Miss Fairfax of Virginia

A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND ADVENTURE UNDER THE PALMETTOS

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

AUTHOR OF

"Doctor Jack," "A Fair Revolutionist," "A Sailor's Sweetheart," "A Chase for a Bride," etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Copyright. 1899,
By Street & Smith.

Table of Contents

Miss Fairfax of Virginia

CHAPTER I.
PERHAPS LOVERS ONCE, STRANGERS NOW.

The genial summer sun had long since dropped behind the Irish hills, and the glowing lights of old Dublin were set like rare jewels upon the dark bosom of mother earth when Roderic Owen, with a fragrant cigar between his teeth, walked to and fro under the shadow of Nelson's column in historic Sackville street, now better known among loyal citizens under the name of O'Connell.

Owen only arrived from Liverpool on the Holyhead steamer that very day and had passed some hours upon various tramcars, surveying those portions of the famous city they traversed.

It may have given him a thrill of satisfaction to realize that he once more stood on his native heath, which land the exile had not seen since, a child of tender years, he left it in company with his heart broken parents; but two decades in the atmosphere of free America had made a full-fledged Yankee out of him, and his heart was wholly pledged to the interests of America.

Business had more to do with his flying visit across the Irish sea than a desire to look upon the scenes of childhood—these tender recollections might be all very good in their way, but when his country was at war with one of the old world powers, young Owen's heart and soul were wrapped up in the interests he represented, and the state mission that had taken him over the Atlantic.

The public will never learn more than a small portion of the unwritten history of the Hispano-American war, since these memoirs are snugly reposing in the archives at Washington, where they will rest until dusty with age.

Secret agents were employed in many European capitals in the endeavor to discover the true sentiments of the powers most interested, so that in case unhappy Spain seemed in a way to secure an ally, prompt measures might be taken to head off the threatened blow by a sudden coup d'etat, in which our good friend Great Britain stood ready to do her part.

Roderic Owen, being peculiarly gifted by nature with rare abilities in the line of diplomacy, had been remarkably useful in Berlin, Paris and Vienna, and was now suddenly transferred to another famous capital because it appeared as though Dublin might be the theatre of a little gathering where matters of intense moment were to be discussed.

It was evident from his manner that he had made the Nelson column a rendezvous. His eyes followed each tramcar that passed, and never a jaunting-car jogged by that he did not survey with growing interest. A hot blooded Spanish lover awaiting the coming of the black-eyed senorita with whom he had made a tryst could hardly have appeared more anxious.

He had just tossed away the remnant of his weed and was feeling for his cigar case to draw out another when the expected happened.

"At last!" he muttered, with a sigh of relief.

Still he made no abrupt forward movement—caution had been one of the fruits of long diplomatic service. "Everything comes to him who waits—and works," is the leading maxim of their craft.

A woman dismounted from a Rathmines car that had just arrived at the terminus of its journey. She was garbed in the sombre black habiliments of a religious recluse belonging to one of the many orders in Dublin. These nuns, serving often in the capacity of Sisters of Charity, come and go with the utmost freedom, respected by the humble classes to whom they are often angelic messengers in times of distress or sickness.

Just as he expected the sombre robed passenger came slowly toward him as though endeavoring to make sure of his identity ere accosting him.

Owen could feel a pair of eager eyes fastened upon his face, for there is such a sensation, and it surprised him to experience it.

Then came a low voice breathing his name, and somehow it had never before sounded just the same to him, nor had he known there was music in its bare utterance.

"I have waited about half an hour for you," remarked the American, complacently.

"Ah! senor, I am sorry. It was not my fault I assure you," she exclaimed, eagerly.

"I am certain of that, lady. Besides, I have no right to complain when one whom I do not even know goes to this great trouble in order to do me a service."

She moved uneasily at his words, and as if fearful lest his ardent gaze might penetrate beneath the veil she wore, one little white hand crept out from the folds of her sable robe to rearrange the crepe.

Owen smiled, for this act of caution had revealed much to him—upon those plump fingers shone rings set with flashing gems, such as no member of a holy order would dare wear.

Thus, without asking a question, he knew his vis-à-vis to be in disguise.

More than this, the unconscious desire to make sure that her face was concealed gave him the impression that they must have met before. As yet her voice had only sounded in low, whispered cadence, but it was rich and musical, and somehow seemed to arouse dim, uncertain memories which in good time after much groping, he would doubtless be able to place.

She looked around with some concern, for the locality being central was never quiet, upon which he said:

"Let us walk toward O'Connell bridge, and you can explain more fully the meaning of your note, as you promised. I assure you the interest taken in my welfare is appreciated, and if I can return the favor you have only to speak."

"You mistake, senor—I do not seek a reward. Chancing to know that you were the object of a base plot, I thought it only my duty to warn you."

"Because your vows constrained you?"

She appeared somewhat annoyed.

"Because heaven inspires every honest heart to desire the confusion of evil schemes."

"Pardon—I was foolish for an instant to believe my personality could have anything to do with it. Undoubtedly your love of fair play must have impelled you to do the same for any poor devil."

"Senor, you have no right to question my motives."

"I am a brute—you are an angel come to my assistance. Let us then proceed to business. From whence does this threatening danger come—in which quarter am I to guard against secret foes?"

"You do not seem to be alarmed?"

"Does that surprise you, lady? Surely then you are not well acquainted with Anglo-Saxon blood. We who sup with danger, learn to despise it. I say this deliberately and without boasting."

"Ah! yes, I had forgotten your mission abroad. Your government would never have sent any but a brave cavalier to take such desperate chances. Hola! it is a pleasure to meet a man who does not shrink from a hazard."

"Pardon the curiosity—but are you not Spanish?" he asked, steadily—it was of considerable importance that he should know this fact, for the most able diplomat may well look to his laurels when pitted against a female Richelieu.

She answered frankly, almost eagerly.

"My people are of Spanish blood, but I have only once seen Spain. I am hija de Puerto Rico."

How proudly she declared it.

"A daughter of Porto Rico—I am pleased to know it, for that lovely island will soon rest beneath the starry banner. A grand future awaits her under the new dispensation. I have been in San Juan myself, and shall never cease to remember that quaint city."

Perhaps the evening breeze brought with it a breath of chilly fog from off old Dublin bay—at any rate the wearer of the sombre nun's garb shivered a little and seemed to shrink back from the American.

"Now," continued Owen, cheerily, as though his quick eye had not noted with considerable surprise this peculiar action on her part, "we have reached the bridge. Tell me whence comes this danger?"

"There is one whom you have believed a friend, Senor Owen. Trust him not, for he has sworn to work your downfall."

"Which is very interesting, to say the least. Am I to be arrested as a Fenian suspect, come over the big pond to duplicate the Burke and Cavendish tragedy of Phœnix park? Or is this sly schemer a Spanish sympathizer in the pay of Sagasta?"

"You have said it, senor—the last is the truth. But there is more—another reason why he hates you."

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind mentioning it?"

"His name first—it is Jerome Wellington."

Owen seemed startled.

"Confusion—I never suspected that he was in Sagasta's pay. Luckily I have made it a rule to be as close mouthed as an oyster with regard to all state secrets. So friend Jerome has a private grudge against me. When have I trod upon his toes? Kindly enlighten me, good angel?"

"It is on her account—the dashing Senorita Cleo," came the muffled answer, and again Owen knew the eyes back of the veil were fastened intently upon him as though to read his secret.

Thereupon he pursed up his mustached lip and emitted a low, incredulous whistle.

"Cleo Fairfax, my independent cousin, the daughter of ten millions, what has she to do with the case? Is Jerome jealous—does he seek her hand—well, let him sail in and win. I shall not stand in the way, for it has never occurred to me to fall in love with my cousin."

"Ah! senor, that is very well, but this man who is as handsome as an Adonis hates you because he knows the American senorita loves you."

"What! Cleo loves me—incredible—impossible."

"More, she adores you."

"Senorita, you surely jest or dream."

"I speak what I know, and the fact is patent to everyone that you have but to declare a word to bring this lovely girl and her millions to your arms."

"God forbid that I should ever speak that word, unless I truly loved her as a man should the girl he means to make his wife. It is, I say again, impossible that such a thing can be."

"Few things are impossible, senor."

"But—there are impediments in the way."

"Perhaps none that might not be swept aside."

"Above all, I do not love her—it is ridiculous, and never entered into my mind. And so Jerome has conjured up a delightful hatred for me because, by Jove, he chooses to imagine—you see I lay especial emphasis on that word, for I can't believe it possible—that this favored daughter of fortune gives me more than cousinly regard. Well, if it pleases Jerome to indulge in such capers, I'm not the one to cry quits. My duty as well as my privilege is to meet him half way. I imagine you may be in a position to tell me how he means to strike. It is awful kind of you to take such trouble."

The thought had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she might have come from Cleo, and he winced at the verbatim report of his declaration she must necessarily take back; but it was the truth, and Roderic Owen had always made a point to stick to his guns in action.

She was growing uneasy, as though fearful lest he might allow his curiosity respecting her identity get the better of his gentlemanly instincts. So when she spoke again it was hurriedly, her manner betraying a desire to end the interview.

"I have gone so far that it only remains for me to tell you the nature of the plot whereby this jealous fortune seeker hopes not only to ruin you in the eyes of the Senorita Cleo, but before your government as well.

"You are staying at the Shelbourne hotel. Your room overlooks the cascade in St. Stevens green. You have arranged to meet one at the park gate at twelve to-night, expecting to receive information respecting the clique of Spanish sympathizers at present sojourning in Dublin as a city least suspected of harboring America's foes. They have come here in the hope of arousing the slumbering Fenian spirit should Great Britain join the states against France or Germany.

"Your expected informant is in their pay—he intends to suddenly pounce upon you and, aided by allies in hiding carry you off. It will be made to appear that you have abandoned your patriotic mission, and fled with a well known adventuress to the gaming tables of Monte Carlo."

"The duse! This is a nice kettle of fish. And only for you I might have fallen a victim of the plot. But forewarned is forearmed. Some one shall take my place, since it would be a pity they should have their labor for nothing. It shall be diamond cut diamond from this hour. And now, believe me, I am duly sensible of the great service you had done me, lady. God knows it would give me pleasure to reciprocate should the occasion ever arise."

"I believe it—I know it, Senor Owen," she said, with some confusion.

"I do not ask your name—that you wish it to remain a secret is enough for me. But at least you will shake hands before we part. It is a part of an American's code, you know—add one more obligation to those you have heaped upon me. Do not refuse, I beg."

She had shrunk back as though alarmed at the prospect, but his debonair manner, together with the absurdity of the fear that almost overwhelmed her seemed to force her to meet his friendly advances, and a little hand crept shyly out from among the dusky robes, advancing half way.

Roderic Owen clasped it in his own, and was conscious of a most remarkable sensation that seemed to flash along his arm until it finally brought up in the region of his heart.

It may have been electricity, or some kindred element, but all the same he considered it exceeding queer.

Perhaps in his warmth he pressed her hand so that the setting of her rings inflicted pain. At any rate she gave a little exclamation.

"Forgive me; I forgot your rings, idiot that I am," and with a gallantry he must have inherited from ancestors who once ruled in this ever green isle he hastily raised the bruised digits to his lips.

This caused her to snatch away her hand and with a hasty "buenos noches" hurry to meet a tramcar coming from the monument.

Before Owen could fully recover from his surprise she had entered the double decked vehicle of transportation, and was lost to his sight.

He stood there, leaning against the stone railing of O'Connell bridge and looking after the car, a very much puzzled man.

"Ah!" he ejaculated, as snatching out his handkerchief he waved it vigorously in response to the one that fluttered from the open window of the humble tramcar.

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.

From the shadow of Trinity College and the Bank of Ireland, formerly the Irish House of Parliament, it was but a short distance to his hotel, the luxurious Shelbourne.

Having once entered the caravansary he cast his eyes around as though seeking some one. A number of gentlemen lounged near the booking offices, while on the first landing of the wide stairs among palms and flowers ladies could be seen.

It was a bright picture, entirely foreign to the usual run of transatlantic hotels to which Owen was accustomed.

A pair of bright eyes detected his arrival and a fair hand beckoned him upward.

Time was of value to him, but when beauty demands attendance other things may wait, and he believed he could spare a few minutes at any rate.

She was a remarkable young woman, this Cleopatra Fairfax, and few men could have resisted her charms of person and fortune. True, in features she could not be called beautiful, but her eyes were glorious blue ones, her hair abundant and of a golden hue, while her skin was browned by exposure to sun and wind, since M'lle Cleo was a confirmed golf player, a bicyclist, and a voyager over many seas. Her form at least was enough like that of Venus to set many a famous painter anxious because his last models lacked those qualities which a lavish Nature had showered so abundantly on this child of fortune.

This then was Cousin Cleo, an impulsive, warm-hearted girl, with the better qualities of both Irish and American ancestors in her veins.

Her mother had been an Owen, while on her father's side she came from a long line of the famous Virginia Fairfax family. A better combination it would be hard to imagine; and in this coming together of old and new world blood lies the wonderful strength and marvelous ingenuity of the American people.

Miss Fairfax traveled withersoever her sweet will prompted, always accompanied by a spinster chaperone. Perhaps it was an accident that brought her to Dublin and the Shelbourne at the same time the English Ambassador's private agent took up his quarters there—these accidents, how often they happen, and how opportunely at times.

Besides the motherly chaperone, there was another in the party, a gentleman who in physique and handsome features far outshone Roderic.

Of course this was Jerome Wellington, a man of the world, belonging to a good family and now of a mind to settle down after having sown a magnificent crop of wild oats.

