They made but a brief halt at the ruined farm. The house was completely gutted; the widow of Don Annunzio had the clothes she stood in, and nothing beside. She stood quietly by while her husband's body was laid in the grave beside that of young Cerito; a shallow grave, hastily dug in what had lately been the garden. She listened with the same quiet face while good old Don Miguel, with faltering voice, recited a Latin prayer. She was a Methodist, he a fervent Catholic; but it mattered little at that moment.

By this time it was daylight. A small patch of bananas was found, that had escaped the destroying torch, and on these the party made a hasty meal; then they rode away, all save the negroes, who preferred to stay in the neighbourhood where their lives had been spent.

They rode slowly, in deference to Don Miguel's age and that of his pony. Rita, riding beside the good old man, listened to the recital of his terrors and anxieties from the time her flight was discovered to the present moment. These caused her real grief, and she begged again and again for the forgiveness which he assured her was wholly unnecessary. But when he described the hysterical rage of her stepmother, her eyes brightened, and the colour came back to her pale cheek. She had no doubt that Concepcion Montfort was sorry to lose her; the larger part of her father's fortune had been settled upon her, Rita, before his second marriage.

"The seÑora also has made diligent search for you, my child!" said Don Miguel. "She has offered ample rewards—"

"I know it!" said Rita. "Only yesterday—can it be that it was only yesterday?—Don Diego Moreno was here—there, I should say, at that peaceful home that is now a heap of ashes. These Spaniards!"

Had she seen Don Diego? the old man asked; and he seemed relieved when she answered in the negative.

"It is well; it is well!" he said. "He is a relative of the seÑora's, I am aware; but it would have been unsuitable, most unsuitable."

"What would have been unsuitable, Donito Miguelito?"

Don Miguel looked confused. "A—nothing, my child. The SeÑora Montfort had an idea—Don Diego made certain advances—in short, he would have asked for your hand, my seÑorita—well, my Margarita, if you will have it so. But I took it upon myself to refuse these overtures without consulting you."

Rita heard a low exclamation, and turning, saw Delmonte's face like dark fire beside her.

"I beg your pardon!" he said. "I could not help hearing. Don Miguel, if Diego Moreno makes any more such proposals, kindly let me know, and I'll shoot him at sight."

"I—thank you! thank you, my son!" said Don Miguel, somewhat fluttered. "I hope no violence will be necessary. I used strong language, very strong language, to Don Diego Moreno. I—I told him that I considered him a person entirely objectionable, unfit to sweep the road before the SeÑorita Montfort's feet. He went away very angry. I thought we should hear no more of him; but it seems that he still retains his presumptuous idea. Without doubt, it will be best, my dear child, for you to seek the northern home of your family without delay."

Why, at this obviously sensible remark, should Rita feel a sinking at the heart, and a sudden anger against her dear old friend? And again, why, on stealing a glance at Delmonte, and seeing the trouble reflected in his face, should her heart as suddenly spring up again, and dance within her? What had happened?

They had ridden some miles, when Jim Montfort, on his big gray horse, ranged alongside of Delmonte.

"It appears to me," he said, "that something is going on in these woods here. I've seen two or three bits of brown that weren't bark, and if I didn't catch the shine of a gun-barrel just now, you may call me a Dutchman. I think I'll fire, and see what happens."

"No, don't do that!" said Delmonte, quietly. "It's only my fellows. They've been keeping alongside for the last half-mile, waiting for a signal. They might as well come out now."

He gave a low call in two notes; the call Rita had heard—was it only the night before? it seemed as if a week had passed since then.

The call was answered from the wood; and as if by magic, from every tree, from every clump of bushes, came stealing lean brown figures, leading equally lean horses, all armed and on the alert. They saluted, and, at a word from the burly Juan, fell into order with the precision of a troop on drill.

"What's all this, Juan?" asked Delmonte. "No order was given."

Juan replied with submission that a negro boy had brought news an hour ago that Don Annunzio's house had been burned, he and his whole household murdered, and their captain taken prisoner; and that the latter was being brought in irons along the road to Santiago. They, Juan and the rest, had planned a rescue, and disposed themselves to that end in the most advantageous manner. That they were about to fire, when they recognised their captain's escort as Americans; and that they then resolved to accompany the party as quietly as might be till they came near the camp, and then make their presence known to all, as they had at once made it known to Delmonte himself by a low call which only he had noticed.

