When Andres issued from the counting-house of Palmacristi he was examining critically the trigger of a gun. That fine Winchester it was which had been the wonder and delight of the natives since the SeÑor Don Juan Smit' had brought it down from the es-States. When the SeÑor Silencio had asked the SeÑor Don Juan Smit' if the gun would shoot straight, the SeÑor Don Juan Smit' had laughed softly, and had answered, "Well, I guess!" and the SeÑor Don Juan Smit' had not exaggerated.

"And El Rey?"

"El Rey will go with Andres, SeÑor," answered the thin voice.

"The muchachito will do as he chooses, SeÑor." The child was following close upon his father's steps.

"It is too far for him, Andres. Stay with me, El Rey."

The child looked wistfully up at Andres.

"Andres will carry El Rey. Perhaps we shall find Roseta at the place where Andres goes to shoot."

"I will carry him, SeÑor. His weight is nothing. Dear God! nothing!"

Andres swung the child up to his hip, where he sat astride, securely held by Andres's strong arm, and descended the veranda steps.

"Come and tell me when it is done," Silencio called after them.

"Si, SeÑor. Buen' noch', SeÑor."

"Buen' noch', SeÑor," echoed El Rey's piping voice.

"Here, Andres." From his height on the veranda floor Don Gil tossed a key to Andres. "Open the boat-house, and run the boat out upon the southern ways. The southern ways, do you hear? Those nearest the Port of Entry."

Andres looked up wonderingly.

"Ah! you are trying to think. Do not try. It is useless. Obey! that is all."

Blindly faithful, Andres, having caught the key, turned away with an "As the SeÑor says," and disappeared down the camino which led toward the ocean cliff.

When he reached the headland of Palmacristi he suddenly diverged from the cliff path and ran hurriedly down the bank. The boat-house stood upon a safe eminence in the middle of the sand spit, with ways running down to the water on either side. Andres set El Rey down in the warm sand, and unlocked the boat-house door. He then pushed the boat to the end of the ways. The tide was still falling; it was nearly low water. He laid the oars ready; then he arose and looked southward along the coast. Ah! There shone the signal upon Los Santos headland. Old Gremo was at his post, then. Andres raised his shoulders to his ears, turned the palms of his hands outward, and said:

"Thy labour is of no use to-night, Gremo." He then took El Rey up from his nest in the warm sand, swung the child again to his hip, and remounting the bank, proceeded on his way.

So soon as Andres had departed Don Gil entered the comidor, and going to the table, struck a bell hanging above it. Jorge Toleto lounged to the doorway, against the side of which he propped himself.

"Tell Piomba to go over to the bodega at once, and ask the padre to dine with me this evening. Piomba has little time. Tell him to be off at once."

Jorge Toleto shuffled away, with the remnant of what in his youth had been a respectful bow. When he was gone Don Gil crossed the living-room, passed through two long passages, and entered a door at the end of the second. Here was a sort of general storeroom. When he emerged he carried in one hand a lantern, in the other he held a flat parcel. "A new lantern will burn more brightly," he said to himself.

It was growing dusk now. Don Gil descended the veranda stair and followed in the footsteps of Andres. As he crossed the rough grass beyond the veranda, old Guillermina espied him from a further window. She was engaged in opening the SeÑor's bed for the night, searching among the snowy linen to make sure, before tucking the rose-coloured netting beneath the mattress, that no black spider had hidden itself away, to prove later an unwelcome bedfellow to her adored Don Gil. For your tarantula will ensconce itself in unexpected corners at times, and is at the best not quite a desirable sleepmate.

"And for the love of the saints, where is our Don Gil departing to at this hour of the night? The dinner nearly ready, old Otivo watching the san coch' to see that it does not burn! The table laid, everything fine enough for a meal for the holy apostles! Aie! aie! for our Don Gil is one who will have it as fine for himself as for the alcade, when—pouff! off he goes, and we breaking our hearts while we wait. Ay de mi! ay de mi!"

The SeÑor, unconscious that he had been observed, passed hurriedly along the camino, and shortly struck into the little path or sendica which Andres had traversed but a short time before. As Don Gil glanced over the cliff, he saw that the sea was still; almost calm. Even the usual ocean swell seemed but a wavelet, as it reached weakly up the beach, expending itself in a tiny whirl of pebbles and foam whose force was nil, and lapsed in a retreat more exhausted than its oncoming.