Naturally when such a dasher thus resolves to give up his freedom, he looks around for a girl whose income will forever preclude any and all possibility of his ever being compelled to live upon his wits again.

With ten millions more or less at her beck and nod, Miss Fairfax of Virginia offered grand opportunities in this line, and accordingly the Adonis who had seldom known what it was to fail had sworn a mighty oath that ere twelve moons had waxed and waned M'lle Cleo would have changed her name to the equally aristocratic one of Wellington.

Then he struck a snag.

He discovered that Cleo had since childhood cherished a deep and romantic fancy for Roderic Owen.

They had romped together, and as years fled the stalwart young man became her hero. She blindly adored him, and being so frank and open by nature, her secret was easily read by such an acute observer as Jerome, though the object of this affection had somehow never dreamed that he was regarded in any other than a cousinly way.

If Jerome had a strong point of which he was particularly proud it was his connection with divers deep and dark plots. He regarded himself in the light of a modern Machiavelli, and was never really happy unless dabbling in mysterious affairs.

In his day he had been Carlist, Anarchist, Socialist, Nihilist and heaven knows what not.

Hence, it was to him a very insignificant matter to figure out how he should wipe this interloper from his path. Bah! it was almost too easy a task for one of his magnificent intellect, brightened by contact with the greatest schemers of the world. However, the stake was a glorious one, and even trifles must be carefully looked after if success is desired.

So Jerome had set the machinery in motion which he expected would speedily eliminate his rival from the field.

Unfortunately for himself he did not consider that he was now up against a man whom Nature had abundantly endowed with common sense and shrewdness, and who as a secret service officer in charge of matters of state had gained considerable praise from the Honorable Secretary at Washington under whose direction he labored.

Besides, Jerome's objections had undoubtedly been hitherto conducted against European wits, and he might find wide awake Yankee minds constructed on a somewhat different order.

Roderic chatted and laughed pleasantly for a little time, as though on the best of terms with himself and every one else in the world.

Then, pleading business he tore himself away.

Now that his attention had been forcibly brought to bear upon the subject he could not but note the blushes that mantled his cousin's face upon his addressing any remark directly to her, and the look of reproach she bestowed upon him when he left the gay party.

All of which gave him pain instead of pleasure.

The happiness of this cousin was of much moment in his eyes.

She had always laughingly declared her intention never to marry whenever he broached the subject of the right cavalier coming along, and up to the present Roderic had been dense enough not to suspect the truth.

It was just like a man at any rate.

But at the same time it reflected on his extreme modesty.

Jerome called out a joking farewell after him, which appeared harmless enough, but with his knowledge of the man's evil intentions Roderic was able to read between the lines and see the malevolence exposed.

"He laughs loudest who laughs last, my dear Jerome," he muttered as he walked away from the hotel, "and it remains to be seen how your game comes out. Heretofore I have considered the man a mere every day adventurer, attracted by the glitter of Cleo's gold, and believing she knew how to handle such fellows without gloves, did not think it my duty to interfere. Now that it begins to look more serious I find I shall be compelled to throw my castor into the ring, and take up cudgels in her defense. God bless her, a man could not well have a stronger inspiration to do his level best. How the duse I have failed to fall head over heels in love with Cleo all these years I am at a loss to understand, yet somehow I have had an affection for the dear girl such as one entertains for a sister. Now my eyes are opened, and it is I fear quite too late. Destiny has already wrought out my future for good or evil."

He was thinking again of San Juan with its park, its glittering lights, its military music and the flash of many dark Spanish eyes.

Yes, Roderic was quite right.

It was too late!

He could never offer Cleo or any other woman the first passion of his heart, since that had gone out under the palms and flower scented bowers of the Antilles to a daughter of Porto Rico.

He sighed as he relegated these things, both pleasant and painful, once more to oblivion, and again rallied his forces to grapple with the game on hand.

Just around the corner he came across a man advancing toward the hotel, and whom he hailed.

"Well met, Darby—I was on the way to hunt you up, while you seem headed for my quarters."

"Just so, sir," replied the other, who appeared a man of few words, and evidently one in whom Owen placed much confidence.

"You complained recently of rusting—that everything seemed so dull and dead. As fortune has it I am now in a position to offer you a little excitement, and at the same time you may be of great service to me."

Darby nodded his head—he was a man of ice, whom nothing could excite, and yet to whom action was as the air he breathed.

Knowing the nature of the man so well, Owen struck directly into his story, and ere many minutes had flown the other was as well acquainted with the facts as himself.

One feature alone he repressed.

This was the attachment on Cleo's part for so unworthy an individual as himself—that was too sacred to be given over as common property.

Darby would have to guess a reason for the hatred of Wellington—perhaps he might lay it to the Spanish sympathies of the other, which induced him to seek Dublin in order to have a hand in the mysterious conference with pronounced Fenian leaders; or it might be his sagacity would suggest the only plausible explanation.

Thus the story was told.

"Quite a neat little affair," commented Darby.

"Will you take my place?" asked Owen.

The other's face showed no sign of emotion.

"Just so, sir."

"You may bring up in Monte Carlo or Hong Kong, with a fascinating adventuress professing to be madly infatuated with you."

This time the faintest flicker of a smile appeared.

"A dreadful fate, truly, sir."

"Still you do not shrink from it, Darby?"

The Sphinx shrugged his shoulders.

"Duty is duty, sir. I shall play the cards to win."

"You are to represent me—for the time you will look and act and think as Roderic Owen."

"I leave it to you whether I am able."

"My dear fellow there is nothing you could not accomplish, if you set your mind to it. I warrant that even Jerome will be deceived should he personally take a hand in the game of abduction."

"He will know the truth to-morrow when he meets you here?"

"True—and will be stunned, unable to comprehend the facts. Thus, you will be at liberty to do as you please after once reaching French territory. You know how to find me again."

"Just so, sir. Is that all?"

"Only that I wish you the best of success," taking the cold hand of the Sphinx and squeezing it.

There was actually a faint response.

And yet strange to say, this naturally reserved and passionless man was so great an actor that when duty compelled he could imitate even the most hot-blooded Spanish wooer, and sue with song and story for a dusky senorita's love.

That was genius rising above nature, a carefully trained gift such as few men possess.

"The hour grows late, and you will need some time to make your preparations, so there is no need of my detaining you longer. As to money—"

"I have more than enough, sir."

"Good. Besides, if you turn up at Monte Carlo you may have a chance to apply some of the tactics you once used in breaking a faro bank in New Orleans. It would perhaps be rare sport to you for a change."

Again Darby showed the limit of his emotion, this time it being a chuckle that escaped him.

"Then good-bye and good luck. Beware lest you fall in love with the charmer, my boy. Such a Lurline may storm the ramparts of your flinty old heart, and once lodged therein, heaven help you."

"Just so, sir. I am too old a bird to be caught with chaff. I have been through the mill. Don't waste any sympathy on Joel Darby, sir. But, there is an old acquaintance of yours here."

"Ah! who may that be—male or female?" for his mind instantly reverted to the girl from Porto Rico, and he wondered if Darby could have run across her by chance.

"You once showed me a group picture of a very delightful scene in a West Indian flower court, with the fountain and bird cages. Besides yourself and a young Spanish captain there were a charming girl and an old hidalgo with a fierce beard and a mass of iron gray hair—a man once seen never forgotten."

"Ah! Yes, General Porfidio de Brabant, the noblest Roman of them all, whose voice is like the thunder burst of his tropical home, and yet who obeys her slightest wish as meekly as a lamb."

"Just so—sweet Porfidio is in Dublin."

"I am not surprised, since I have reason to believe she is here. In fact the woman disguised as a Sister of the Holy Grail was Georgia, his niece, and the girl in the picture."

Darby's thin lips gathered as though prepared to emit a whistle, for like a flash he comprehended a very important matter in connection with his employer; but his will got the better of his inclination and not the faintest sound followed.

"More than this, sir, I am afraid he has some connection with these reckless schemers you have come here to watch."

"It would not surprise me—the senor general is of Spanish descent and doubtless loves the institutions of Spain, so that with his generous and ardent nature he is ready to risk all he has in order to help the wretched mother country in her great hour of need. It does not matter, since they will accomplish nothing here. These Irish plotters are master masons in the art of promising much and having some one else pull their chestnuts from the fire. Still, it is our duty to know the many strings perfidious Spain has to her bow."

"Just so, sir. I am going now."

"My blessing go with you, Darby. I shall anticipate a rich and racy story when we twain meet again. Meanwhile, again farewell."

When he stood alone Roderic heard a clock in a not distant belfry chime the hour.

"Eleven—plenty of time for a man of his superior intelligence to accomplish it all. By Jove! I would like to see the result. I would wager he does it to the queen's taste, and that with two Richmonds in the field Warwick or Jerome or any other man would find it hard to tell the genuine from the artificial. Reminds me of Shakespeare's two Dromios. Well, there's nothing for me to do but take it quietly until morning, when I'll give my noble duke a run for his money. Ye gods, I can imagine his amazement. But he is not the man to let one failure daunt him. I rather imagine we two may yet face each other with sword or pistol in hand. That, gives me little concern just now, however much it may later on. All seems quiet around the hotel, so I presume the coast is clear."

He found no difficulty in gaining his apartment unobserved, and there proceeded to woo the gentle goddess of sleep.

A methodical man, he was able to awaken at just the hour he desired.

Perhaps a somewhat superficial knowledge of Wellington's usual habits guided him in this matter quite as much as his own desires.

An observation convinced him that the day had broken fair and singularly cool, so that all nature appeared to rejoice.

He dressed with perhaps a little more care than ordinary and stood before the glass arranging the ends of his four-in-hand.

"I wonder if her eyes still glow with their old intoxicating light?" he muttered.

From which one might readily imagine the dreams that had accompanied his slumber must have dealt more or less with the owner of those heavenly orbs.

"And I kissed her hand again as of yore. Jove! how it thrilled me. Did that kiss wipe out the past—is it possible for us both to forgive and again be more than friends? The very thought gives my heart hope. And yet what a fool I am to forget—those magnificent rings—perhaps one or more of them came from the bolero dancer, the dashing Julio who took San Juan hearts by storm. Heaven only knows—in my mad jealousy I accused her of encouraging his attentions. Perhaps I was wrong, and again I may have been right, for I never heard more of either after I shook the red dust of San Juan from my feet. She may have wedded him, and now be wife or widow. Ugh! to the devil with such thoughts. Now to give dear old Jerome a shake up he will never forget."

The idea afforded him some pleasure—at least it banished that other hideous nightmare.

Wife or widow were the words he did not care to hear used in connection with the owner of those magnificent midnight orbs.

Jerome breakfasted at eight o'clock.

He was clockwork itself in regularity, no matter where or under what conditions he spent the night, and when Roderic glanced into the breakfast room there was his victim busily engaged, his back to the door.

Jerome was something of a gourmand, and had a really remarkable fondness for all the good things that tickle the palate and appeal to a cultivated taste. He knew the value of every wine on the list, and could distinguish various brands of champagne with his eyes closed, for, tell it not in Gath, Jerome had once upon a time been reduced to making an honest livelihood as an expert wine taster.

Owen sauntered into the almost deserted room, and came up behind the dashing Adonis.

"Good morning, Wellington," he said briskly, as he dropped into a chair just across from Jerome.

The latter started to make a civil reply, but when his eyes fastened upon Roderic's face he turned as red as a boiled lobster and spluttered out:

"Owen still here in Dublin by all the saints!"

CHAPTER III.
AT DAGGERS' POINTS.

It was Roderic's intention to lead the other a jolly little dance before jumping upon him with both feet, so to speak.

In other words he pleased to play with the conceited beau pretty much as a cat might with a mouse that had fallen into her clutches.

Hence he observed Jerome's amazed expression with the air of a man who was puzzled.

"Still in Dublin—why not, my boy? This is about as comfortable a berth as one could find, and I shall only desert it when stern duty calls me across the big pond. Whatever possessed you with the idea that I had departed hence—why it was only late last night when I last saw you?"

Wellington was making heroic efforts to resume his ordinary cool appearance, but he had evidently been hard hit, and fluttered like a wounded pigeon, which was a rare thing with a man usually calm and sarcastic.

"By Jove! it must have been a bad dream, but, d'ye know my dear fellow, I could swear you came and told me you were off for Hamburg, Constantinople or——"

"Monte Carlo perhaps, since one place is about as likely as the other."

"Well, er, perhaps it was. Wretched dream at any rate. Must have been the Welsh rarebit I had about midnight—awful fond of toast and cheese, you know, especially good Roquefort. Glad to know it was only a dream, dused glad, my boy. Would have missed you very much—good men are too scarce, as it is."

Thus Jerome babbled on, his object being simply delay, in order to collect himself and grasp the situation.

At the same time possibly he hoped to pull the wool over the eyes of the man he addressed.

It was useless.

When Roderic mentioned Monte Carlo the schemer knew his game had been exposed through some blunder, and all he could hope to fight for was advantage of position when the assault came.

He therefore hurried up his reserves and proceeded to call all hands to repel boarders.

Owen had folded his arms and was coolly surveying him across the table—there was a curl to his mustached lip that told of fine scorn.

Some men can stand almost anything rather than to be made a mark for irony or disdain, and it was this more than anything else that brought Wellington furiously to the front.

"See here, Owen, all chicanery aside, how the devil do you happen to be here at the Shelbourne instead of on a yacht bound for Havre, and eventually to the gamester's Paradise?" he blurted out.

