The consul is at the city. Where, quien sabe? Probably at his office in the city.
“We can do nothing except await his return or the arrival of Mr. Van Zandt,” Louise says, as they step into the hall.
At the right of the entrance is the library. On the desk is pen and paper, and here Cyrus Felton seats himself and writes, while Louise stands in the doorway and watches him with troubled eyes.
Suddenly she hears the sound of footsteps hurrying up the walk. The door is thrown open, and Van Zandt, breathing hard from the exertion of his run, stands before her.
“Thank God, you are safe!” he cries, fervently.
“What danger threatens?” asks Louise, laying one hand upon Van Zandt’s arm.
For answer he leads the way out upon the veranda. “Look!” he says; and Miss Hathaway beholds the Semiramis, resting quietly upon the still bosom of the bay.
“We must reach that yacht, or I fear we may not leave Cuba alive!” he tells her.
Louise gazes at him in questioning dismay.
“Ah, there comes the enemy,” says Van Zandt, pointing up the beach toward the city. A small troop of horsemen is approaching at a lively canter.