"Not wishing to intrude," Juan concluded, with a superb salute.

Delmonte turned to his companions. "Miss Montfort," he said, "Captain Montfort—you'll all come up to my place, of course, and rest, for to-day, at least. It isn't much of a place to ask you to, but—it's quiet, at least, and—you can rest; and you must be half-starved. I know I am."

His face was eager as a boy's. Rita's was not less so, as she gazed at the big cousin, who stroked his beard as usual, and reflected.

"I did mean to push straight on to Santiago," he said, "but—it's a good bit of a way, to be sure; what do you say, little cousin? tired? hey?"

Rita blushed. "A—a little tired, Cousin Jim; and very hungry!"

This settled it. Captain Montfort bid Delmonte "fire away." The latter said a few rapid words to Juan, and the scout shot off like an arrow across the fields, riding as if for his life.

An hour later, the whole party was seated around a fire, in as comfortable a nook of the hills as guerilla leader could desire, sipping coffee, and eating broiled chicken and fried bananas, fresh from the parilla. The fire was built against a great rock that rose abruptly from the dell, forming one side of it, and towering so high that the smoke disappeared before it reached the top. Thick woods framed the other sides of the natural fastness, and here the Cuban riders could lie hidden for days and weeks, unsuspected, unseen, save by the wandering birds that now and then circled above their heads. No tents or huts here; the horses were tethered to trees; the commander's hammock was swung in a shady thicket near the great rock; as for his men, a ragged blanket and the "soft side of a stone" were all they asked.

Rita had dressed Captain Delmonte's wound, and bandaged the arm in approved style, Cousin Jim looking on with grunts of approval. He and Delmonte himself both assured her that, if they were handling it, they should simply squirt carbolic acid into it, and tie it up with anything that came handy; but Rita shook her head gravely, and three of her delicate handkerchiefs, brought from the long-suffering bag which Manuela had somehow managed to save from the ruins, torn into strips, made a very sufficient bandage. The wound was, in truth, slight. Delmonte looked almost as if he wished it more severe, for the whole matter of bathing and dressing could not be stretched beyond ten minutes; but Rita's pride in her neat bandage was pretty to see, and he watched her with delighted eyes through every stage.

"Snug quarters!" said Jim Montfort, approvingly, as, the breakfast over, he stretched his huge length along the grass and looked about him; and all the party echoed his opinion. The two captains fell into talk of the war and its ways, while the women, wearied out, rested after their long night of distress and fatigue. Marm Prudence chose the dry grass, with a cloak for a pillow, but Rita curled herself thankfully in Captain Jack's hammock, after trying in vain to persuade him that he was an invalid, and ought to take it himself. After some rummaging in a hole in the rock which served him for cupboard and wardrobe, Delmonte brought her a small pillow in a somewhat weather-beaten cover. "I wish I had a better one," he said. "This has been out in the rain a good deal, and I'm afraid it smells of smoke, but it's a great pillow for sleeping on."

"Oh, thank you!" said Rita. "It is very comfortable indeed. How good you are to me, Captain Delmonte. And whatever you may say, it is a great shame for me to take your own hammock. If there were only another—"

"Oh, please don't!" said Jack. "It's really—you must not talk so, Miss Montfort. As if there was anything I wouldn't do—why, this hammock will never be the same again. I—I mean—oh, you know what I mean, and I never could make pretty speeches. But—it is a pleasure, and—an honour, to have you here; and you can't think how much it means to me. Good night! I mean—sleep well."

He added a few words of a German song relative to the desirability of a certain lovely angel's slumbering sweetly. Rita did not understand German, but the tone of Delmonte's voice was in no particular language, and, tired as she was, it was some time before she went to sleep.

It was late afternoon when they took the road again. Before starting they held a council, seated together beneath the great tree, under whose shade Rita had slept peacefully for several hours. Jim Montfort was the first speaker.