A walk of ten minutes brought Silencio to the headland which bounded his property on the south. It was growing so dark that he could hardly distinguish the staff upon which it had been Andres's custom to hang each night his lanterna de seÑales, to send forth its white beam of cheer across the sea. When, after passing the red light of Los Santos Head, the pilot steered for the open ocean, the remark to the captain was always the same stereotyped phrase:

"Ah! There is the Palmacristi lantern bidding us Godspeed."

It is a sad thing when the habit of years must be changed. When a custom, fixed as the laws of the Medes, must be broken, chaos is often the result. Thus thought Silencio, as he reached the foot of the asta. It is, however, not necessary to say that his hand was not retarded by the thought. He groped for the cords which dangled from the top, and found them. He lighted a fusee and searched for and found the red slide, which he had laid on the ground. This was all that he wanted. By feeling, almost entirely, he removed the white pane from the lantern and replaced it by the red one, which he took from its wrapping. He then lighted the lantern, passed the cords through the metal hasps, and drew the signal to the top of the staff. The cords were so arranged as to permit of no swaying of the lantern. The light was fixed, and now from the top of the staff a red beam shone southward.

When Don Gil mounted the steps of his veranda at Palmacristi a tall, thin figure arose to greet him.

"Ah, padre, I am glad that Piomba succeeded in finding you. My dinners are lonely ones."

The padre laughed in the cracked voice of an old man.

"Better is the stalled ox where love is, than a dinner of herbs and poverty therewith."

"Just enough learning to misquote," quoted Don Gil, laughing also, but in a preoccupied manner.

"Perhaps it would be better to say 'just enough appetite.' My dinners are bad enough, since Plumero left me."

"Better to have him leave you, even if under a guard of soldiers, padre, than to let him put you where you can eat no more dinners. What was that, padre? Did you hear anything?"

"Nothing, my boy, but Jorge Toleto calling us to dinner. The willing ear, you know."

Don Gil ushered the old man into the comidor. His tall figure was bent and thin. The shabby black coat, whose seams shone with a generation's wear, flapped its tails about the legs of his scant white trousers. The good priest's figure was one in which absurdity and dignity were inextricably combined. The padre showed his years. He had never quite recovered from the attack made upon him by his trusted servant Plumero, the Good—Plumero, who now languished in the cep' over at Saltona.

The savory meal was ended. The night was warm and close.

"Let us sit upon the veranda and enjoy our cigarillos, padre."

Silencio seemed unlike himself. He was nervous, ill at ease. He had no sooner seated himself than he arose and paced the long veranda, the spark of his cigarette, only, showing his whereabouts. He looked often out to sea, and often in the direction of the lanterna de seÑales, whose ray was hidden from sight by the near hill.

"Do you hear anything, padre? Anything like a cry or a—"

"No, nothing! my boy. And as I was saying, there was my poor fighting cock lying in the corner, worse maltreated than he had ever been in any garito, and when I awoke—"

"That was certainly a gun. You are not rising to leave, padre; why, your cigarillo is not even half finished. I expect you to stay the night. No, no! I will take no denial. Guillermina, prepare the western room for the Padre Martinez."

"You know my weaknesses, muchacho mio. Very well, then, I will." But Silencio was down the steps and some feet away in the darkness, straining his ear for the sound which he knew must come. He took out his watch, and by the light of the veranda lantern noted the time. "Early yet," he muttered under his breath.

"Pardon, my son, you spoke to—"

"I was but saying that the moon is very late to—hark!"

"You are restless, Gil."

"It is this muggy weather. There! you certainly heard something?"

"Nothing, Gil; nothing but the nightingale yonder."

A cuculla flew into the padre's face. He brushed it gently away. It returned to wander over the long wisps of grey hair which straggled over the collar of the hot, dignified coat. The padre took the cuculla in his fingers, and placed it gently upon the leaves of the bougainvillia vine.

"I certainly think that the sweetest songsters I ever heard are the nightingales in this enclosure."

A footstep sounded on the graveled pathway which ran close to the veranda.

"Buen' noch', SeÑor."

Silencio started nervously.

"Ah! It is you, Andres? Buenas noches." Silencio raised his hand with a warning gesture. Andres's stolid face expressed as stolid acquiescence.

