When Jack Delmonte appeared, late in the evening, he was puzzled at the change which had come over the pretty Grand Duchess, as he had mentally nicknamed Rita. In the afternoon she had appeared, he could not imagine why, to regard him as a portion of the scum of the earth. He thought her extremely pretty, and full of charm, yet he could not help feeling provoked, in spite of his amusement, at the disdainful curl at the corners of her mouth when she addressed him. Now, he was equally at a loss to understand why or how the Grand Duchess was replaced by a gentle and tender-voiced maiden, who looked up at him from under her long curved lashes with timid and deprecatory glances. She insisted on mixing his granita herself, and brought it in the one valuable cup Marm Prudence possessed, a beautiful old bit of Lowestoft. She begged to hear from his own lips about his last raid—about all his raids. She had heard about some of them; the one where he had swum the river under fire to rescue the little lame boy; the other, when he had chased five Spaniards for half a mile, with no other weapon than a banana pointed at full cock. She even knew of some exploits that he had never heard of; and the honest captain found himself blushing under his tan, and finally changed the subject by main force. It was very pleasant, of course, to have this lovely creature hanging on his words, and supplementing them with others of her own, only too extravagantly laudatory; but a fellow must tell the truth; and—and after all, what was the meaning of it? She wouldn't look at him, three hours ago.

Had they had a gay winter in Havana? he asked. He hadn't been to a dance for forty years. Was she fond of dancing? of course she was. What a pity they couldn't—here he happened to glance at Rita's black dress, and stopped short.

"Miss Montfort, I beg your pardon! It was very stupid of me. I ran on without thinking. You are in mourning. What a brute I am!"

The tears had gathered in Rita's eyes, but now she smiled through them. "It is six months since my father died," she said. "He was the kindest of fathers, though, alas! Spanish in his sympathies."

"Your mother?" hazarded Jack, full of sympathy.

"My mother died three years ago. My stepmother—" then followed the tale of her persecution, her escape, and subsequent adventures. Captain Jack was delighted with the story.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed. "That was tremendously plucky, you know, going off in that way. That was fine! and you got to your brother all right? I wonder—is he—are you any relation of Carlos Montfort? Not his sister? You don't mean it. Why, I was at school with Carlos, the first school I ever went to. An old priest kept it, in Plaza Nero. Carlos was a good fellow, and gave me the biggest licking once—I'm very glad we met, Miss Montfort. And—I don't mean to be impertinent, I'm sure you know that; but—what are you going to do now?"

Alas! Rita did not know. "I thought I was safe here," she said. "I was to stay here with these good people till word came from my uncle in the States, or till there was a good escort that might take me to some port whence I could sail to New York. Now—I do not know; I begin to tremble, SeÑor Delmonte. To-day, while Donna Prudencia and I were in the forest, a Spanish guerrilla came here, looking for me. Don Diego Moreno was in command. He is a friend of my stepmother's. I know him, a cold, hateful man. If he had found me—" she shuddered.

"I know Diego Moreno, too," said Delmonte; and his brow darkened. "He is not fit to look at you, much less to speak to you. Never mind, Miss Montfort! don't be afraid; we'll manage somehow. If no better way turns up, I'll take you to Puerto Blanco myself. Trouble is, these fellows are rather down on me just now; but we'll manage somehow, never fear! Hark! what's that?"

He leaned forward, listening intently. A faint sound was heard, hardly more than a breathing. Some night-bird, was it? It came from the fringe of forest across the road. Again it sounded, two notes, a long and a short one, soft and plaintive. A bird, certainly, thought Rita. She started as Captain Delmonte imitated the call, repeating it twice.

"Juan," he said, briefly. "Reporting for orders. Here he comes!"

A burly figure crossed the road in three strides. Three more brought him to the verandah, where he saluted and stood at attention.

"Well, Juan, where are the rest of you?"

"In the usual place, SeÑor Captain, four miles from here," said the orderly. "I have brought Aquila; he is here in the thicket, my own horse also. Will you ride to-night?"

"To-morrow, at daybreak, Juan. I have promised SeÑora Carreno to sleep one night under her roof, and convince her that my foot is entirely well. Bring Aquila into the courtyard. All is quiet in the neighbourhood?"

"All quiet, SeÑor Captain. Good; I bring Aquila and return to the troop. You will be with us, then, before sunrise?"

"Before sunrise without fail," said Captain Jack. "Buenos noches, Juanito!"

The trooper saluted again, and slipped back across the road; next moment he reappeared leading a long, lean, brown horse, who walked as if he were treading on eggshells. They passed into the courtyard and were seen no more, Juan making his way back to the thicket by some unseen path.

"You do not stay with us through the day then, Mr. Delmonte? I am sorry!" said Rita.

"I wish I could, indeed I do; but I must get to my fellows as soon as possible. I shall come back, though, in a day or two, and put myself and my troop at your orders, Miss Montfort. How would you like to lead a troop, like Madame Hernandez?" He laughed, but Rita's eyes flashed.

"But I would die to do it!" she cried. "Ah! SeÑor Delmonte, once to fight for my country, and then to die—that is my ambition."