"I take it," he said, "we'd better, each one of us, say what we mean to do. Then the sky will be clear, and we can fit in or shake apart, as seems best in each case. We all ride together to Pine del Rio, as Captain Delmonte is so friendly as to ride with us. After that—I'll begin with you, ma'am." He addressed, the widow respectfully. "How can I best serve you? I am going to see my cousin safe off, and you must call upon me for any service I can possibly render you."

"She will stay with me!" cried Rita. "Dear Marm Prudence, you will stay with me, will you not?"

Marm Prudence shook her head, though with a look of infinite kindliness. "Thank you, dear," she said; "it's like you to say it, but I'm going home to Greenvale, Vermont. I've a sister living there yet. I'll go back to my own folks at last, and lay my bones alongside o' mother's. I'll never forgit you, though, Miss Margaritty," she added, "nor you, Cap'n Jack. There! I can't say much yet."

She turned away, and all were silent for a moment, as she wiped the tears from her rugged face.

"You go straight home, I suppose, sir?" said Jim, addressing Don Miguel.

"Yes, yes!" cried the little gentleman. "I go to Pine del Rio with my dear ward here. To see her safe on board a good vessel, bound for the North; to say farewell to the joy of my old days, and put out the light of my eyes—that is my one sad desire, SeÑor Montfort. After that—I am old, I have but a short time left, and my prayers will require that."

"Well, then, it seems as if the first thing on all hands was to find a steamer sailing for home," said Jim. "If Mrs. Annunzio will take charge of you, Cousin Rita, I think that will be the best thing. Uncle John will send some one to meet you in New York and take you to Fernley. How does that suit you?"

Rita was silent. She had grown very pale. Delmonte looked at her eagerly, but did not speak.

"What do you say, little cousin?" repeated Montfort. "You have a mind of your own, and a pretty decided one, if I'm not mistaken. Let's hear it!"

Rita spoke slowly and with difficulty, her ready flow of speech lacking for once.

"Cousin Jim—dear Don Miguel—you are both so kind, so good. You too, Marm Prudence. I love the North. I love my dear uncle and cousin—ah, how dearly!—but—I do not want to go to Fernley."

"Not want to go!" repeated the others.

"No! indeed, indeed, I cannot go. I have been thinking, Cousin Jim, a great deal, while all these things have been happening; these wonderful, terrible things. I—I ought to have learned a great deal; I hope I have learned a little. I have talked enough about helping my country; too much I have talked; now I want to do something. I am going to work in one of the hospitals. Nurses are needed, I know, every day more of them. I do not know enough—yet—to be a nurse, but I can be a helper. I am very humble; I will do the meanest work, but—but that is what I mean to do."

She ceased, and all the others, looking in her face, saw it bright and lovely with earnest resolve. But Don Miguel cried out in expostulation. It was impossible, he said. It could not be. She was too young, too delicate, too—the proposition was monstrous. He appealed to Captain Montfort to support him, to exercise his authority, to persuade this dear child that the noble idea which filled her young and ardent heart was wholly impracticable.

Jim Montfort was silent for a time, looking at Rita from under his heavy eyebrows. Presently—"You mean it?" he said.

"I mean it with all my heart!" said Rita.

"Well," said Jim, "my opinion is—considering my sister Peggy and her views, to say nothing of Jean and Flora—my opinion is, Rita—hurrah for you!"

A month ago, Rita would have gone into violent heroics at such a moment as this. As it was, she smiled, though her eyes filled with tears, and said, quietly, "Thank you, cousin! It is what I expected from Peggy's brother."

"May I speak?" said another voice. They turned, and saw Jack Delmonte, his blue eyes alight with eager gladness.

"If—if Miss Montfort has this noble desire to help in the good cause," he said, "it is easy for her to do it. My mother has turned her residencia, just outside the city, into a hospital. I am going there to-day. She needs more help, I know. You—you would like my mother, Miss Montfort; everybody likes my mother. She would do all she could to make it easy for you, and she would be so glad—oh, I can't tell you how glad she would be. And I think you are quite certain to like her."

"Ah!" said Rita. "Have I not heard of the Saint of Las Rosas? There is no need to tell me how good and how noble the SeÑora Delmonte is. But—but will she like me, Captain—Captain Jack?"

"Will she?" said Jack. "Will the sun shine?"