"A plain question and deserving an equally candid answer. To tell you the truth then, my dear fellow, I had decided objections to making such a hasty trip across to the Continent. Your preparations for my comfort were overwhelming, and while I appreciated all you did I was obliged to respectfully decline."

"Well, my own eyes tell me you are here, but I'll take my oath I saw one who looked enough like you to be your shadow sail out of Kingstown harbor at three this morning on board the steam yacht Galatea. And that was no hasheesh dream either, superinduced by Welsh rarebit or opium. Now, who the devil went to Havre?"

"A gentleman whose health needed the ocean voyage, and who believed he could enjoy the society of the gay set on board. I have no doubt he will be exceedingly grateful for all your trouble."

Jerome looked at first as though he could bite a nail with pleasure—Owen expected him to swear, but the other seldom gave way to such vulgar exhibitions of temper.

On the contrary he smiled, and his white teeth showing through his carefully adjusted mustache gave Roderic the impression of a grinning hyena.

Still, the application hardly fitted such a case, for Jerome was considered an extremely handsome and fascinating man, however much of a human wolf he might be back of the scenes.

"Owen, you have called the hand for the first round. It is on me, and devilish hard. I could ill afford the cold cash I spent to hire that boat. I sincerely trust your counterpart will choke upon the good victuals I put aboard or else make himself so beastly drunk upon the liquor that he will fall overboard in the bay of Biscay or somewhere along the French coast."

"Don't reproach me for doing just what you would have done had you been in my shoes, and the plot been revealed to you, Wellington."

The other brightened up a trifle.

"You may be sure I would—but evidently you received a pretty strong tip—who betrayed me?"

He spoke carelessly, but there was a devilish gleam in his blazing eyes that told the state of his feelings toward the unknown.

Owen would sooner have cut his right hand off than betray the source of his knowledge.

"I have means of acquiring information that are unequalled outside of Scotland Yard. For some time, Wellington, I had looked upon you as an agreeable acquaintance. That time has gone by. You have stripped the mask from your face, and I know you as a wolf preying upon society."

"Sir!"

"Oh! you needn't flare up and look ferocious. I say this to your teeth. If you desire the satisfaction one gentleman demands from another I am always at your service, whether it be with bare knuckles, a revolver or the sword. I believe I am equally at home with all, and will take great pleasure in puncturing your precious skin."

"Well, you are devilish frank, to say the least," declared Jerome, mastering his ugly mood, since he knew full well the disadvantage falling to the man who gave way to passion.

"I expect to be, since it is the only policy to use when dealing with such men as you. I might warn my cousin against your attentions, but it would be useless, since she has undoubtedly sized you up as an ordinary adventurer long before I dreamed of it. However, my dear fellow, one last word of warning before I quit your society. If you take it upon yourself to annoy Cleo—if she appeals to me for assistance I shall camp on your trail until I finally 'get' you, as they put it over in my country."

There was no boastful spirit in his manner, only a grim determination that carried weight.

Wellington, looking squarely into those calm orbs that held his own in a species of thralldom knew he had the fight of his life before him.

Perhaps he saw with prophetic vision, some dim inkling of his own downfall—it is a long road that has no turn—success had visited him many times in the past, but there was for him as for all adventurers, a dies irae and it might come through Roderic Owen.

"I'll consider myself warned, Owen, and if trouble comes my blood be upon my own head. The only remark I shall venture to make is, that as yet I have never failed in any serious undertaking which engaged my attention," he said, sneeringly.

"Indeed. Then let us hope you are not very serious about this affair."

"I have made a vow. By that I mean to win, or fall. Have you breakfasted, Owen?"

"Not yet. I shall order a chop and a cup of chocolate."

"You won't join me then?"

"Well, under the circumstances, as we are to be mortal enemies, I hardly think it would be wise. I have some of the Arab's feeling about breaking bread or eating salt with an enemy."

"I would give something to know who betrayed my little game."

"Don't worry about it—my means are such that in order to learn what I wish I am not compelled to make traitors of those you trust."

"And the man on the yacht?"

"Oh! Darby is all right—you can depend upon it he will enjoy himself to the limit. If you read of a man breaking the bank at Monte Carlo presently, make up your mind it was Darby, and that your noble generosity is mainly responsible for his presence in that notable place."

Jerome scowled and muttered something.

"Perhaps it is as well you have decided to have your breakfast in another quarter. Somehow you have the knack of bruising me most savagely, and no doubt we should be at each other's throat like a couple of dogs, ere we finished. I wish to tell you distinctly that if you imagine you can frighten me off by such heroics you are chasing a mirage, a fata morgana as the deep sea sailors term it. I am not that kind of a man, and you will find that I sink or swim by my record."

Roderic did not care to bandy further words with the Adonis.

Deeds must tell the story as to which of them should win in the long run, and Owen preferred such a course.

It chanced that M'lle Cleo and her companion entered the room about this time, and joining them Roderic had his chop in merry company.

The daughter of ten millions looked fresh and full of life. As he chatted with her across the table Owen was wondering why she had never mated.

"It's the confounded dazzle of her money," he decided finally; "she has educated herself to believe no one can ever love her, but that the fortune draws them. By Jove! She should hide herself under an incog. and thus discover a lover who will worship her for her own dear self. I warrant there are many good fellows who would gladly go through fire and flood for her sake, if they knew her only as a stenographer or schoolmam."

Which line of reasoning did Roderic credit.

That same fortune had something to do with his own feelings in the matter, as it must with every honorable man.

"When do you leave Dublin?" asked his cousin, endeavoring to appear careless.

"I shall cross to Liverpool to-morrow and take the White Star steamer for New York—unless something occurs to change my plans."

"Then you are compelled to go to New York?"

"Only as a means of reaching my ultimate destination."

"Which is——"

He lowered his voice.

"Porto Rico."

"But, the danger—that is a Spanish stronghold, and we are at war with Spain."

"Already troops are ordered to land there—perhaps General Miles is on the way. With the fall of Santiago our efforts are to be concentrated about San Juan. A portion of the work falls upon my shoulders—that is all. Besides, I naturally want to be in at the death, as do all ardent fox hunters in the chase."

"I wish, cousin, you would give up so dangerous a calling. Surely you are as well fitted for other pursuits in which your life would not be at stake."

There was real concern in her voice, and Roderic found his heart touched.

"I have been seriously considering that same matter myself, and concluded to make a change after the war is over."

"Why wait until then?"

"For many reasons. In the first place Western men have a saying that it is bad policy to change horses while crossing a stream. It is also a poor piece of business to desert your country while she has need of your services."

"Enough. I know that your motives are honorable. But about this trip across to the Antilles—I could tell you of a quicker way of reaching the shore of Porto Rico, that is, should you consider it worth your while to accept," with a tinge of color in her cheeks, and a sparkle to her blue eyes.

"Indeed, I should like to hear of it. Time may be a factor in my game."

"I made a purchase in England—you know I am something of a yachtsman in my way, and the temptation was great."

"You purchased a yacht?"

"A steam yacht."

"Lucky mortal to be able to do such a thing with as little concern as I would buy a cravat."

"She is a beauty, Roderic."

"Don't doubt it in the least, else you would never have fancied her."

"She is called the Dreadnaught."

"Phew! a genuine English name. Of course you will change it to the Mayflower or Pilgrim or some strictly Yankee cognomen?"

"At present I must decline to do so, as she sails with an English crew and under the flag of Great Britain."

Owen looked puzzled, and then smiled.

"Oh! I see, a ruse de guerre. Very good, indeed. The Dreadnaught she shall remain as long as our war with Spain continues. Well, are you off for a delightful voyage along the Mediterranean, or perhaps, seeing it is summer, to the North Cape, the Land of the Midnight Sun. Jove! at another time I might be tempted to join you—that is providing I were invited."

"I extend a most pressing invitation and expect you to accept and be our compagnon de voyage."

"Alas! my duty lies amid sterner scenes."

"In ten days you can be landed on the shore of Porto Rico."

He eyed her in surprise.

"Is your voyage a westerly one?"

"We are intending to see something of the war, that is all."

Perhaps uncertain but nevertheless alarming visions were conjured up in his mind.

"I am sorry to hear you say so. The conditions existing on those unhappy islands are terrible. Besides, an attractive woman would run risks among the lawless elements at large that I should grieve to see you exposed to."

She laughed, but at the same time his solicitude did not appear unwelcome in the least.

"Foolish boy, you don't suppose, I hope, that I have any Quixotic notion of parading across the island carrying the star spangled banner wrapped around me. My object is of a different character. For once in my life I am to play the Lady Bountiful. Cuba has been looked after as well as the conditions allow. I am informed there is also much suffering in Porto Rico. I have had my yacht stocked with provisions and medical stores, and shall relieve honest distress wherever I find it, no matter under what flag."

"God bless you, Cousin Cleo. You will find plenty of it there. The Spaniards have tightened the mailed hand of late, and Porto Rico groans under the scourge. Soon freedom's blessings will be their heritage. Every man whose smallest act brings such a consummation to pass, should feel proud of the fact. Where is this boat of yours, cousin?"

"Entering Dublin bay this morning."

"And when will you leave old Erin?"

"When you give the word."

It confused him a little to realize how much she deferred to his judgment.

"Pardon me—will there be other passengers?"

"None."

"Then I will accept"—he had desired to make sure Jerome's hateful presence might not bring about a duel during the voyage.

"We will call it settled. An hour's notice will find us aboard, bag and baggage. Govern your own actions as your duty demands."

"This is awfully kind of you Cousin Cleo."

"The obligation is on your part, to put up with our dull society for ten days."

"You hurt me when you speak that way. It will surely be one of the most pleasant episodes of my life. I am smiling to think that after most positively declining one yacht voyage last night I have so readily accepted another."

"Some one else asked you to go to Porto Rico?"

"Well, no, I rather imagine the intention was for me to bring up in a hotter country than the Antilles. The trip contemplated a voyage to Havre and then across country to the later Monaco, the gambling palace of Monte Carlo."

"Oh! I am glad you refused to go."

"So am I. But the invitation was very pressing. However, rather than disappoint the gentleman I sent my representative to receive the honors."

"It was a gentleman who asked you then?"

His eyes opened with surprise.

"Certainly—that is he did not really ask me, you see, but arranged a neat little affair whereby I was to be a guest of honor."

"How stupid of me, to be sure, I begin to see now that you are speaking of a business engagement, not a social matter. And will your substitute serve as well as if you had gone?"

"Just as well, until they learn that it is not Roderic Owen they are entertaining with so lavish a hand, but plain Joel Darby. Then I imagine there will be an explosion of some sort and her ladyship will show temper."

"Her ladyship—then there is a woman involved?"

"It is true. I see, cousin, that having put my foot in it thus far I would do well to tell you the whole story."

"I should be pleased to act as Father Confessor," was the quick response.

They were alone at the table, Miss Becky having gone across the room to chat with a congenial spirit whose acquaintance she had made.

So Roderic told his little story as tersely as he could, and in his cousin he found an interested auditor.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he asked when the finis had been reached.

"It is very dreadful."

"Surely I came out all right, cousin."

"But—suppose you had not—you would have been hypnotized by the adventuress, and that must have been the end of you. Oh! I know the species and all their wiles, having made a study of them."

"Does that sweeping deduction include the male bipeds of the adventurer order also?"

"Why not?"

"Because I might offend if I told you the name of the man who planned my exodus."

"Oh! I have already guessed it was the Adonis."

"Yes, Jerome Wellington. I am glad you know him in his true light. He has made a vow."

"I'll wager it concerns my wretched millions."

"Just so—he longs to handle them."

"He will be a smarter man than he is now when that happens. But one thing puzzles me?"

"Now it is coming," thought Roderic, though aloud he said cheerily, "What might that be?"

"You received your warning from a nun."

"I was a fool to mention the fact," thought Owen, with one of these wonderful after inspirations that closes the door when the horse is stolen.

"Yes, from one who was dressed in the somber garb of a cloister," he replied.

"You evidently do not believe she was what she outwardly appeared?"

"You are a modern Portia, cousin," he laughed.

"Of course, a prisoner at the bar is not pledged to commit himself. If I am over bold forgive me and make no reply. But, you know, a woman's curiosity is proverbial."

"I shall answer frankly—she was no member of the Order of the Holy Grail—the garb was assumed to conceal her identity."

"From Jerome—from you?"

"Both, I presume."

"You recognized her face?"

"I did not see that—it was her voice. Even then I was in a maze until she had gone."

"Was it a very melodious voice, Roderic."

"The sweetest—well, yes, a voice full of melody," he replied, with evident confusion that did not escape Cleo's quick gaze.

"Ah! you have heard her sing?"

"Dozens of times—like a nightingale," he felt forced to confess.

"This was—where?"

"In San Juan, Porto Rico, two years back. I have not looked on her face since I fled those shores."

"Ah!" and that one word expressed keen disappointment, for Cleo read the story of his lost love in his face.

CHAPTER IV.
MILLIONS MAY NOT PURCHASE LOVE.

"Would it be presumptuous if I asked to know her name, Roderic—this girl of San Juan who risked so much to save your reputation if not your life? I feel under obligations to her, for your name is very dear to those who know you—those bound to you by ties of consanguinity."

"She comes of Spanish descent, but her heart is now only wrapped up in the future of the lovely gem of the Antilles. Her name is Georgia Inez de Brabant."

Perhaps his manner gave evidence that she was treading on dangerous ground.

"Thank you. Perhaps some day fortune may bring us together. I shall try to love her, Roderic, because you call her your friend!"

Then she branched off upon the subject of the cruise, to which she seemed to look forward with almost childish delight.

