And then a mist did show itself for an instant in the poor boy's eyes.
That same evening, Garda, far at sea, sitting with her head on Lucian's shoulder under the brilliant stars, answered a question he asked. She did not answer it at first, she was too contented to talk. Then, as he asked it again, "What ever became of that mediæval young Cuban of mine?"
"Oh, Adolfo?" she said. "I sent him down to the Indian River."
"To the Indian River? What in the world did you do that for?"
"He was in Charleston, and you were coming; I didn't want him there."
"Were you afraid he would attack me?" asked Lucian, laughing.
"I was afraid he would suffer,—in fact, I knew he would; and I didn't want to see it. He can suffer because he is like me—he can love."
"Poor fellow!"
"Yes. But I never cared for him; and he wouldn't see it."
"And ''way down there in the land of the cotton,' I don't suppose he knows yet what has happened, does he?" said Lucian.