So soon as Agueda had disappeared down the trocha which leads to the sea, Silencio called for Andres. Old Guillermina came with a halt and a shuffle. This was caused by her losing ever and anon that bit of shoe in which she thought it respectful to seek her master, or to obey his summons. She agreed with some modern authorities, although she had never heard of them or their theories, that contact with Mother Earth is more agreeable and more convenient (she did not know of the claim that it is more healthful) than encasing the foot in a piece of bull's hide or calf's skin.

"Where is Andres?" asked Don Gil, impatiently.

"Has the SeÑor forgotten that the Andres has gone to the Port of Entry?"

"He has not gone there," said Silencio; "that I know, for I sent Troncha in his place. See where he is, and let me know. I need a messenger at once."

As Guillermina turned her back, Don Gil bit his lip. "Then I am helpless," he said aloud, "if Andres is not here." He arose and started after Guillermina, calling impatiently: "Do not wait for Andres; get some one, any one. I must send a message at once."

While Guillermina shuffled away, Silencio sat himself down at his desk and wrote. He wrote hurriedly, the pen tearing across the sheet as if for a wager. As its spluttering ceased, there was a knock at the counting-house door.

"Entra!" called Silencio, rising.

It was a moist day in May. The June rains were heralded by occasional showers, an earnest of the future. The dampness was all-pervading, the stillness death-like. No sound was heard but the occasional calling of the peons to the oxen far afield. The leaves of the ceiba tree hung limp and motionless; the rompe hache[6] had not stirred a leaf for two days past. No tender airs played caressingly against the nether side of the palm tufts and swayed them in fan-like motion. The gri-gri stood tall and grand, full of foliage at the top. Its numberless little leaves were precisely outlined, each one, against the sky. One might almost fear that he were looking at a painting done by one of the artists of the early Hudson River school, so distinctly was the edge of each leaf and twig drawn against its background of blue.

Rotiro stood and waited. Then he knocked again. A step was heard approaching from an inner room.

"Entra!" called a voice from within, but louder than before.

Rotiro obeyed the permission. He entered the outer room to find Don Gil just issuing from the inner one—that holy of holies, where no profane foot of peon, shod or unshod, had ever penetrated. Rotiro touched his forelock by way of salutation, drew his machete from its yellow leathern belt, swung it over his shoulder, and brought it round and down with a horizontal cut, slashing fiercely into the post of the doorway. It sank deep, and he left it there, quivering.

Silencio was moistening the flap of an envelope with his lip as Rotiro entered. After a look at Rotiro, Don Gil thought it best to light a taper, take a bit of wax from the tray and seal the note. He pressed it with the intaglio of his ring. The seal bore the crest of the Silencios. When he had finished he held the note for a moment in his hand, to dry thoroughly. As he stood, he surveyed the machete of Rotiro, which still trembled in the doorpost. The post was full of such gashes, indicating it as a common receptacle for bladed weapons. It served the purpose of an umbrella-stand at the north. Don Billy Blake had said: "We don't carry umbrellas into parlours at the No'th, and I bedam if any man, black or shaded, shall bring his machett into my shanty."

Don Billy was looked upon as an arbiter of fashion. This fashion, however, antedated Don Billy's advent in the island.

Rotiro unslung his shotgun from his shoulder and stepped inside the doorway. He leaned the gun against the inner wall.

"Buen' dia', SeÑo'," he nodded.

"Set that gun outside, Rotiro."

"My e'copeta very good e'copeta, SeÑo' Don Gil. It a excellent e'copeta. It is, however, as you know, not much to be trusted; it go off sometimes with little persuasion on my part, often again without much reason."

"Following the example of your tongue. Listen! Rotiro. I wish to do the talking. Attend to what I say. Here is a note. I wish you to take it up back of Troja, to the SeÑor Escobeda."