It is not every one to whom is given the proud fortune to own a modern steam yacht, and this daughter of Eve could be forgiven a fair amount of exhilaration under the circumstances.

Perhaps, truth to tell, the prospect of ten days basking in the company of her athletic cousin had something to do with her light spirits.

Owen's time was not wholly his own, so that he was soon forced to sally forth upon the streets of the Irish metropolis.

When Cleo was alone she hastened to her luxurious apartments and searching the inmost recesses of an inlaid traveling writing desk which had been taken from a capacious trunk, she soon pounced upon a small photograph.

It was wretchedly done by a tyro in Ponce, but even boorish work could not entirely conceal the fact that the face was that of a most lovely dark-eyed houri.

Cleo looked eagerly at it.

"I have had this now two years. Roderic dropped it in the garden, and I hid it away for a joke and then forgot to speak of it. This is the picture of a daughter of Porto Rico—is it the same who is now in Dublin, who last night at the peril of her name warned him of evil? I have reason to believe such to be the truth, for unless I am greatly mistaken I saw this same beauty coming out of St. Patrick's cathedral yesterday morning, when a gust of wind blew her veil aside. In this land where Irish gray or blue eyes abound I was immediately attracted by such a beautiful pair of melting dusky orbs.

"Heigho! this is Roderic's fate no doubt. Heaven grant that he may be happy whate'er betide, for he deserves it. I would give all my miserable millions for his heart's love, but it can not be. There is a startling story of the past connected with this girl, I am sure. Why did they separate—does she love him still? Well, perhaps the future may tell."

She put the photograph slowly back in the lodging place where it had so long rested securely. Even great riches had not the power to bring this young woman unalloyed happiness, for the one treasure she would have valued above all other earthly possessions seemed denied her by a cruel fate.

It were hardly fair that all the joys of earth were handed over to the disposal of one mortal.

While she rolled in wealth beyond Aladdin's dreams and sighed for true love, many who were blessed in this regard struggled for a daily pittance and groaned because their heart's devotion could not come between the object of their worship and cruel Want.

Truly, this is a queer old world, and at times it seems unequally divided; but occasionally there is a shaking up all around that evens things up somewhat.

Possessed of a sudden notion Cleo dressed for the street.

When she went out it was with a laughing remark to Miss Becky, whom she intercepted upon the broad carpeted main stairway, to the effect that a number of little shopping duties had to be looked after.

However, M'lle Cleo's ideas of the shopping district must have become a little mixed, for she sauntered in the direction of that quaint mass of stone and glass with its spire and numerous minarets known as St. Patrick's Cathedral.

She looked through the iron fence at the flat slabs and few monuments commemorating illustrious Irish dead, she studied the architecture of the historic building, and cast many a curious glance at those who passed in to late mass or came out from the interior.

Her object seemed doomed to disappointment, for the face she sought was not seen.

Once she eyed a lady closely veiled, who came out in company with a military looking gentleman sporting a shaggy head of gray hair à la Mark Twain, also a ferocious mustache waxed at the ends and giving the wearer the fierce appearance of King Humbert.

As the couple passed Cleo she chanced to hear the lady make a casual remark, and two things struck the listener as singular.

First it was pure Spanish she heard.

Second, her voice was so very melodious it seemed to conjure up visions of rippling water, warbling birds and all those things of which poets love to rave.

Cleo remembered—could she ever forget the pain that shot through her heart at the time—how Roderic had grown suddenly enthusiastic when he declared the voice of Senorita de Brabant as musical as the notes of a nightingale—she had doubtless sung for him many times those passionate serenades and love songs for which dark eyed daughters of old Spain have ever been famous.

Cleo could imagine how those wonderful black orbs glowed with love's sacred fire when he sat near, upon a soft divan, or bent over the gurgling fountain's basin.

She felt sick at heart, but such a nature never reveals the pain that rankles within.

Though suffering tortures such girls will laugh and seem as merry as the lightest hearted among their comrades.

After that came the shopping, and yet Cleo was annoyed to find herself listening to every voice upon the street and in the stores.

Surely there could not be another in all Dublin that so fully filled the brief but graphic description Roderic had given of a woman's tones sounding like the soft gurgling of water over the mossy stones in the primeval forest.

"I wonder under what conditions we will meet, for something tells me this is bound to occur. And shall I too be drawn to her because he has given his heart? Will she love him—love my old play fellow Roderic as—as I could do, have done these many years? Perhaps, but I doubt it, doubt whether these hot blooded girls of the tropic isles can love so truly that they will sacrifice even their own happiness in order that his life may be filled with sunshine. Still, God forgive me for judging her harshly. I have other things—his love may be all in all to her. Come what will I shall do what is right and loyal and true as becomes a daughter of Virginia. But oh! it is hard to give him up, my hope, my boy lover, my Roderic. Now I am done!"

Having thus grimly dismissed the matter from her mind for the present the young lady proceeded to carry out her designs.

Numerous things were on her list to be added to the abundant stores aboard the yacht, and it would probably puzzle the honest steward, she imagined, to know what to do with the last arrivals.

"If I remained in Dublin three days more I am sure we would be swamped in the bay made celebrated by song and story, or else be compelled to charter a companion boat to share our cargo—there are so many things I see that could be made useful among the wretched people just escaping from Spanish rule, and these Irish storekeepers one and all, must have had an intimate acquaintance with the Blarney stone, they have such engaging ways and a burning desire to accumulate Uncle Sam's coin. This is an era of good feeling—of hands across the sea—Brother John and Brother Jonathan, and they all want to be in it as deep as possible. However, I think I am actually done. It would be impossible to accept all they offer."

So the purchasing agency went reluctantly out of commission.

Even the owner of millions must draw the line somewhere.

Roderic was not to be seen at luncheon, although Cleo purposely lingered over the meal, hoping he would turn up.

Jerome was there, handsome as ever, and apparently much sought after by a designing lady mother from Chicago who possessed two plain girls of a marriageable age.

No doubt they believed him a marquis, or at the very least connected with some noble family anxious to make a "connection" with pork.

These things happen frequently, and there really seems no remedy—the market is there and the goods offered for sale. Occasionally a genuine love match occurs which redounds to the credit of Old England and Young America; but for the most part they are cut and dried affairs entered into for position on one side and gold on the other. Such unions are beneath contempt.

Jerome bowed and smiled in his usual affable manner, and Cleo answered him just as though she had not been informed of his dark schemes.

This matter of fact young woman had traveled far and wide—she had rubbed up against all manner of people, and long since ceased to be excessively surprised at anything.

Wellington was simply carrying out the business for which nature had endowed him.

There were many people gifted with more money than brains—the reverse was true in his case, and he amused himself by endeavoring to bring about a more evenly balanced condition of affairs, to his pecuniary advantage, of course.

Cleo could even find something to admire about his bold piratical way of living by his wits—at least he had more of the man about him than most of the petted darlings of society on both sides of the Atlantic who fawned upon her in a sickly sentimental way from precisely the same sinister motives that influenced Wellington's bold attacks.

Let these parvenu mammas with daughters to sell pay the penalty for their sin.

As the day wore on and she saw nothing of Roderic she began to feel a little worried.

Could harm have befallen him?

She knew the unscrupulous character of those elements which he usually pitted his powers against.

Perhaps Wellington, that suave deluder, not one whit discouraged by his first failure, had promptly opened his secondary batteries.

Still, it seemed almost ridiculous to believe harm could have befallen a sensible man like Roderic in the open streets of Dublin while the sun was shining.

Had it been Algiers, Constantinople, Pekin or some city of mysterious India, the case would have appeared far more serious, for uncanny things are liable to occur in such Oriental marts at any hour of the day or night.

As evening drew on apace she found herself watching the doorway beyond which lay the calm square known as St. Stephens' Green.

Her captain had come ashore for a comparison of ideas, and was still with her, since Cleo desired him to meet her cousin.

They would see much of each other during the voyage, and she particularly desired to bring about the meeting of two congenial souls.

Dinner passed.

Still no Roderic.

She confided her fears in part to the captain.

The worthy seadog was able to wrestle with any perplexing problem that might assail them afloat, but when it came to mastering the wiles apt to beset a man's path ashore he confessed his ignorance.

Nothing could be done—they must wait till a sign of some kind was given.

That was the exasperating part, for Cleo was naturally a girl of decided action.

An hour crept by since dinner—two of them, and it was now drawing near ten o'clock.

No one entered the door but that Cleo's eyes were instantly upon them, and disappointment had as yet been the only result.

She endeavored to be her own lively self but it required a great effort.

Roderic might be in danger, but somehow she was possessed of the idea that it was more from a pair of midnight eyes than a murderous stiletto, for Cleo could not forget the face she had seen, the lovely original of her photograph, who was even now in Dublin.

Was her power of enchantment over Roderic still unbroken—could she draw him to her even after an absence of two years—had the bar that separated them been cast aside?

How these questions flashed before her eyes and seemed burned upon her brain like coals of fire. She suffered intensely, but the bluff old sea dog never knew it—indeed he believed her to be unusually brilliant, her wit was so keen and her suggestions as to their coming voyage so remarkably clever.

She dreaded the thought of having to retire in this state of uncertainty.

The hour drew on—it neared eleven, and the ladies had wholly disappeared.

Then Cleo suddenly gave a sigh of relief, for her eager eyes had discovered his well known figure entering the front door of the hotel.

She noted instantly that he looked disturbed, and that his usually natty appearance was lacking—and practical Cleo knew Roderic had been through an adventure. Half rising as she beckoned to him, she awaited his coming with breathless impatience.

CHAPTER V.
RODERIC'S REPENTANCE.

Roderic had indeed been up against it good and hard since leaving his cousin at the breakfast table.

He had entered upon his duties of the day with a vim, desirous of closing his accounts so that he might get away on the next morning, if Cleo and her captain were willing.

During the morning he was haunted by certain facts which bore heavily upon the relations existing between present conditions and those that prevailed two years back.

The girl from Porto Rico occupied a prime place in all these reflections.

Every word that had been spoken by her on the preceding night came again before his mental vision, and underwent a revised scrutiny.

New solutions sprang up, for he was able to better understand certain things that were uttered.

Still there was much to puzzle him.

How came she to know of Cleo, his cousin—true, in times past, when paradise seemed opening to his feet—ah, what a fool's dream he had indulged in—he must have frequently spoken of his cousin, for she was often in his mind; but that would not account for her pertinent remarks concerning Cleo's attachment for him.

Was it jealousy prompted this?

Roderic flushed with pleasure at the very thought of such a thing, since the green-eyed monster can never lodge in a human heart unless there still remains love to stir the depths.

Then, somehow, he felt a strange shudder pass through his whole frame.

Would it bring trouble of any kind to this loyal cousin, whose welfare was certainly as dear to him as that of a sister?

He knew much of these southern women—their virtues and frailties—and realized what a serious thing it meant to be passionately loved by one of them, and how ill they brooked rivalry.

The love Georgia had given him was so entirely different from the pure, unselfish devotion of which Cleo was capable—he knew this as well as any one, and yet with his eyes open he had chosen the rush of the hurricane to the calm, steady current of never changing regard.

Love is a little god who will have his way despite reason and philosophy.

Once poor mortal falls under his sway and farewell to discernment—from that time on Cupid sits in the balance, and weighs things to suit his own capricious nature.

Thus our good Roderic found himself worried with a variety of new questions, such as it had not occurred to him before could ever come up in connection with his affairs.

They cropped up before him in his business and he found it utterly impossible to get rid of them. What was on the heart must have a place in the mind in spite of stern endeavors to banish his own private affairs from the front.

Thus the day wore on.

Things worked fairly well.

He sent some letters, and toward the close of the afternoon some telegrams in cipher intended for those connected with the government at Washington in whose special line he was working.

Finally he pronounced his work done.

Unless some late orders, which he did not look for, turned up to intercept him, he was free to shake the dust of old Erin from his shoes on the morrow.

He anticipated the voyage to the West Indies with considerable pleasure, for, as the veil of the future can not be raised by mortal hands, how was he to know what strange happenings might occur before the anchor was lifted, to change his relations to the owner of the yacht?

About sundown he visited a store on Lower Sackville street where he had been receiving his mail.

There was a message awaiting him.

It came from Darby.

How that remarkable man had managed to mail the letter was a puzzle to Roderic, but no doubt he had prepared the envelope with a stamp and found some means of getting it posted by bribing a sailor.

Darby could accomplish anything under heaven when he made up his mind.

The note was brief and epigrammatic, just as Darby's speech had always been. Time was worth money to him, and he used very few words.

"They got me as per agreement. We are on the way to Havre. Will touch at coast of Cornwall for private reasons of captain. Mail this there if possible. The French m'amselle aboard. Charming young woman. Think I shall be pleasantly entertained, as she has a voice like a bird. Do not pity me, comrade. I may go all the way to Monte Carlo. Who could refuse such good fortune? More anon."

That was all.

Roderic laughed when he read it.

"What a sly dog that Darby is—outwardly an iceberg, a glacier, he yet possesses the capacity for adoring lovely woman. Perhaps he may yet be wrecked upon the same reefs that have been the destruction of so many. Alas! poor Yorick. But I am willing to wager that at least he extracts some fun out of this game before he gives up the ghost."

And now, dinner!

The thought was delightful, since his appetite had become clamorous, and besides there was great pleasure in the anticipation of some hours in the society of his cousin. Cleo could chat so entertainingly of many things he had seen, for both were great travelers.

She had visited the frequented thoroughfares of ordinary travel. Besides, she had gone from Europe to India via the overland Afghanistan and Khyber Pass route, had looked upon the celebrated Vale of Cashmere, wandered in Cathay, and was at home in Japan.

