After a few moments' thought he took out his knife and cut a piece about a foot long from the larger end of the crooked cane, intending, at any rate, to eat it, or to solve the mystery if there was a mystery.
At almost the first bite the cane cracked like a hollow reed, showing that the interior had been cut out—for sugar-cane in its natural state is very hard and solid.
Watching his chance when no one was observing him, he split the hollowed cane open with his hands, and saw in the cavity a small packet wrapped in paper. Quick as a flash he slipped the bit of cane into his pocket, and worked with his fingers to release the packet. It was heavy when he got it loose, and was evidently a roll of coins—gold coins, the weight told him. He was afraid to take them out to look, but he hurriedly removed the wrapping, sure of finding a message upon it. And he was not disappointed, for upon the inner side of the little paper he found this note:
"Dear Kit,—Here are five American gold eagles to help you out of prison.
"I am with kind friends—Americanos—on the Buena Vista plantation, near La Flora, district de Cienfuegos. They have furnished the money. Our uncle has been shot.
"When you get out go to Numero 19, Calle O'Reilly, Havana, and ask for Pedro. He will help get you here.
"Your loving Sister."
Cristobal could hardly help shouting when he finished reading the note; his sister safe, money to help him, and a friend in Havana to help him through the lines! For many days after the arrival of the sugar-cane it was a mystery to Cristobal how his sister had found friends so quickly in a strange country; but now it is a mystery no longer.
When her brother was dragged away and she was left alone in the cane-field, little Maria Nunez first shed tears, and then stamped her feet with rage. Then she took counsel with herself. She could not stay there alone in the cane-field; she could not travel alone in roads filled with soldiers and lawless men. Surely there must be some good Christian on that island who would give her shelter; and she dropped down upon her knees in the muddy field and fingered the cheap beads that hung about her neck, and made many signs of the cross upon her little chest and forehead.
Far away across the blackened fields she saw a roof of red tiles. There must be a house, she knew, under the roof, and she started in that direction.
On the broad front gallery of the house sat Señor Walter Pickard, of Ohio, the owner of the seven thousand acres of land comprising the Buena Vista plantation, which, in times of peace, produces its fifteen thousand hogsheads of sugar every year. There is one larger sugar plantation in the world, and only one. On one side of him sat the Señora Pickard, also of Ohio, and on the other was the young Señor Pickard, aged seventeen. The three were looking across the lane at the great "works" that should have been alive with men and the hum of machinery, but which stood deserted and silent, its walls riddled with bullets; looking over the seven thousand acres of land that should have been rich with cane, but which lay charred with fire and trampled by troops, ruined for many years to come.
"Who is that pretty little girl I saw you taking out toward the quarters a few minutes ago?" the Señora Pickard asked of the butler through the open window.