"But, SeÑo', I thought—"

"You thought! So peons think! On this subject you have no need to think. Take this note up to Troja, and be quick about it. I want an answer within an hour. Waste no time on thoughts or words, and above all, waste no time in going or returning. See the SeÑor Escobeda. Hand him the note, see what he has to say, and bring me word as soon as possible. Notice how he looks, how he speaks, what—"

"But the SeÑo' may not—"

"Still talking? Go at once! Do you remember old Amadeo, who was struck by lightning? I always believed that it was to quiet his tongue. It certainly had that effect. But for the one servant I have had who has been struck by lightning, I have had twenty who ought to have been. There was a prince in a foreign land who was driven crazy by his servants. He said, 'Words! words! words!' I wonder very much what he would have said could he have passed a week on the plantation of Palmacristi."

As the Devil twists Scripture to suit his purpose, so Silencio was not behind him in his interpretation of Shakespeare, and Rotiro prepared for his journey, with a full determination to utter no unnecessary word during the rest of his life. In dead silence he withdrew his machete from its gash in the doorpost, tied the letter round his neck by its cord of red silk, swung his apology for a hat upon his head, and was off. Meanwhile Don Gil sat and waited.

The hour ended as all hours, good or bad, must end. Don Gil kept his eyes fixed upon the clock. Ah! it was five minutes past the hour now.

"If I find that he has delayed one minute beyond the necessary—possibly Escobeda has held him there, taken him prisoner—prisoner! In the nineteenth century! But an Escobeda is ready for anything; perhaps he has—" There was a step at the doorway.

"Entra!" shouted Don Gil, before one had the time to knock, and Rotiro entered. He had no time to say a word. He had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before Don Gil said, impatiently:

"Well! well! What is it? Will the man never speak? Did you see the SeÑor Escobeda? Open that stupid head of yours, man! Say something—"

Rotiro was breathless. He set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. At first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said:

"I saw the SeÑo' E'cobeda, Don Gil. He is a fine man, the SeÑo' E'cobeda. Oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the SeÑo'!"

"Ah!" said Don Gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?"

Rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. He was dripping with moisture. Great beads stood out upon his dark skin. He pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. This he handed to Don Gil. The paper was far from dry. Don Gil took the parcel. He broke the thread which secured it—the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day—and discovered the letter which he sought. The letter was addressed to himself.

Don Gil opened this missive with little difficulty. The sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. Don Gil read the note with a frown.

"Caramba hombre! Did you go up back of Troja for this?"

Rotiro raised his shoulders and turned his palms outward.

"As the SeÑo' see."

If Rotiro had gone "up back of Troja" for nothing, it was obviously the initial occasion in the history of the island. The natives, as well as the foreigners, seemed to go "up back of Troja" for every article that they needed. They bought their palm boards back of Troja. They bought their horses back of Troja. They bought their cattle back of Troja. Back of Troja was made the best rum that was to be had in all the island. Back of Troja, for some undiscovered reason, were found the best guns, the best pistols, the sharpest "colinos," smuggled ashore at the cave, doubtless, and taken in the night through dark florestas, impenetrable to officers of the law. Many a wife, light of skin and slim of ankle, had come from back of Troja to wed with the people nearer the sea. The region back of Troja was a veritable mine, but for once the mine had refused to yield up what the would-be prospector desired.

"He'll get no wife from back of Troja," thought Rotiro, whose own life partner, out of the bonds of wedlock, had enjoyed that distinction.

"Whom did you see back of Troja?"

"The SeÑo' E'cobeda, SeÑo'. The SeÑo' E'cobeda is a ver—"

"Yes, yes, I know! How you natives will always persist in slipping your 's,' except when it is superfluous! How did Escobeda look?"

"Much as usual, SeÑo'. He is a very fi—"

"Was he pleasant, or did he frown?"

"In truth, SeÑo' Don Gil, I cannot say for one, how he look. I saw but the back of the SeÑo' E'cobeda. He look—"

"As much of a cut-throat as ever, I suppose?"

"Si, SeÑo'. The SeÑo' was seated in his oficina. He had his back to me. I saw nothing but his ear-rings and the very fine white shirt that he wore."

"Well, well! He read the note, and—"

"He read the note, SeÑo', and—and—he read the note, and—he read the n—"

"Well, well, well!"

"And shall I tell the SeÑo' all, then?"