It can be readily understood how much satisfaction Roderic found in chatting with her on these subjects, for the fever of exploration was growing upon him all the while—he yearned to delve amid the wild places of earth seldom or never gazed upon by the eyes of civilization—he had already ridden on elephants in Siam, mounted the Peruvian Andes on a llama, explored the Himalayas with adventurous officers, their only vehicle being drawn by yaks; and once Roderic had scoured the desolate Kirghiz steppes on a tarantas drawn by shuffling camels.

Secretly he aspired to some day make his way to the Forbidden City of Tibet, where the foot of a white man has never yet trodden, and whose gorgeous wonders yet remain sealed books to the world—a city which the bold traveler Harry Savage Landor recently endeavored to reach but was forced to abandon the task as impossible.

At present of course these things were hung up in abeyance, since his beloved country was at war with Spain, and called upon her patriotic sons to overwhelm the enemy, both in the field and under the guise of diplomacy.

The pursuit of his business had taken him far out from the central part of the city and the river Liffey.

From Donnybrook he had crossed to the region of Rathmines, where in an interview with one whose word carried great weight among the Fenian brotherhood, he learned that the mission of the Spanish schemers had failed.

This was a matter of great importance to those faithful statesmen at Washington who labored to prevent any combination of European Powers against Young America—it meant that the great coalition would pull through and that poor Spain must take her drubbing.

He had mounted to the upper deck of a tramcar and was on the way back to the city, surveying with considerable interest the names of the many villas, places and terraces, for every householder apparently desired to mark his residence by some appropriate designation.

From this state of beatitude, superinduced by the clear consciousness of a day's work well done and the soothing effect of a good pipe, Roderic was without the least warning precipitated into a condition of tremendous excitement.

He had just noted the old name on a rough stone gate post "Lucknow Bungalow," and was wondering if some gallant retired officer who had seen exciting days with Havelock, or later with gallant Roberts, might live in cozy retirement here, surrounded by objects brought from the far distant realm of Her Majesty the Empress of India, when some magnetism seemed to draw his gaze toward the romantic house set back a little from the road.

Just at the same instant some one leaned out of an open window as if to close a shutter, some one whose personality acted upon Roderic very much as might a shock of electricity.

Of course it was the girl from Porto Rico.

That she saw him and recognized him Roderic realized instantly.

It was another freak of Fate.

When the three sisters who weave our destinies with distaff and loom, conspire against a poor mortal, there is little use trying to dodge the snare, since the loop falls over one's shoulders on the most unexpected occasions, and usually without warning.

Roderic yielded, rescue or no rescue, at once.

He immediately arose from his place and made down the winding stairs at the end of the car. The vehicle had been progressing meanwhile as rapidly as two sturdy Irish horses could draw it along the rails, and by the time the gentleman from across the Atlantic reached terra firma they were half a block away from the bungalow and its stone posts.

Roderic had not developed any plan of action—what he did was from sheer impulse.

The sight of her face had spurred him on—nor might this be set down as the only instance where a woman's lovely countenance caused unpremeditated action on the part of a usually conservative and well balanced man.

When he reached the distinguishing stone pillars upon which he read the name of the villa, Roderic boldly turned in.

Prudence might have dictated another course, for there was reason to believe, as both Darby and himself had discovered, that the old Porto Rican general, Georgia's uncle in fact, was allied with those who had endeavored to work the grand scheme.

Therefore, he would not be apt to look upon any Yankee, and particularly Roderic Owen, with favor.

General Porfidio to the contrary, the American strode past the sentinel posts, up the box bordered walk and directly to the front door.

This was his nature, bold to a fault, ready to walk directly up to the cannon's mouth if duty but half demanded it.

It was the Irish element in his blood, for where that strain goes throughout the peoples of the wide world, it carries with it devotion and gallantry.

Before he could lay a hand upon the knocker, that represented a bronze Hindoo god, the door softly opened.

A young girl stood there.

As he looked at her, framed in the opening, with the light of the setting sun falling upon her wondrous face, Roderic held his very breath, for he was again under the spell of her dusky eyes, that ever wove a web of enchantment about him.

Thus they stood, these two who had parted some years before—stood and stared and said not a single word for more than a full minute.

What they lived over in those sixty seconds of time God only knows.

Perhaps there came up before them a vision of Paradise Lost—of sweet scented flowers, flashing fountains, caroling birds—of a West Indian garden where the God of Love reigned, where the soft tinkle of magic mandolin accompanied songs of hottest devotion, where eyes looked into eyes and drank to the fill of heaven's nectar, where vows of constancy were fervently breathed and returned. Alas! how many times these same maddening memories arise to haunt broken hearts, for human nature is weak, and prone to wander afar after strange idols.

Roderic recovered his voice, and while he still kept his eyes on her glowing face he said, quietly:

"You expected me—you knew I would come?"

"I believed you would when I saw you look this way," she admitted; and then added: "but I do not know why you are here, Senor Roderic."

"Perhaps to thank you."

"For what?" confused.

"Your garb deceived me last night, but I knew the voice which you could not wholly disguise. I wish to tell you how—"

"Stop. I do not desire to hear your gratitude. It was a duty with me. By chance I learned of the miserable plot. I could not bear to even see an enemy so badly used, much less one whom I once delighted to call—my friend."

"Once—are we then no longer such?"

"Senor, your welfare will always be regarded with interest by me," coldly.

"You have condemned me unheard," with a gesture of despair.

"Not I, senor, but yourself. The choice lay before you, and you decided to flee from San Juan—from Elysium. You were unjust—for once in your life. You alone, senor, condemned, not I."

"But—was there no reason—I beg of you, I implore, an answer?"

"Senor, this is a house where danger lurks for you—a house where plots are nightly considered against your people. It would be better for you to go away lest some of these hot headed Spanish sympathizers set eyes on you."

"Let them go to the devil—what care I for all the Spaniards in Christendom. I shall stay here just as long as I like—as long as you allow me."

"Ah! senor, but you did not always exhibit that same spirit—there was one Spaniard you feared worse than Satan does holy water."

The spirit of coquetry ever lives in woman, and this girl could not resist giving poor Owen a little thrust even while her heart was wonderfully stirred by his presence.

"Yes, Julio, the handsome bolero dancer, who had once been a famous toreador in Spain. As I hope for salvation I believe you favored his advances—you laughed at me when a denial was what I asked. Words followed, for my part in which may Heaven forgive me, and we parted in hot anger, we two who had been all in all to each other. Georgia, will you answer that question now?" he asked, holding her eyes enthralled by his eager gaze.

She did not speak, only put out her hand and plucked him by the sleeve.

It was only a gentle pull, but to Roderic Owen the power of a giant steam engine could not exert greater force.

She meant that he should enter that East Indian bower—she would answer his passionate question—the doubts and fears that had haunted him lo, these many moons were on the eve of being forever put to rest.

Thus he followed her through the doorway and presently found himself in a little parlor where walls and mantles were almost covered with hundreds of strange mementoes of the land of Buddha and Vishnu—grinning idols, miniature elephants, tiger skins, queer swords and knives, and wonderful pieces of colored work fashioned by the cunning handicraft of those natives of Bengal and Ceylon.

Upon the floor were strewn very costly rugs from Dagestan and Persia.

There was an air of romance hovering about the apartment—even the peculiar Oriental odor that was so pronounced, seemed to be associated with tender scenes.

Roderic felt it, and a strange eagerness took possession of his heart.

Was such happiness as he had never allowed himself to dream could dawn upon him again about to become his guest?

Having led him into this apartment, the girl drew back the Bagdad curtains in order that more light from the westerly sun might enter, after which she advanced slowly toward him.

Her head was lowered, so that he knew not whether those wonderful orbs were filled with love or contempt, and the uncertainty alarmed him.

"You have surely not brought me in here to upbraid, Georgia—I cannot believe that. It would have been enough had you desired me to go, to have told me so outside, and while ready to ask forgiveness on my knees, if you assured me I was quite in the wrong, I would have turned away without one reproach, deserving all. I asked you the question that has burned itself upon my brain ever since that hour when I flung myself out of your presence so madly, and vowed never again to believe in a woman's love. Was dashing Julio anything to you then—is he now?"

Then she threw back her proud head and looked him in the face—he was answered even before she spoke a word.

"One finger of your hand, Roderic Owen, yes, even its tip was of more value to me in those days than a dozen bolero dancers with their graceful movements and threadbare love phrases. Julio sued in vain—I laughed him to scorn—I have not seen him from the hour you fled."

Then a glad cry burst from his lips—he opened his arms and would have seized upon her, believing that she had forgiven—that the old conditions could be thus easily revived, since the barrier that had separated them was swept aside.

He had lowered his pride—he had humbly cried "peccavi—I have sinned," and it was reasonable to believe that if she still cherished the love she once bore him, this girl of the Antilles would fall into his embrace to forgive and be forgiven.

But instead she stepped back, eluding his grasp, and while panting with emotion, said resolutely:

"Stand back, Senor Roderic—touch me not I command you!"

CHAPTER VI.
ON THE BORDERS OF PARADISE.

While Owen had doubtless encountered many rude shocks during his adventurous life he never had such a staggering blow dealt him as when this beauty from the Antilles so peremptorily ordered him to approach no nearer.

Unconsciously he obeyed, and yet seemed amazed at himself for not crushing her form in his embrace as he had done in times gone by when the whole realm of earth had been centered in her beloved presence.

Had she then ceased to love him—true, he had been cruel in his judgment, but since on his part time had effected no apparent cure, could it be possible that she despised where once she adored?

He searched for an answer, nor did he have to look long.

Under his troubled gaze burning blushes swept over her face and neck—she trembled with the intensity of her emotions, her breath came in quick, spasmodic gasps, and she looked like a beautiful fluttering bird facing its fate.

Love still reigned in her heart where he had once been king.

Then why this strange action—while yet loving did she mean to sacrifice this man who to her had been a god, however gross his material may have appeared to other eyes?

Was resentment, the desire to avenge her wrongs paramount to love?

While the ways of womankind were not wholly a sealed book to Owen, he had always frankly confessed himself unable to understand them. Yes, he had even drilled himself into the habit of being surprised at nothing the sex might do, either noble or otherwise—they were full of the unexpected to him.

"You say stand back—see, I obey you. Tell me to go, and I leave your presence forever. And yet I am wretchedly sorry and would do all in my power to wipe out the past, to make you believe in me as once you did. Is there any such way—shall I have a chance, Georgia?"

He knew the power of his voice over her—he could see her bosom heave with the intensity of her feelings.

Still she did not yield—this daughter of the Antilles was made of sterner stuff than to be swept along by every passing breeze like the fallen leaves of autumn.

"Perhaps," she replied, slowly.

"You would impose conditions—well, it is only right and fair. Let them be what they will I am ready to undertake them. The harder the better, since by that means I can prove the strength of my love, the bitterness with which I regard my conduct of the past."

"I said perhaps. Have you forgotten what I declared last night?" and her eyes dropped in confusion.

"You warned me—you saved me from a complication that was intended to injure me with my employers, with those whose respect I held dear. You risked much to warn me, and it was the thought of this that renewed my courage, my hope."

"It was something else—something of a more personal nature."

Then her meaning flashed upon him.

"You refer to Cousin Cleo—ah! what you said cannot be true—her regard for me is warm and cousinly, as mine is for her, but that is all."

"And if it were true—if she did love you—devotedly with all her heart and soul, Senor Roderic?"

"It would make no difference. I should deplore such an unfortunate occurrence deeply, on her account, for she is a noble woman in a million. But it would be utterly impossible for me to love another as I have you, Georgia."

And he believed what he said, showing that he was sincere, at any rate.

His words made her eyes glisten with delight, for who does not yearn to hear such phrases falling from the lips of an adored one.

"You solemnly swear that is true?" she asked, willing to believe, yet filled with womanly doubts.

"By everything sacred, by the memory of that happy past which my wretched jealousy slaughtered, by the grave of my revered mother I swear that I love and have loved no woman on earth but one, and she is before me."

"Then you shall hear the condition upon which you may wipe out the past—upon which I shall again believe in you with all my heart and soul, and forget the cruel wrong you did me."

"Name it, for Heaven's sake, Georgia. You shall see that I am in deadly earnest—that I abhor myself for the miserable way in which I fled from happiness and you. Yes, though it take me to the ends of the world, I shall go, proud to convince you that as once before I am above all others your preux chevalier. What would you have me do—all I ask is that it may not be to the prejudice of my beloved country for which I have sworn to stand to the death against all her foreign foes."

"Find Leon for me!"

It was a marvelously strange request and quite enough to stagger the man of whom the imperious demand was made.

"Find Leon"—the lover must set out on a quest for another man—who was Leon, what relation did he bear the belle of San Juan, and where had he become lost since he needed a voyage of discovery made in his behalf—Jason, starting with his bold Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece might not have had half the trouble that would come of looking for a lost man in the world wilderness of to-day, since traveling facilities were limited in those times, whereas one may now readily fling thousands of leagues behind him in a fortnight.

"Find Leon—for me!"

Evidently Leon was of considerable importance to the speaker—her voice seemed to dwell upon the sound with much tenderness.

But Roderic did not appear to be amazed on account of the name—it was something else that gave him cause for astonishment.

"Senorita, I declared my readiness to go to the ends of the earth to serve you, but now you ask me to seek the shades beyond, the world of spirits. How then could I claim the reward even if success attended my endeavor?"

"No, no, not that—you do not understand—it is Leon, my brother you are to find," breathlessly.