"Buen' noch', SeÑor. We did not find her at the asta de lanterna, SeÑor."

"Andres, take the child home; he is weary."

The tone was curt, unlike the kindly Don Gil. It was as if he had laid his hands on Andres's shoulders and were pushing him along.

"I should like to remain here, SeÑor. Perhaps she may come to-night. Who knows? Perhaps the good God will send her. He knows that I—cannot—bear—it, I can not bear—" The child's voice broke in a sob.

Silencio's kindly nature was touched. "Take him round to Guillermina, Andres, and get dinner; both of you."

The two disappeared in the darkness.

Then Piombo brought a flaring Eastern lamp, at which Don Gil relighted his often extinguished cigarette.

"How still the night! How far a sound would carry on a night like this." The padre had but just uttered these words when a long, booming sound struck upon the listening as well as the unexpectant ear.

Silencio bounded from his chair. He caught up a cloak which was lying conveniently ready.

"A steamer ashore!" he shouted. The old padre struggled to his feet. "Do not come. Go round to the quarters. Send the men to help. It must be at the sand spit. Follow me to the headland," and he was gone in the darkness. The padre wondered somewhat at Silencio's suspecting at once the locality of the stranded steamer, if that were the cause of the gun of distress. As he wondered, it spoke again, and gathering his wits together, he hastened round to the quarters.

Silencio bounded along the camino and up the cliff pathway. His feet seemed winged. The familiar local knowledge of childhood stood him in good stead at this crucial moment. He reached the staff. It was short work to release the cord and lower the lantern, extinguish the light, replace the red slide with a white one, and hoist the darkened signal in place again. Then he turned and ran quickly down the sandy bank.

"Now the light has simply gone out," he said to himself as he ran. His boat was where Andres had left it, the rising water making it just awash. A glance seaward showed to Silencio a steamer's lights. There came to him across the water bewildered shouts, the sounds of running feet, and evidences of confusion. He pushed his boat into the water, and bent to the oars. The steamer was, at the most, not more than a quarter of a mile distant. He pulled with desperation. He heard the sound of the foam as the propeller turned over, and he feared that with every revolution the vessel would back off into deep water. When he rowed alongside he was not noticed in the dark and confusion of the moment. He held his long painter in his hand, and as he climbed up over some convenient projections of the little vessel, fastened it securely.

He drew himself up hurriedly to the taffrail, and slid down to deck, mixing with the crew. He looked about now for the bewitching cause of the disaster. Some dark forms were standing by the companion door, and going close he discovered her whom he sought. He laid his hand on her arm to draw her away. At first she started fearfully, but even in darkness love is not blind, and she hurriedly withdrew with him to the side of the vessel.

"Stand here for a moment, Raquel," he whispered. "I am afraid that I cannot get you over the side without aid."

She stood where he placed her, and he ran forward with much bustle and noise, seeking the captain, calling him by name.

"Ah! the saints preserve us! Is that you, SeÑor Silencio? Where are we, SeÑor? There is no light anywhere to be seen. Where are we, for the love of God?"

"I am afraid that you have run aground on my sand spit, SeÑor Capitan."

"On your sand spit, SeÑor! Where, then, is Los Santos Head?"

"Some miles further down the coast, SeÑor Capitan."

"Ay de mi! I knew that pilot was no good. This is the first light that we have seen, and now that has gone out. This was a red light, SeÑor."

"Red light? You are dreaming, SeÑor Capitan."

The captain took this rejoinder in its literal meaning.

"It is true that I was dreaming, SeÑor. I beg of you not to mention it at the port. I have suffered with a fearful toothache all day. The pilot said that he was competent; we have never had any trouble." Silencio cut him short.

"I am here to offer my services, SeÑor Capitan. Can I be of any use? You may have a storm from the southward. To-day has been a weather-breeder. I think you have women on board. I could take them—"

"Gracias! gracias! my kind SeÑor Silencio. That will help me above all things."

"And if the wind does not rise, SeÑor Capitan, the tide will. Keep your engines backing, and there will be no harm done. I will take whom I can, and send for the others." Which proves that love, if not blind, may, however, be untruthful upon occasion.

How Silencio got Raquel over the side he never knew. Some one aided him at the captain's order, but he realized at last the blessed fact that she was there beside him, and that they were gliding from the vessel's hull as fast as he could impel the boat.

