Then the man from over the sea mechanically drew out his cigar case, selected a weed, struck a match on the stone coping of the bridge, and began to puff away as though he might in this manner free his brain of the mental cobwebs that seemed to clog his clear reasoning.
At the same time he started in the direction of Trinity College, swinging a stout cane, and musing upon the singular events that had on this night opened a new chapter in his experience.
And somehow it seemed to the adventurous Owen that they bore a definite connection with his past—again he heard that voice sounding as with the music of sweet birds—its dim echo, so familiar and yet eluding his grasp like a fluttering will-o'-the-wisp, how exasperating it was. Where had he met this seeming nun in the sable robe, and who was she?
Then suddenly he saw a great light—the confused memories drifted into one clear vision. Again he stood on the brilliantly lighted Grand Plaza of the Porto Rican capital with surging crowds of officers and civilians around him, while a really excellent military band played the beautiful, voluptuous airs of sunny Spain—again he heard a voice, sweet as that of a lark, floating upon the night air from an open window, and singing a serenade—Roderic was carried back two years in his life to scenes that had been marked by stormy passion, and the realization gave him a tremendous shock.
He had reached the vicinity of Trinity's bold Campanile when this bolt went home, and the effect was so great as to actually bring him to a full stop, with held breath.
"By Jove! to think I never suspected the amazing truth when talking with her. Now I know it, I can swear to it—the same voice, which I have never heard equaled. And she has done this thing for me, Roderic Owen, whom possibly she has reason to hate. Heavens! there is some fatality back of it all, and we are but puppets on life's great stage, playing our little parts automatically. God alone sees the end. Yes, that was Georgia de Brabant, the charming maid of San Juan, over whom half the Spanish officers raved, about whom more than a few duels were fought, and with whose fate my own life thread became entangled in a way that has forever prevented my loving cousin Cleo or any other woman. The past then is not dead—again she enters my life—she comes like an angel of light to save me from being made the victim of a foul plot. That would indicate anything but hate. What lies before me mortal cannot guess, but my duty is clear, and come weal come woe, I am bound to serve my country first, last and always, no matter what the sacrifice. And ye gods, I kissed the hand whereon perhaps dazzled his rings."
CHAPTER II.
ALAS! FOR THE GAME THAT FAILED TO WORK.
Evidently Roderic Owen was disturbed by this meeting more than he would have cared to confess. When ghosts that are supposed to have been laid for all time come back to haunt us, memory plays havoc with the strongest resolutions. Owen lived again in the past—his ears seemed to drink in the music and merriment of the gay Spanish-American capital—he saw once more a face that had been enshrined in his heart as queen of the realm, and somehow the memory was not so unpleasant. Instead of groaning over the disasters of the past he found himself unconsciously building new chateaux d'Espagne. Hope ever abides in the human breast—though daily overthrown it rises again and again, Phœnix like from the ashes, and builds anew.