[XXXII — APPLEBY LEAVES SANTA MARTA]
THE sun was low, and the town lay in grateful shadow when Appleby walked slowly down the calle that leads out of Santa Marta. He was dressed plainly in white duck, and no longer carried a rifle, while he scarcely seemed to hear the observations of Harper, who walked at his side. His brown face was a trifle grave, and Maccario, who went with them, smiled dryly when he noticed that once or twice he sighed.
Stone pavements and white walls were hot still, but the dazzling glare had faded, and the street was thronged with citizens enjoying the faint coolness of the evening. Here and there one of them greeted the little group with signs of respect, but Appleby scarcely noticed them. Looking straight before him he saw the shattered lattices, and the scars and stains of smoke on the white walls which marked the scene of the last grim struggle with Morales. Morales lay at rest in the little campo santo, and in a few more minutes Appleby would in all probability have turned his back forever on Santa Marta. It was with confused feelings, through which there ran a keen regret, he remembered what had befallen him there.
Then, as they approached the strip of uneven pavement hastily flung down on the spot where the Sin Verguenza had only a few days ago swept over the barricade, he stopped a moment as brown-faced men with rifles, regardless of discipline—which was, however, seldom much in evidence among the Sin Verguenza—thronged about him. Amidst cries and gesticulations they thumped his shoulders and wrung his hands, while once more Appleby wondered whether he had decided wisely as he recognized the sincerity of the good will in their dark eyes. He had fought with them, faced imminent peril, borne with anxiety and short-comings, and feasted riotously, in their company, and now he found it harder to part from them than it would have been from more estimable men.
Maccario, it seemed, understood what he was thinking, for his face was sympathetic as he glanced at his companion.
“One would fancy that they were sorry to let you go,” he said. “It is a good life, a man’s life, the one you are leaving. Will you find better comrades in your smoky cities?”
Appleby smiled a trifle wistfully, and did not answer for a moment. The vivid, untrammelled life appealed to him, and for a time he had found delight in it, but he was wise, and knew that once peace was established there would be no room in Cuba for the Sin Verguenza. They must once more become toilers, or descend to intrigue and conspiracy, and he knew the Castilian jealousy of the alien, and that past services are lightly remembered in the day of prosperity. He and his comrades had borne the stress and the strain, and it seemed wiser to leave them now before the distrust and dissension came.
“None better to face peril or adversity with, but a change is coming, and one cannot always wear the bandolier,” he said. “If I go now they will only think well of me.”
A little gleam of comprehension came into Maccario’s dark eyes. “Still,” he said slowly, “the Sin Verguenza will be remembered, and you with them.”
Then a man leading two mules on which their baggage was strapped came up, and Maccario held out his hand.