"Some miscreant has done this," roared the captain above the noise, as he leant over the side and strained his eyes after Silencio. "I beg you, SeÑor, to look for him, and when you have caught him, hand him over to me."

"I shall remember your words, SeÑor Capitan."

"I will have him shot in the market-place of the Port of Entry, and send for all the natives to see."

"I will remember your words, SeÑor Capitan, you may be sure of that, when I catch him—" But the last words of Don Gil were lost in the renewed efforts of the engineer to back the steamer from the sand spit.

No words passed at first between Raquel and her rescuer. If love is not always blind and sometimes not truthful, he is apt to be silent. Raquel needed no explanation. As the boat glided through the darkness, Silencio dropped the oars. He took her hands in his. His lips were pressed to hers. What question should she ask? What more did she crave to know? Here were life and liberty and love, in exchange for slavery, pollution, and worse than death.

When he lifted her slight form from the boat, he did not release her at once, but held her in his arms for a moment. He could hardly believe that his daring act had met with the one result for which he had hoped.

"Your uncle, where is he?"

"Escobeda? In the cabin, ill. There is a slight swell. He is always ill. I had not noticed it, the swell, on board the steamer. But he is not my uncle, SeÑor."

"I have proof of it in his own written words, dear heart. But uncle or not, he shall never separate us now."

"When can they get the steamer off the sand spit, SeÑor? I heard you say that the water is rising."

"They will float off by twelve o'clock to-night, Sweetheart. I hope they will forget you. But whether they do or not, they shall not have you ever again, beloved. No, never again! You are mine now."

"He has none of those men with him," said Raquel. "They went back to Troja. But, SeÑor, he will come back from the capital, and then—SeÑor—then—"

"We will reckon with that question when it arises, dear one. At present, let us not think of Escobeda and his crew."

Half-way up the sandy slope they met the tall form of the padre descending. Silencio said shortly what he chose. Explanations were not in order, for, whatever had happened, and whatever might happen, this young girl could not remain unmarried in the house of her lover. "You must marry us this evening, padre; and we will go to the little church at Haldez to-morrow," said Don Gil, "if that will salve your conscience."

"My conscience needs no salving, my son. Yours rather. Perhaps, if you have anything to confess, I had better receive your confession before—"

"Ah, padre, what a tempter you are! So holy a man, too! No, let them do their worst. I have nothing to confess. I have won my stake; now let them come on." But he regarded the beautiful girl at his side with some uneasiness as he spoke.

"You must let me give you a chime of bells, Padre," said Raquel. The moon was struggling forth, and Silencio noticed her shy look as she raised her eyes to his. "That is, if—if the SeÑor will allow.

"Bribery, bribery!" said the padre in his thin old voice.

Silencio put his arm round Raquel, and they stepped to the edge of the cliff. With her head pressed close to his shoulder, together they watched the dancing lights upon the steamer, and listened to the hoarse orders and shouts which, mingled with the foaming spray under the vessel's stern, came to them across the water. They had forgotten the padre, for love adds another to her many bad qualities, that of ingratitude. The padre had just promised to perform for them the greatest service that it was his to give, and they had become oblivious of him, and of everything in the world but each other. They stood so, and watched the steamer for a little space, and then Silencio gathered the girl to his breast.

"Come home! dear Heart, come home!" he whispered, and she followed him down the path, her hand in his.

As they neared the Casa de Caoba they saw that a man was sitting upon the veranda steps. He had a child in his arms. The man was sleeping heavily, the slumber of the labouring peon. As Raquel came up the steps of her new home, the child raised his large eyes wistfully to hers.

"When El Rey saw it was a SeÑora, El Rey thought it might be Roseta. When will Roseta come, SeÑor? When? When?"

Raquel stooped and lifted the boy tenderly from Andres's nerveless arms. She asked no question. With the instinct of the motherhood lying dormant within her, she knew that here was a motherless child, and that it suffered. At that moment she loved all the world. She pressed the boy close to her heart.

"Stay with me, little one; I will be Roseta to you."

El Rey raised his eyes to the sweet, dark face above him.

"Roseta was not gran', SeÑora," he said—he scanned her face critically—"but she was more pretty than the SeÑora. The SeÑora will pardon me if I say that Roseta's gown was much more handsome than the one the SeÑora wear."