"Exactly, and as he is dead it would necessitate my becoming a disembodied spirit—"

"Ah! yes, but he is not dead."

"Pardon, you told me so many times, and I mourned with you on account of your loss."

"It was all a terrible mistake."

"And Leon is not dead?"

"At least he was alive three months ago. Oh! you do not know, you cannot understand the great joy with which I but recently learned how we had all been deceived."

Her face glowed with enthusiasm.

Every atom of his old mad idolatry seemed resurrected, and Roderic was almost ready to bend down in order to kiss the hem of her garment, he felt so abased on account of the wrong his hasty action had brought upon her.

"Where am I to search?" he asked, eagerly, as though ready to start on the jump.

"He is in Porto Rico."

"Good. That is where I am going to-morrow."

"And whither we also expect to bring up as soon as steam can take us."

"Tell me what you know of him, this brother who was dead, yet lives. How shall I know him?"

"Ah! you would recognize him, Senor Roderic, did you but meet on the ocean as castaways, or in the midst of the Great Sahara."

"Then he looks like you?"

"They have always said it."

"That is enough—I shall remember always."

"And you undertake the mission?" eagerly.

His eyes met her glowing orbs.

"You have yourself named the condition, Georgia. If I find this brother you will forgive me the cruel past—you promise to love me again?"

"Ah, senor, I have never been able to crush that love from my heart—it is as strong there to-day as when we pledged our lives to happiness. Stay, do not misunderstand me," as he made a movement toward her, "until you have done something to atone for your desertion, Senor Roderic, we may not resume those relations."

"And should fate baffle my search—should Leon be actually dead, do I lose all, sweetheart—will you throw my love away like an old glove?"

"I could not, for your love is life to me. I have hoped through these gloomy years, hoped you might learn how cruel, how unjust you had been, and return to me. If you search with all your heart, that will answer my demands."

"How eagerly I shall try let Heaven be my witness. During the long and dreary months since last I saw you, dear girl, I have lived ages. Many times rebellion arose within my heart, fermented by the love that lingered there, and could only be put down with an iron hand. Now I shall hope to make such poor amends as lie in my power for the wretched mistakes of that dreadful past. But tell what you know of Leon—why has he been dead to you so long, and what reason have you to believe he still lives and is in Porto Rico?"

"You think it strange—it is right to look at it in that way. I myself sometimes doubt whether I am awake, it all seems so marvelous, so startling.

"Leon was my only brother—I have told you before how we once loved each other, and even described how he was drawn to join the brave Cubans under Gomez when they rebelled against the mother country.

"In one of the first fights that occurred Leon was taken prisoner, and carried to Havana where he was secretly confined in Morro Castle.

"Suddenly we heard that he had been taken out under the castle walls with seven other wretched patriots and shot to death.

"That was about the time I met you, senor, and my aching heart found solace in your devoted love. Then came the period of our happiness and the shock of your desertion.

"Days, months, yes years have since passed. Then, as though the dark clouds would roll away together, I again saw your blessed face, and at the same time heard a wonderful story that Leon was alive—that he had been saved by the daughter of the officer in command of Morro Castle, who had fallen in love with his handsome face."

"That is not so wonderful, senorita, since you tell me he resembles you."

"Ah! flatterer; but you shall hear all, though the time is not appropriate. Strange things happen in Havana—in all Spanish speaking countries—romance has a home there, and plays a part you colder Anglo-Saxons hardly understand."

"You forget I have lived there myself—that I speak Spanish, and by direct association discovered the good qualities of these people who are almost enigmas to the common run of Americans. I believe in giving the devil his due. Yes, you cannot surprise me very much. I too have seen many remarkable dramas played under the crimson and gold banner of Spain."

"This daughter of the governor saved Leon. She bribed the prison doctor who pronounced my brother dead while in reality he only lay in a stupor caused by a subtle drug.

"He was carried from the prison in a coffin and buried just as the sun went down.

"Then darkness came as the grave diggers turned back to the fort.

"Hardly were they out of sight than from a chaparral where she had remained hidden sprang the governor's daughter, may the saints protect her as an angel of mercy.

"At her side was a faithful negro, and while the fire-flies spangled the darkness around, this man flung back the newly set earth.

"When Leon had been snatched from the rude pine box intended for his coffin this was again buried in the ground.

"They carried the boy to the negro's cabin and there he was tenderly nursed through a long and weary sickness.

"There he lay while I mourned as only a loving, stricken sister could; for we believed the published account of his death before the guns of the avenging Spanish executioners.

"It was six months before he was well, and during that time he had become so mixed up in the great game of independence that he dared not let me know even of his existence—besides, he feared lest a breath of suspicion should be cast upon the girl who had risked all this for his sake, and whom he loved with heart and soul.

"Thus time passed on and under another name he fought with Gomez and Garcia—wherever the flag of Cuba waved in battle he was there, ready to lead the charge and die if need be for the cause in which he had enlisted.

"When your troops were first put ashore near Santiago and attacked by the Spaniards, it was Leon, now a captain in the Cuban army, who saved them from annihilation.

"The time had apparently come when he felt at liberty to send me a message, and this he did through one of the Americans. It is too long a story to tell how he accomplished it, nor does it matter.

"He also sent word, believing me to be still in Porto Rico, still in dear old San Juan, that he expected to be there sometime in the latter part of July or early in August and I must keep on the lookout for him.

"Between us, Senor Roderic, we must find Leon! If he comes to me I shall count it the same as though you had won your case, since the desire to do this service for me is there."

"Ah! you are forgiving—you are an angel, dearest girl. No matter, I shall never excuse myself for my unfounded suspicions."

"You no longer believe in them?"

"I have not this long time back. Reason was fast driving me to again visit San Juan and discover how deeply I had wronged you."

"Would you have done that?"

"I swear that such a thought, amounting almost to a resolution, was in my mind, when I learned fortune was again sending me to San Juan."

She showed the pleasure that was rioting in her heart—the reconciliation seemed drawing very near.

"And you leave—to-morrow, senor?"

"Yes, the sooner I get away from Dublin the better for all purposes. I have discovered that the mission of those who sought aid here has been balked. Just now the sentiment of the Irish toward England seems softened, and it looks as though by means of kindness and justice, the wrongs of the past may be washed out. We who love the best interests of this green isle hope for great things."

"You go to New York, that great city of which you so often spoke, but which I have never yet seen?"

"No, direct to Porto Rico."

"Indeed. I did not know there were any regular vessels going to Spanish ports in the West Indies."

"This is a special trip."

"Ah! I begin to see. We too, leave to-morrow. Can it be possible you have taken passage on the same boat, the Sterling Castle, a fleet blockade runner?"

Eagerness was written on her lovely face.

Roderic could almost wish he had been lucky enough to have done so, believing that it must have proven a happy voyage for them.

He failed to take into account the elements that would naturally be in charge of such a vessel, and the strong probability that his form must grace a yard arm as an American spy, ere the voyage had been half completed.

"I am sorry to say that opportunity is denied me. My cousin owns a steam yacht, which she has loaded with stores and medicines to be taken to Porto Rico, which island she believes has been quite forgotten by Miss Barton and her Red Cross movement. I shall be a passenger on board, and be secretly put ashore to fulfill my work."

A sudden change came over the girl's face—there was a drop of fifty degrees in temperature. A smiling summer sky had been blotted out by a rude wintry blizzard—the smile gave way to a look of pain, almost a frown. These passion flowers of the south know little of the art that consists in concealing the emotions—honest love or hate flashes quickly upon the countenance, for they brook no rivals.

"Your cousin—Miss Fairfax of Virginia, the daughter of a fortune, who is ready to cast all she owns at your feet—and you are to sail with her—you will be in her company ten days, two weeks perhaps. Santa Maria! then you will forget me, forget everything but her blue eyes that look like the Porto Rico skies at sunset."

It was almost a piteous wail to which she gave vent, and Roderic, his heart touched, realizing that the chance for which he yearned had come, sprang forward and threw an arm around the girl.

She had repulsed him before, but with a fierce jealousy raging in her heart she was no longer capable of such heroics.

So she yielded herself a willing captive to his embraces—her heart had ever been true, why should she not enjoy a fleeting spell of bliss?

Looking down into her confused face upon which his kisses were yet warm, he said, with a quiet assurance that did much to convince her:

"Sweetheart, I have known Cleo all my life. I love her as a sister, for she is a noble woman; but I never have given and never could give her an iota of the idolatrous passion that has filled my heart for you. You have believed me before—trust me now. I live only in the hope of wiping out my shameful action of the past, and of winning you for my own. Are you satisfied?"

"But she cares for you, Roderic; your fair cousin!"

"You declare so—I can hardly believe it."

"But I know it—she would make a far better wife for you than might a poor daughter of Porto Rico," weakly, almost piteously.

"I am the judge of that, and I would snatch you to my heart against all the world."

"She has great wealth," watching him yearningly.

"I love only you, my darling."

"She is cultivated, refined, as you say a noble woman, while I am poor, with only my face and a worshiping heart to bring you."

"But I adore you—life without you would be a dreary waste," he steadfastly declared.

His simple argument convinced even the little skeptic.

"Then God's will be done—I am yours again when you have fulfilled your penance, Senor Roderic."

Just as he was about to ratify the treaty with a lover's kiss there was a tremendous bellow, as if some mad bull had broken loose from confinement, and into the half darkened apartment came the tall figure of General Porfidio, her guardian.

CHAPTER VII.
THE SWORD DUEL IN THE EAST INDIAN BUNGALOW.

Surrounded by a thousand mementoes of India as he was, in this quaint bungalow on the Rathmines road, Roderic Owen might well have been pardoned had he allowed imagination to have full sway, and looked for some offended satellite of great Buddha to appear with the advent of that bull-like roar.

But it chanced that he knew the sound of old, since the general and himself had many times enjoyed each other's society in San Juan when Cupid ruled the camp.

He was not particularly anxious to meet the Porto Rican officer just yet, but being a man who never showed the white feather when face to face with trouble, he wheeled to confront the hurricane just entering.

General Porfidio was a big man, and having a bushy head of white hair his appearance was unusually ferocious, nor did his fierce military mustache and his shaggy eyebrows serve to temper the naturally bellicose looks which a provident Nature had bestowed upon him.

The roar with which he usually spoke accorded well with his whole disposition.

And yet Roderic had seen this terrible man of war become as meek as a little lamb under the thumb of a pretty girl's hand—Georgia knew how to pull his heart strings and bring him to his knees.

He evidently entered the room in a tremendous whirl of excitement.

"Por Dios! so, I have discovered the villain. Roblado swore he saw him enter here, and ran to inform me three blocks away. I have galloped every foot of the distance, and with each yard I swore a fearful oath to have his life, that of the spy who seeks to ruin me in my own house. You hear, sir—I have come to rid the world of a viper. And yet, I would not have it said that Porfidio de Brabant, with the blood of cavaliers in his veins, descended so low as to strike an unarmed man. Turn about, Yankee, and you will see many swords upon the wall behind you. The light still remains good enough to allow us a few minutes grace. It is all I want—I have not learned my lesson for nothing. What! do you then refuse to defend yourself—then by Our Lady I shall be obliged to spur you on with the flat of my good blade, until I can beat some little courage into your shrinking soul."

He made an aggressive movement, as if about to instantly carry his plan into action.

This was more than Roderic could stand.

He was a fighter by nature, and no man ever had to shake a red flag in front of his eyes in order to arouse his ambition.

Even in the present instance, though he had no desire to meet the general in an affair of honor, the awful threat made by the Porto Rican was too much for his Irish blood.

Consequently he turned to the wall, remembering that his eye had been involuntarily attracted toward a particularly inviting looking slender Hindoo sword made of the finest steel in the world, tempered in Damascus, where the art has been guarded as a secret, lo, these hundreds of years, since the turbulent time of Saracens and Crusaders in fact.

Quickly Roderic snatched this blade from the wall.

It felt like a reliable weapon, and he no sooner clasped his eager fingers about the hilt than he knew he could depend upon it to the death.

Having thus armed himself he whirled about, for the dire threat of the old soldier still stung his ears, and he was mortally afraid the other might in his anger carry it out.

To a proud man like Owen, such an indignity would be worse than the danger of meeting an attack—and especially in her presence.

Thus, when able to flash the jewel hilted East Indian blade around so as to cover any possible attack from the old martinet, Roderic gave vent to an exclamation of satisfaction.

At home with a sword, he felt able to render a good account of his stewardship, since he had long taken a peculiar pride in learning the ways in which various nations handle the weapon—a grizzled old Turk had given him points in Constantinople—from an Algerian desert rover he had learned how they fought with the steel when robbers attacked the caravans—an expert Hindoo juggler who could place an apple on a man's cranium and with a fierce downward stroke sever it completely without harming a hair of the other's head had taken pleasure in teaching him a few tricks, while American cavalrymen had made him an adept with the sabre, and a French fencing master exhausted his repertoire in endeavoring to beat down his defense.

Taken in all, young Owen had no reason to fear any harm when thus given a blade with which to defend himself.

Nor did he mean to demolish the old veteran, with whom he had many times smoked the pipe of peace and good fellowship, exchanging stories of world wide experiences.

All he desired was a chance to defend himself against furious attacks.

Evidently Don Porfidio had not as yet recognized the man in the parlor of his bungalow.

For this, the growing shadows of coming dusk, together with the fury that made his eyes dance in their sockets might be held accountable, rather than any infirmities of coming age.

When the old fire-eater comprehended what the other's action really meant he gave utterance to a snort of satisfaction.

