged slowly through broken water. The shoal was close ahead and, taking a sounding, he found scarcely a fathom under the keel. This was enough, however, and, beckoning to Miguel, he let her go until the darkness astern was broken only by the gunboat's lights. Then, finding deeper water, he struck the engine-hatch.

"We're clear!" he called down in an exultant voice. "Drive her, but make no sparks!"

The Enchantress began to tremble, and a few moments later loose stanchions rattled and deck-planks shook as she leaped through the long swell with green fire blazing in the wake of her thudding screw. Grahame laughed softly, and sat down to light a cigarette. He imagined that when morning came there would be several badly disappointed intriguers in the port he had left.

He thought it best, however, not to proceed directly to his destination, and it was three days later when he ran in behind a point, and anchored in shallow water. It was daylight, but the Enchantress's gray hull and slender spars would be hard to see against the land, and there was no sign of habitation on the sweep of desolate coast. A cliff rose behind the steamer, and then for some miles the dazzling sea broke in a fringe of lace-like foam on a beach of yellow sand. On the landward side of this, glossy-green jungle rolled away and merged into taller forest that was presently lost in haze. No smoke streaked the horizon, and there was not a boat on the beach, but while Grahame carefully watched, two appeared from behind a reef, and he put down his glasses with a smile.

"Our friends!" he said to Walthew. "You might get the winch ready while we take the hatches off."

An hour later a small party sat in the shade of the new stern awning. The boats had gone away loaded, but they had left Don Martin and three companions on board. Father Agustin, whose rusty black cassock jarred upon the blaze of light and color, leaned back in a canvas chair with a wineglass in his olive-tinted hand.

"I'm surprised to find you in such company, Father," Grahame said to him.

The priest's eyes twinkled.

"It is not only the rich and respected we are sent out to seek, though I think they need us as much as the others."

"You might find their help useful," Walthew suggested.

"True, if one could buy it! As a rule, they do not give, but sell, and the price they ask is often high."

"Some bribes are hard to resist when they are offered in the name of charity; for example, hospitals founded and new churches built," Grahame interposed. "These are things you can make good use of."

Father Agustin looked at him steadily.

"An honest man does not take a bribe, as you, my son, should know," he said.

"Ah!" Grahame returned carelessly. "I did not think you had heard of—a certain affair."

Walthew gave him a surprised glance, but Father Agustin smiled.

"I hear many curious things. Besides, my companions take precautions. Sometimes they find them needed."

"I suppose if I had done what I was asked and pocketed the reward, I should have met with an accident shortly afterward?" Grahame suggested."One does not talk of such matters, seÑor, among trusted friends," one of the men interposed.

"Your intelligence department seems to be well organized, but there's ground for believing the opposition's is quite as good," Grahame said, and related what had happened at their last port.

"Care will be needed after this," said Don Martin. "Now that they know your boat, it is fortunate we changed the landing place; but you are safe here. This coast is low and unhealthy; the President's friends are prosperous and do not live in the swampy jungle."

"One can understand that," Grahame responded. "Your appeal is to those who must live how and where they can. No doubt, they suffer now and then for helping you."

"Ah!" exclaimed one of the Spaniards, "how they suffer! If you give me leave, seÑores, I can tell you startling things."

They listened with quickening interest, and he kept his promise well, for there is in southern peoples, contaminated by darker blood, a vein of sensual cruelty that sometimes leads to the perpetration of unutterable horrors. Grahame's face grew quietly stern, Walthew's hot and flushed, and Macallister clenched his hand, for the tales they heard fired their blood.

"You have told us enough," Walthew said at last. "I went into this business because I was looking for adventure and wanted to make some money—but I mean to see it through if it costs me all I have!" He turned to his comrades. "How do you feel about it?"

"Much as you do," Grahame answered quietly, and Macallister put his hand on Sarmiento's arm."I'm with ye, if ye mean to make a clean sweep o' yon brutes."

"I believe their reckoning will come, but our bargain stands," said Don Martin. "We need arms, and will pay for all you bring. Still, I am glad your hearts are with us. It is sentiment that carries one farthest."

"How have you been getting on since we last met?" Walthew asked.

"We make progress, though there are difficulties. One must fight with the purse as well as the sword, and the dictator's purse is longer than ours. Of late, he has been getting money and spending it with a free hand."

"Do you know where he gets it?" Grahame asked thoughtfully.

"So far, we have not found out. But it is foreign money, and he must give what belongs to the country in exchange."

"An easy plan!" Walthew said. "Makes the country pay for keeping him in power. I guess you'll have to meet the bill when you get in."

"That is so," Don Martin agreed. "It forces our hand. We must get in before he leaves us no resources at all."

Grahame thought of Cliffe, and wondered about his business with Gomez; but he decided to say nothing of this.

"Is Castillo still at liberty?" he asked.

"He is watched, but we have been able to protect him. A man of passion and fervor who will rouse the people when the right time comes."

"But perhaps not a good plotter?"

Father Agustin gave Grahame a shrewd glance."We do not all possess your northern self-restraint, though one admits its value. SeÑor Castillo follows a poetical ideal."

"So I imagined. Cold conviction sometimes leads one farther."

They were silent for a minute or two, and then one said:

"We have been anxious about Castillo. It is not that we doubt his sincerity."

"You doubt his staying power?"

Father Agustin made an assenting gesture.

"Our friend is ardent, but a fierce fire soon burns out. The danger is that when warmth is needed there may be no fuel left."

"I think you should try to guard him from pressure he is unfit to stand," Grahame suggested. "One cannot always choose one's tools, but if you are careful he may last until his work is done."

"It is so," Father Agustin agreed. "One loves the ring of fine, true steel, but it is fortunate that metal of softer temper has its use, though it sometimes needs skillful handling."

"He kens!" exclaimed Macallister. "Ye may rake stuff that will serve ye weel from the scrap heap o' humanity, and there's times when it's a comfort to remember that. But I'm surprised to find ye meddling with politics."

"I am not a politician; it is not permitted. But I may hate injustice, and there is no canon that bids me support what is evil. I came here as your guest with other friends, and if they honor me with their confidence I cannot refuse; nor do I think it a grave offense to give them a word of advice.""Good advice may prove more dangerous to their enemies than rifles," Grahame said.

Father Agustin mused for a few moments.

"Our friends' real task begins with their triumph," he said gravely; "for that, at best, can but mean a clearing of the ground. Man builds slowly, but to destroy is easy, and many see no farther."

"But when the building is tottering and rotten?"

"Sometimes it may be repaired, piece by piece, but that is not your plan." Father Agustin spread out his hands. "If you build on a sound foundation, your new work will stand; but the edifice of the State cannot be cemented with hatred and envy. This responsibility is yours and not your enemies'. But one looks to the future with hope as well as doubt."

They then discussed the landing of the next cargo, and the general course of operations, but while they plotted with Spanish astuteness Grahame imagined that the quiet priest was the brain of the party.

After a time, the boats came back for another load, and when sunset streaked the water with a lurid glow the guests took their leave and the Enchantress steamed out to sea.