"Will you continue? or shall I—" Don Gil's tone was threatening.

"If the SeÑo' will. He laugh, SeÑo' Don Gil. He laugh very long and very loud, and then I hear a es-snarl. It es-sound like a dog. Once he reach toward the wall for his 'colino.' I at once put myself outside of the casa, and behind the pilotijo. When he did not advance, I put an eye to the crack, all the es-same."

"And it was then that he wrote the note?"

"Si, SeÑo'; it was then that he wrote the answer and present it to me."

"And said—?"

"He said, oh! I assure the SeÑo' it was nothing worthy to hear; the SeÑo' would not—"

"He said—?" There was a dangerous light in Don Gil's eye.

"And I must tell the SeÑo'? He said, 'Here! give this to that—that—'"

"That—?"

"'That truhan!' I pray the Don Gil forgive me; the Don Gil make me—"

Silencio's face had flushed darkly.

"Continue."

Rotiro, embarrassed beyond measure, forgot what he had learned by fair means and what by foul, and blundered on.

"He did not say whether the SeÑorit' had go to the Port of Entry; he—"

"And who told you to enquire whether the SeÑorita had gone to the Port of Entry or not?"

Rotiro perceived at once that he had made a gigantic slip. When Don Gil next spoke, Rotiro was busy watching the parjara bobo which loped along within the enclosure. The bird, stupid by name and nature alike, came so close that Rotiro could almost have touched it with his hand.

"Do you hear my question?"

Rotiro started at the tones of thunder.

"No one inform me, SeÑo'. I had heard talk of it."

"Two fools in one enclosure! The bird is as clever as you. Do not try to think, Rotiro. Have you never heard that peons should never try to think? Leave the vacuum which nature abhors in its natural state." Rotiro looked blankly at Don Gil, who often amused himself at the expense of the stupid. Just now he was angry, and ready to say something harsh which even a wiser peon than Rotiro could not understand. Rotiro's vacuum was working, however, as even vacuums will. "Decidedly, I have made a very grand mistake of some kind; but when a letter will not stick, it is so easy—the thing, however, is not to let him—"

"Rotiro!"

The peon started. Don Gil stood facing him. His eyes were blazing. Rotiro's arm twitched with the desire to reach for his machete.

"If I ever find you—" Don Gil spoke slowly and impressively, his forefinger moving up and down in time with his words—"if ever I find you opening a letter of mine, either a letter that I send or one that I receive, I will send you to Saltona, and I shall ask the alcalde to put you in the army."

Rotiro's knees developed a sudden weakness. He would much rather be led to the wall outside the town, turned with his face towards its cold grey stone, and have his back riddled with bullets. At least, so he thought at the moment.

"The SeÑo' will never find me opening a letter, either now or at any other time." (Nor will he. Does he think that I should be so stupid as to open them before his face? Or within two and a half miles of the Casa de Caoba?)

"Very well, then. Be off with you. Take your gun out of my counting-house and your colino out of my doorpost, and yourself out of my sight."

"The SeÑo' Don Gil allow that I accommodate myself with a little ching-ching?"

"Always ching-ching, Rotiro. Bieng, bieng! Tell Alfredo to give you a half-glass, not of the pink rum—that is not for such as you. You remember, perhaps, what happened the last time that I gave you a ching-ching. I should have said No."

"I assure the SeÑo' that Garcito Romando was a worthless man. O, yes, SeÑo', an utterly worthless man—an entirely useless man. He could not plant the suckers, he could not plant the cacao, he could not drive four bulls at a time; there was no place for Garcito Romando either in heaven or in hell. Marianna Romando was weary of him. Purgatory was closed to him, and the blessed island was too good for him. He stole three dollars Mex. of me once. My e'copeta did, perhaps, go off a little early, but the SeÑo' should thank me. He has on his finca one bobo the less, and the good God knows—"

Rotiro was not only fluent, he was confluent. He ran his words together in the most rapid manner.

Don Gil raised his hand as if to ward off the storm of words. "He was certainly a fool to tamper with a man whose gun shoots round the corner. Come! Be off with you! Three fingers, and no more."

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