Nothing could please him better than a chance to air his masterly ability with the trenchant blade he had so proudly carried at his side—opportunities for so doing had of late been too few and far between to fully satisfy the vainglorious ambition of the soldier.

He had actually seen much stirring work in the military service of Spain, and was seasoned by a long and hazardous career.

"Carramba!" he cried, "have we then at last one fellow who shirks not the fray? Here's to your lung and an easier way of taking breath."

But somewhat to his surprise the unknown parried his quivering stroke with the utmost ease, and still stood there on guard.

Then the old soldier waxed wroth.

He had been stunned at first, when his blade was so contemptuously turned aside, for this action was not according to the usual way Dame Fortune served such a son of Mars.

Of course he gave utterance to a Spanish execration, such as falls so readily from the lips of these excitable people.

Then he hastily examined his sword, which was found to be in quite as good condition as before, proving that the fault did not lie in that quarter at least.

Having awakened to the knowledge that he had a job cut out before him that would require his utmost endeavors, Don Porfidio braced his bulky frame for a prodigious effort.

As the two antagonists stood there facing one another, like a pair of Roman gladiators about to do battle royal the girl suddenly darted between.

"You must not, shall not fight!" she exclaimed.

The general let out a roar.

"Stand back, on your life, rash girl. This is a business in which I will brook no interference."

"But uncle, dear uncle, you do not know——"

"I know all I desire, and I shall make it my solemn duty to teach this rascal a lesson he will never forget. Therefore I command you, Georgia, to leave the room!"

"No, no, it would be a crime," she continued, endeavoring to cling to his sword arm.

But the testy old don's fighting blood was up, and in such a condition he would stand no interference even from one whom he loved so dearly.

So with his left arm he swept the frail figure of the San Juan belle aside, and at the same time thrust out with his sword.

The weapon met that of Roderic eagerly advanced to receive the thrust, and immediately there followed a clashing and rasping as steel continued to smite its like.

Georgia, finding her efforts to keep the two men apart futile, fell back in dismay from the flash of the writhing swords.

The spectacle appeared to fascinate her for a brief time, so that with clasped hands she stood and gazed, her breath coming in gasps, and with each breath a fervent prayer that the Holy Virgin would intervene to prevent these two men, each of whom was so dear to her, from shedding one another's blood.

Then of a sudden she uttered a bubbling cry—it was not because one or the other had gained the least advantage, for they were still at it, hammer and tongs, the giant man of war trying all his tricks and clever thrusts with disheartening results—a bright thought had flashed into the girl's bewildered brain.

Since Don Porfidio refused to hearken when she attempted to explain matters, perhaps the same hoped-for cessation of active hostilities might be attained through another means.

"A light—let me find a lamp—please Heaven it may not be too late, and these hot heads slaughter each other while I am gone," was what she cried.

No one noticed her disappearance through the door where hung the Bagdad curtains, for both of the gentlemen had their attention fully occupied in another quarter.

When a ferocious old military hero with all his long pent-up love for bloody scenes bursting forth is diligently thrusting right and left with a keen pointed sword, his eagerness increasing with each and every defeat of his plans, there is little chance to observe what may be passing even in the confines of the same apartment.

That was Roderic's condition.

True, he considered himself in no actual danger, unless from an accidental thrust, but all the same the valorous old don was sending them in at white heat, and as the gloaming made it difficult to see with exactness, there was need of great caution.

The sparks flew whenever the hostile blades struck violently together, and taken altogether it was about as pretty and interesting a picture as one would wish to see.

When he found his favorite blows turned aside with so masterly a hand, the general's rage began to partially give way to admiration, for he was an ardent lover of fine sword play no matter where found, in Arab, Moor or Cossack.

He still continued to bellow, for it was a part of his nature to do so, but mingled with his furious phrases were cries that betokened amazement, delight, suspicion.

Perhaps he recognized something familiar about the method employed by his antagonist in defending himself.

Swordsmen have their peculiar tactics or individualities, that crop out strongly, and doubtless in the good old days when Senor Owen was a welcome visitor at the hacienda of Don Porfidio the two may have crossed blades occasionally, if only to illustrate some point in a story.

In due time the Porto Rican must have puzzled out the solution of the mystery.

He was not given time just now.

Roderic, finding that the other was making a most wicked series of lunges at his heart, and fearful lest some accident might occur that would place him at the mercy of Don Porfidio, concluded to wind up the matter in a manner that was more to his liking.

So he let loose a few cards which he had, figuratively speaking, been holding up his sleeve—in other words he let out an extra supply of ability and forced the fighting.

It was all up with the general.

He knew full well he was in the hands of a master, and that while the duel was fated to be cut as short as he wished, the outcome might hardly be to his liking.

The old don had been over confident, and he now fell into something like a panic.

True, he battled on with just as much vim as before, but desperation nerved his arm rather than the old time enthusiasm.

When Roderic discovered his chance he whipped the other's supple blade out of his nerveless hand with consummate ease.

Don Porfidio uttered a cry of rage and stupefaction.

"Carramba! you have done it—now take your revenge, Senor Spy!" he ejaculated, despairingly.

He folded his arms across his quivering chest and faced what he supposed would be immediate death without flinching.

Roderic drew back his sword, but the old warrior made no appeal for mercy.

A Spaniard may appear cruel according to Anglo-Saxon ways of looking at things, but no race of men has shown more splendid courage in battle or upon the terrible unknown seas of the fifteenth century.

Roderic turning hung his East Indian blade once more upon the wall, doubtless to the sore amazement of the soldier.

It was at this juncture Georgia came hastily into the room bearing an antique lamp which her trembling fingers had succeeded in lighting.

Upon her face was an anxious, almost terrified expression, as though she half expected to find one or both of the men lying there in their blood.

To see them standing there unarmed was a joyous revelation.

As for the old soldier, the truth flashed upon him with a shock, when his eyes beheld a face he long had known.

"Holy Father, is it you Senor Owen? Dolt, idiot that I was not to recognize the familiar swing of your cunning sword arm. I am pleased to meet you again—as, I am furiously angry because all these months you have neglected this sweet flower, and caused her much suffering."

Thus he rambled on, halting between his natural affection for the young American, yet holding back on account of race enmity, since Spanish and American arms now clashed.

Roderic knew he had a difficult piece of work cut out for him.

It had been child's play to disarm the old gentleman, but to avoid an open rupture must tax his ingenuity.

Perhaps, with the help of the girl it might be made possible.

At any rate he was bound to try for the sake of peace in the family.

"General, that I have lost the sweet friendship, and society of your niece and ward during all these months is my misfortune. She has, like an angel of light, forgiven me. It was all a terrible mistake, caused by jealousy on my part.

"You as a man who has seen the world in all its phases can understand my position. I am humiliated in her presence. We expect to forget all that is bitter in the past, and start afresh, for no other has held the cords to my heart save Georgia—though I believed her lost to me forever, I have been always faithful to our love.

"General, our countries are at war, but that does not make us enemies. I would esteem it an honor to shake your hand again and hear you say you do not bear me malice where she has forgiven."

The veteran was touched.

He was human, and it flattered him to think that this young American, who had just disarmed him with such ease, should still yearn for his friendly interest.

Don Porfidio was genial despite his exceeding gruff ways.

"Cospita, hombre, you speak fairly. If the chit of a girl has forgiven what right have I to hold out, though truth to tell I have made many a vow to the Virgin to flay your back when next we met, on account of your wretched flight. Since you ask it so sincerely, and there was always a warm corner of my tough old heart for you Senor Roderic, I see no reason why we should not shake hands and resume our former friendship."

This pleased Owen, who was just in the act of putting out his hand when a rough voice outside was heard calling:

"Senor de Brabant, have you slain the pig of a Yankee spy—is it safe to enter?"

At which Don Porfidio uttered a choking exclamation and letting his hand drop to his side stared at the face of the young American as though the truth had flashed through his brain like an electric bolt.

CHAPTER VIII.
"ADIOS, BELOVED!"

The old Porto Rican dignitary quickly recovered his speech—indeed, it was seldom he could be found in a position where his vocal organs suffered a relapse, since it was almost as natural for Don Porfidio to fume and roar as it was to draw breath.

Suspicion, which had lain dormant in his breast during the last few minutes, on account of his surprise at discovering the identity of his opponent in the sword duel, now once more leaped into a fierce flame.

He remembered why he had rushed to his bungalow quarters with such hot speed.

"The spy, yes, the Yankee spy. Por Dios! I had almost forgotten him. He entered here—Roblado swore it on his honor. I have never as yet seen the rascal and I jumped to the conclusion that you were he. Was it all a mistake, Senor Owen—will you tell me you are not the party Roblado saw—the party he has sworn to tear limb from limb? I await your answer, senor, and give you my word of honor I shall believe what you say," he said, anxiously, eagerly.

Roderic smiled.

It was not because he lacked in respect for the doughty general, who had backed up his hot words with his sword as a brave man should.

The reference to Roblado amused Owen.

He pictured that fire-eater who was yearning to spill his blood, waiting outside the door of the house, where the click of the swords came as sweet music to his ear, waiting until these sounds were heard no longer, when in a mixture of hope and fear he called out:

"Senor de Brabant, have you slain the pig of a Yankee spy—is it safe to enter?"

Of a truth Roblado's heart was as stout as that of the timid lamb gamboling on the green, and when he roared it was as fiercely as a sucking dove.

Roderic was ever frank—it is a policy that pays best in the end.

"I do not claim the name of a spy, senor, but it would be foolish of me to deny that I am in the secret diplomatic service of my country—that my presence here has been to discover why Spanish agents congregate in Dublin. As to why I am under your roof, it is a purely personal matter that drew me. I chanced to be passing and saw your niece at the window. Resolved to make my peace with her I boldly demanded admittance, and she has been angel enough to forgive. Senor, that is all—you believe me?"

Roderic was a man whose very face was a passport among his fellows.

What he said usually carried weight.

Of old he had exerted great influence over the don, who had almost loved him as his own at the time jealousy broke up the combination.

This feeling was once more sweeping over the general—there is a fascination about some men that is very hard to resist.

Possibly he might have again thrust out his hand despite Roblado and his hatred for Yankees in general.

Other voices were heard outside—Roblado was endeavoring to explain to the new arrivals who had just appeared upon the scene.

Perhaps, not having received any answer to his frenzied calls to the general, he jumped to the conclusion that the boot was on the other leg, and the veteran had received his quietus at the hands of the miserable American "pig."

In numbers there is courage and strength.

Even Roblado could be valorous when backed up by half a dozen comrades.

The cramp in his abdomen, which had necessarily prevented him from rushing in and annihilating the Yankee, now left him as if by magic, and when the group of conspirators crushed through the doorway Roblado led the van.

Such valor! no wonder Spain has in ages past swept like a whirlwind over the known world—it was certainly worthy of the Dark Ages.

Roderic was taken at a disadvantage, for he had not expected such hostile measures.

He thought to again snatch the sword that had already served him so well, but ere this could be done one of the new comers had hurled his weight upon him.

Had these two been let alone, Owen would surely have done the other injury in short order, for his trained muscles were aching for active service, and the Spaniard was really no match for him.

This style of carrying on the affair did not seem to suit the others, however.

What was the use of having an advantage if it were not enforced?

Such logic carried the day, and when Roderic found the half dozen hanging upon him from all quarters he ceased struggling, knowing the folly of such a useless endeavor to win out.

It was a great victory.

His captors surrounded him, every man holding on to some part of his apparel.

Their swarthy faces beamed with pleasure, as though this might be taken as a forerunner of the great triumph reserved for their nation when the somnolence of many years had been thrown aside.

Roblado was in his element.

He had a military or naval cut about his appearance, and no doubt could swell with importance when on the deck of his ship or at the head of his brigade.

"Tis well, comrades, we have secured the beast. What can prevail against Spanish valor? Those who are foolish enough to get in our way must pay the penalty, poor fools. Now that we have caught the great American eagle what shall we do with him?" he asked, still maintaining a consequential grip upon Roderic's coat tails.

"Clip his wings!" said one in Castilian.

Various other suggestions were offered, some amusing, others diabolical in their cruelty.

Roderic laughed good naturedly.

"Ah! gentlemen all," he remarked in that calm and pleasant way that indicates perfect control over the emotions, "you seem to forget you are not in Spain or Cuba, where such delightful little picnic parties as you mention are of daily occurrence. You are in the dominion of Her Majesty Queen Victoria—her officers are watching every move you make, and at this moment the shadow of Portland prison hangs over you, every man.

"Don't imagine for a moment my presence is not known to these men from Scotland Yard, for we are working hand in glove. I am in your power, and you may do as you please, but mark me, if a hair of my head is injured every man here will be in irons before two hours have passed. That is all!"

It was enough.

The Jack Spaniards were shaky at the knees.

Their respect for grim English laws and customs was bred in the bone—since the days when the Great Armada was destroyed by Providence and British valor, these people of the Iberian peninsula have seldom desired to pick a quarrel with Albion.

So, upon hearing what Owen had to say, they looked at each other fearfully and then eyed the doors and windows as though half expecting to see the officers representing good old English law bursting upon the scene.

Naturally a cock fights best upon his own ground, and this is particularly true of Spaniards as a people.

Handicapped by their presence under a flag that was known to be more friendly toward the Americans than any other among the Powers, they found their claws cut.

A hasty council of war was entered into.

Self preservation is the first law of nature, and they were clamorous as to the means to be employed that would best insure his safety.

No matter how wretched the cur, he has the same inherent love of life that nature gives to the finest created creature.