"And you'd do it well, I am sure!" said Delmonte, warmly; "the fighting part, I mean. But nobody would let you die, Miss Montfort, it would spoil the prospect."

He spoke lightly, for heroics embarrassed him, as they did Carlos.

Soon after, Donna Prudencia appeared, with bedroom candles, and stood looking benevolently at the two young people.

"I expect you've been having a good visit," she said. "Well, there's an end to all, and it's past ten o'clock, Miss Margaritty."

Rita rose with some reluctance; nor did Captain Delmonte seem enthusiastic on the subject of going to bed.

"Such a beautiful night!" he said. "Must you go, Miss Montfort? I mustn't keep you up, of course. Good-bye, then, for a few days! I shall be gone before daybreak. I'm very glad we have met."

They shook hands heartily. Rita somehow did not find words so readily as usual. "I too am glad," she said. "It is something—I have always wished to meet the 'Star of Horsemen!'"

"Oh, please don't!" cried Jack, in distress. "That was just a joke of those idiots of mine. Good gracious! if you go to calling names, Miss Montfort, I shall not dare to come back again. Good night!"

It was long before Rita could sleep. She lay with wide-open eyes, conjuring up one scene after another, in all of which Captain Delmonte played the hero's part, and she the heroine's. He was rescuing her single-handed from a regiment of Spaniards; they were galloping together at the head of a troop, driving the Gringos like sheep before them. Or, he was wounded on the field of battle, and she was kneeling beside him, holding water to his lips, and blessing the good Cuban surgeon who had taught her bandaging in the camp among the hills. At length, hero and heroine, Cuban and Spaniard, faded away, and she slept peacefully.

"What is it? what is the matter?" Rita sprang up in her bed and listened. The sound that had awakened her was repeated: a knock at the door; a voice, low but imperative; the voice of Jack Delmonte.

"Miss Montfort! are you awake?"

"Yes; what has happened?"

"The Gringos! Dress yourself quickly, and come out. You can dress in the dark?"

"Yes; oh, yes! I will come. Manuela! wake! wake! don't speak, but dress yourself; the Spaniards are here."

Hastily, with trembling hands, the two girls put on their clothes. No thought now of how or what; anything to cover them, and that quickly. They hurried out into the passage; Delmonte stood there, carbine in hand. He spoke almost in a whisper, yet every word fell clearly on their strained ears.

"It's not Moreno; it's Velaya's guerrilla: we must get away before they fire the house. Give me your hand, Miss Montfort; you will be quiet, I know. Your maid?"

"Manuela, you will not speak!"

"No, seÑorita!" said poor Manuela, with a stifled sob.

"My horse is ready saddled," Delmonte went on. "If I can get you away before they see us—"

"Me! but what will become of the others?" cried Rita, under her breath. "I cannot desert Manuela and Marm Prudence—Donna Prudencia."

"I am going to save you," said Jack Delmonte, quietly. "If for no other reason, I have just given my word to Donna Prudencia. The rest—I'll get back as soon as I can, that's all I can say. Follow me! hark!"

A shot rang out; another, and another. A hubbub of voices rose within and without the house; and at the same instant a bright light sprang up, and they saw each other's faces.

Delmonte ground his teeth. "Wait!" he said; and going a little way along the passage, he peered from a window. The verandah swarmed with armed men. The door was locked and barred, but they were smashing the window-shutters with the butts of their carbines. He glanced along the passage. Inside the door stood Don Annunzio, in his vast white pajamas, firing composedly through a wicket; beside him his wife, as quietly loading and handing him the weapons. Behind them huddled the few house and farm servants, negroes for the most part, but among them was one intelligent-looking young Creole. Singling him out, Delmonte led him apart, and pointed to Manuela. "Your sister!" he said. "Your life for hers."

The youth nodded, and beckoned the frightened girl to stand beside him. Rita saw no more, for Delmonte, grasping her hand firmly, led her through the winding passage and into the inner courtyard. Pausing a moment on the verandah, they looked through the archway at one side, through which streamed a red glare. The cane patch was on fire, and blazing fiercely. The flames tossed and leaped, and in front of them men were running with torches, setting fire to sheds and out-houses. Their shouts, the crackling and hissing of the flames, the shots and cries from the front of the house, turned the quiet night wild with horror. A crash behind them told that the front door had yielded.

"It's run for it, now!" said Delmonte, quietly. "Now, then, child,—quick!"

A few steps, and they were beside the brown horse, standing saddled and bridled, and already quivering and straining to be off. Delmonte lifted Rita in his arms,—no time now for courtly mounting,—then sprang to the saddle before her. He spoke to the horse, who stood trembling, but made no motion to advance.

"Aquila, softly past the gate—then for life! good boy! Miss Montfort, put your arms around me, and hold fast. Don't let go unless I drop; then try to catch the reins, and give him his head. He knows the way."

Softly, slowly, Aquila crept to the archway. He might have been shod with velvet for any sound he made. Could they get away unseen? The men with the torches were busy at their horrid work; they could not be seen yet from the front of the house. The horse crept forward, silent as a phantom. They were clear of the archway. "Now!" whispered Delmonte. "For life, Aquila!" and Aquila went, for life.