At the word "seÑora" the young girl stooped and laid her lips upon the child's head.

"It was a gown of red. It had green spots—oh, such little green spots, small, small spots. El Rey used to count them. There were some little half-spots up there on the shoulder. Roseta said it was where the sewing came. Roseta did not have shiny drops in her ears. The SeÑora's drops are like the bits of glass that Andres shot from the top of the asta to-night. He had a gun, the gun of the SeÑor."

Raquel looked inquiringly at Silencio.

"It is true," he admitted.

"At Los Santos?"

"At Los Santos."

"They came down in showers, SeÑor, like little red stars."

"You are a poet, El Rey."

"Rather," said Silencio, smiling down at the child, where he stood leaning against Raquel, "El Rey is a little story-teller. He promised not to say a word—"

"It is a SeÑora who may know everything, all things. She has the good eyes."

"You are right, El Rey."

"The rings in Roseta's ears were round. They were big and round. She used to shake them when we went to the circus, so!" The tired head shook slowly. Andres stirred uneasily. He opened his dull, sad eyes and looked at El Rey. He had felt the touch on the wound even in his sleep.

"I often put my finger round them, so! Often and often I did."

Raquel took the little fingers between her own. She put them between her lips and bit them playfully. Her white teeth made tiny indentations in the tender skin. El Rey smiled faintly, a promise, Raquel hoped, of a brighter day of forgetfulness to come.

Silencio stood looking on. He loved to see her so, the child leaning against her knee. Across the water came the sounds of shouts and hurried orders which disturbed no one. Raquel stroked the thin, straight hair over and over. She ran her soft fingers down the angular little face and neck. Tiny tremors of affection ran gently through the child's veins. El Rey laid his head upon the knee to which she drew him. His wasted hand shook as he laid it upon hers.

"You are good," said the child. "You are beautiful, you are kind, kind to El Rey." His tone was patient and old and full of monotony. "But oh! the SeÑora will pardon me? You are not Roseta."

There was one other person at the wedding of Don Gil and Raquel, besides the padre, who united them, and old Guillermina and Andres.

"Who will give you away?" asked Silencio.

"I myself," said she. Silencio laughed. "That cannot be," he said. As he spoke there was a humble knocking at the door of the salon. Raquel looked up and bounded from her seat.

"Oh, you dear old thing!" she said. She was fondling and kissing the bony creature, who stood aghast before her, who in turn was crying and begging the saints to have mercy upon her.

"And for the good God's sake, tell me how you got here, SeÑorita, and will the SeÑor allow me to sit down? My Sunday shoes have killed me, nearly. Is there anything that I could wear instead—" Ana stopped abashed at the sight of so fine a man as Silencio.

"How did the SeÑor rescue you, my Sweet? Is the SeÑor Escobeda dead, then?" Ana looked about her as if she expected to see the bodies of Escobeda and his followers over there on the edge of the trocha.

"I have been shipwrecked, Ana," said Raquel, smiling down upon the old woman.

"Ship—the holy saints pres—and you are not even wet—and where, then, is the SeÑor Escobe—"

"You seem very much worried about the SeÑor Escobeda, Ana," said Don Gil, who at once made Raquel's friend his own. "Do you not hear him off there now, cursing as usual?"

Ana listened. She heard distant cries, and the sound of the water as it churned underneath the propeller blades.

Ana shrank to the size of an ant as she answered, her face blanching: "Indeed! yes, I do hear the SeÑor, SeÑor. I have heard the SeÑor like that, SeÑor, many a time. And does the SeÑor think that the SeÑor can come here to the casa of Palmacristi?"

"Not for some time, I think, Ana," said Don Gil, smiling, though a faint wrinkle was discernible on his brow.

"It always seems to me as if the SeÑor Escobeda could get anywhere, SeÑor," said Ana, simply. "He has only to wish, the SeÑor, and the thing is done."

"That would be bad for us," said Silencio. "Ana, will you give this lady to me?"

"I? And what does the SeÑor think that I have to do with it?"

"Is the SeÑor Escobeda a nearer relative than you are, Ana?"

"Indeed, no! SeÑor," said Ana. "I was her mother's own cousin once removed, while the SeÑor Es—"

"Very well!" said Silencio, "that is all that I want. Come! padre, let us prepare for the wedding."

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