Several times Don Porfidio attempted to take the reins and drive, but a spirit of communism was rampant, and the others would yield to no dictation.

At other times perhaps they would give ready heed to all he had to say, since he occupied a high position in the councils of Spain; but just now all were on a common level and it was a case of life and death they had to settle.

At length it was decided.

Senor Owen should not be put to death, but held a prisoner until they could hastily leave Dublin bay on board the blockade runner as per their previous arrangement.

It was only hastening plans that had already been well arranged.

The young girl stood there an anxious spectator, while her lover's fate was being decided, and when the final ultimatum had been rendered she gave him a pleased smile of encouragement.

Roderic, wise man, had made up his mind not to resist the decree of fate, especially since it appeared that he would only be put to a little inconvenience and encounter small danger.

He had no desire to provoke the anger of these men further than was necessary—there would come a time when he might meet them face to face on equal terms, with weapons in his hands, and until that hour it was policy for him to laugh and let them have their sweet way.

A long lane it is that has no turning.

His time would come sooner or later.

Then the blustering Roblado might be made to sing more softly, and those who handled him so roughly be compelled to take a turn themselves.

Surrounded by the voluble and excited group, the American was led down into the cellar of the unique bungalow on the Rathmines road.

Here they left him, with fervent hopes, openly expressed that the rats would feed upon his wretched porcine carcass, and never allow him to again see the light of day.

Owen was not in despair.

On the contrary it is doubtful whether in all fair Dublin that night a lighter heart could have been found than his.

There was reason for it too.

As to the danger menacing him, he laughed that to scorn—it was only a little adventure after all, one of many that marked his life.

He had won back the treasure that was almost beyond his reach, and the man who found himself secure in the love of that divine girl had cause for deep and heart-felt satisfaction.

Roderic could never tell how it ever came these fellows neglected to take what portable property he chanced to carry.

It was really a remarkable omission and might be laid to the fact of their being gentlemen though he himself was rather inclined to believe the truth rested in another quarter—that they had been ashamed in the presence of Georgia, and likewise confused by his positive statement about the Scotland Yard officers on their trail.

Having a deep seated aversion to English prisons, quite excusable, they had found their nerves unstrung.

Hence Roderic profited by their confusion.

He hunted up a cigar and a match.

That was comfort enough for half an hour.

The future could take care of itself.

Such is the philosophy of a dare devil who, from long familiarity has conceived a species of contempt for danger.

He could hear some one moving about above, and understood that the general must be preparing to leave the odd little furnished cottage which he had hired.

More time passed.

Owen was only waiting until they left the house, when he would undertake to get free from his prison.

No ordinary cellar was constructed that could restrain a man of his ability for any great length of time.

An occasional flash from a match kept him informed as to the flight of time.

These brief periods of illumination also gave him some conception as to his surroundings, and he was thus enabled to figure as to what shape his action should take in order to bring the most speedy results.

At length all seemed to become quiet above.

He had heard several doors slam.

Doubtless the doughty general and his lovely ward had sallied forth to board the blockade runner that was to take them across the ocean.

Roderic sighed to think he would not see her again for, Heaven alone knew how long.

Never mind, he had experienced a foretaste of Paradise on this evening which he would have considered cheaply purchased had he been compelled to meet ten times as many difficulties in order to win it.

It had brightened his life and given him something blessed for which to live.

Filled with zeal, as though inspired to prove himself worthy of the dear girl who had so readily forgiven his cruel desertion because of the great love she bore him, Owen arose.

First of all he stretched himself, as though feeling of his strength.

He had resolved to bend his energies upon the door of the subterranean prison, as offering the best possible opportunity for escape.

So he groped his way to the stone steps and made his way upward.

At length he touched the door.

Of course it was fast.

Those vindictive Spaniards had meant what they said, and really hoped he might be kept down below until so weakened by hunger that he could put up but a feeble defense against the great gaunt Dublin sewer rats.

Which shows how little they knew a progressive Yankee, and his inventive abilities that stop at nothing when the occasion makes demands.

Roderic knew how to assail such a door.

He smiled disdainfully when he found they had actually left the key in the lock.

What a snap it was.

Why these fellows were hardly out of their swaddling clothes when it came to outwitting a twentieth century Yankee.

He thought he would start operations upon that door immediately.

Then his mind changed for a sound reached his ears—some one was approaching—he could even see a gleam of light from under the door.

Now they stood without with only the door between.

He heard a key turned in the lock.

Roderic braced himself for a struggle, not knowing but what one of the most vindictive Spaniards, Roblado perhaps, had crept back, resolved to have a dark revenge.

Thus, half crouching on the steps, he awaited the opening of the door.

Now it moved.

He had a glimpse of a flaring candle held in a small hand, and then came sudden darkness, for a draught from the cellar had snuffed out the flame.

But Roderic had in that one glance seen enough to arouse the most delightful sensations within his heart.

A voice, low and soft but sweeter than a breath from Cathay reached his ears and set the music throbbing in his heart.

"Senor Roderic—hola, it is I!"

"God bless you—I am here within reach. Hold steady and let me touch you, lest I believe I am only dreaming, my darling."

And he immediately held her little loyal form within the shelter of his arms, though when he rained burning kisses on her lips she struggled to be free.

"This is no time for that. Holy mother, what a rude man you are, Senor Roderic. Release me, I beg, I command. Remember he must win who wears. You have a duty to perform."

"Which shall be accomplished with Heaven's help. But I thought you were gone, sweetheart?"

"We are just starting—the cart is at the door, and uncle is waiting."

"Then he knows why you return?"

"Yes. He made only one stipulation."

"What is it?"

"Your promise not to move a hand until dawn, to prevent our sailing on the Sterling Castle."

Roderic breathed easier.

"Tell the dear old governor I give that most willingly. You know I leave here myself in a comparatively few hours."

"Then I must go."

"You leave me—we may never meet again."

"The Virgin watch over you," she faltered.

"Will you go without one parting embrace—ah! the world is wide and danger lurks everywhere when people are at war. One kiss sweetheart, of your own free will—it may be a talisman to guard me against evil."

He pleaded not in vain.

A pair of soft arms were thrown around his neck, and not one but a dozen kisses rained upon his lips—then when he would have sought to detain her she eluded his grasp and flitted away in the dark, her gentle "adios, beloved," sounding like a benediction to his ravished ears.

A few minutes later he heard the roll of wheels, as the jaunting car took them to the distant quay.

"She is gone, Heaven bless her," he muttered—"lucky man that I am, thrice blessed to be beloved by two such charming creatures; to me there is only one who can fill the longing of my heart and she has just left me."

And this was the reason Roderic turned up at the Shelbourne late that night looking like a man who had supped with adventure.

CHAPTER IX.
DOWN THE IRISH COAST.

When Roderic Owen saw the look of deep concern on his cousin's face give way to a radiant expression as he entered the door of the hotel, his heart reproached him.

Here he had been actually reveling in the realms of bliss for the last three hours or more, while Cleo, judging from her appearance, had been "plunged in a gulf of dark despair," or at least considerably worried over the fact of his singular disappearance.

It was really too bad.

Her faithful heart had yearned after him, just as a loving sister's might for the absent one—the two girls were so entirely unlike in looks and temperament that it never occurred to him to compare Cleo's affection with that of Georgia—and yet it was of the kind that lasts through life.

Feeling that somehow he had caused Cleo considerable anxiety, and being conscience stricken on account of his own present happiness, Roderic advanced hastily to ascend the broad stairs and meet her on the landing above.

"You were worried about me, dear cousin?"

"Naturally so—all day you have been away—and to-morrow we sail—unless something important has happened, to alter your plans," she replied, her face flushing at the eager manner in which he caught her hand.

"Something important has happened, but it will not delay our leaving Dublin to-morrow," he replied, mentally deciding that the time had come for him to confide his secret to this tender heart.

If it brought pain, God forgive him, since he was unwittingly the cause, but sooner or later Cleo must learn the truth, and the occasion seemed to demand that he speak now.

They were alone, but it was very public—perhaps a quiet nook in one of the small parlors would suit better for a confessional.

"Come with me, dear cousin—I have much to tell you—much that concerns my past and promises to control my future," he said, earnestly.

"Ah," thought Cleo, as she followed his eager steps, "it is coming—he has seen her again, this Georgia whom he knew and loved in San Juan. I must crush down my own feelings in the matter and appear just what he believes me—an affectionate comrade, a loving sister."

That was a heroine for you—it is not given of all women to be Joan of Arcs, but occasion may arise in any life calling for as much determined spirit and heroism as the noble Maid of Orleans ever boasted.

The bijou parlor was entirely deserted, though still lighted, and over in a cozy corner where a pile of cushions invited Oriental comfort they settled down for a little private talk.

Some men would have opened up in an evasive manner and told as little as necessity demanded.

Not so Roderic Owen.

When a task was set before him, no matter how unpleasant or embarrassing, his method was to plunge squarely into it, neither sparing himself nor seeking glory from the recital.

So he told how he had met the lovely belle of the Porto Rico capital—the strange and romantic manner in which Providence seemed to delight in throwing them together, and how he was enabled to save her great inconvenience, if not her life—of the mutual attachment that naturally sprang up between them that rapidly ripened into a passion—of their engagement and the glorious weeks succeeding, when they lived in Paradise.

Then came the serpent in Eden—coquetry on the girl's part, rank jealousy on his, without just cause it had proved.

After that, hot words, violent separation—the old, old story of wounded hearts, so many times repeated in the history of the world—of two souls intended for each other, wandering about the earth estranged, because of hasty temper.

To all of this Cleo listened with deepest sympathy marked upon her face.

What pain her heart experienced would never be known to the world, for she crushed this down with a resolute hand.

Woman was created to withstand most of the suffering in this world—Providence endowed her with a larger capacity for such endurance than man; just as the lord of creation was given the spirit of the chase, of battle, and as the bread-winner in life's strife.

Finally Roderic brought the story to Dublin and told how Georgia disguised as a Sister of the Holy Grail, warned him, though so well had she concealed her identity that he had not guessed it until after she had gone.

This brought him down to the time he was passing on the Rathmine car, and had a glimpse of the girl he loved in the window of the quaint East India bungalow.

He was a good story teller, and the subject one in which his whole heart was engaged, so that he quickly held the girl spell-bound as he described how the reconciliation was brought about.

When he finally told how Georgia allowed him to take her in his arms, Cleo smiled to hide the aching heart she carried, and which she feared might betray its pain upon her face.

Of course she thought that was the end.

"You love her with a deathless devotion, cousin—she has become a sine qua non to your existence?" she remarked, to hide her little tremor, her pallor and any confusion that might appear.

"She is the life of my life—I had gone to the point of being an old bachelor, cousin, without ever falling in love—indeed, I had begun to doubt seriously whether my nature was capable of any passion, for my devotion to your cousinly self had been the only affection I had ever known—when she crossed my path like a brilliant meteor and from that day to this I have not known the old peace. Yes, I love her with heart and soul—as you say it truly seems as though this dark-eyed girl had become an indispensable condition to my existence. I tell you this knowing how much you care for my happiness—how you sympathize with my griefs and rejoice when prosperity finds me."

Perhaps it was cruel to say this, but remember that Owen found it almost impossible to believe Cleo entertained a passion for him beyond that calm, cousinly affection.

Besides, it was a part of his religion that heroic treatment was always best.

If he had an unpleasant duty to perform the sooner it was done the better for his peace of mind.

"You say this happened at about dusk?" she asked.

"Yes, I was hurrying to the hotel to dress so that I might eat dinner with you."

"Possibly at seven," with an arch glance in the direction of a little ormolu clock upon the mantel, that was merrily ticking away the minutes.

Roderic laughed in some confusion.

"Pray, do not imagine I forgot the lapse of time, since it is now after eleven. Truth to tell I have been a prisoner all this time—not a captive held by Love's silken strands as you suspect."

"A prisoner—oh! Roderic, then that reconciliation was not the end?" she exclaimed, remembering that his appearance was hardly that of a gentleman who exhibited as a usual thing some fastidiousness in his dress.

"Rather it was but the beginning, for at that very moment the gruff old general, her uncle, rushed like a whirlwind into the house, bellowing for a chance to annihilate the Yankee spy whom one of his bold colleagues had seen enter."

"That was exciting enough—I am quite anxious to see that odd old soldier of whom you have spoken so much. But go on—he recognized you?"

"Not at all—the dim light and his passion blinded eyes prevented that. At once he demanded that I take my choice of the various swords on the wall and give him an opportunity to wipe out the insult my presence put upon his dwelling."

"What a ferocious old firebrand he must be. And did she not explain—you said she had usually such power over this uncle?"

"He would not let her say anything, but, wild with anger brushed Georgia aside and swore as only a furious Spaniard could, that unless I at once accepted his benevolent offer of a fair chance to defend myself, he would lay the flat of his sword on me, and use his boot in ejecting me from the premises."

"The old brute—and of course after that, Cousin Roderic, you had to fight?"

"There was no other way of escaping the dilemma. So I snatched a sword from the wall and met his attack. Well, we had quite a lively passage at arms for some minutes. As I had fenced with the old governor often before I knew he was behind the times. Georgia had fled from the room to hunt a lamp. Just as she returned fortune allowed me to disarm the general."

"Ah! yes, it is always fortune and good luck when you manage to succeed, cousin mine," she exclaimed with some heat, "but I know what skill you possess with a sword—I have my own opinion on that score. But go on—Georgia returned with a light at this most interesting juncture?"

"And the general recognized me—he was almost paralyzed, and was ready to forgive my miserable treatment of his niece when he learned that she had done so. Unfortunately his friends rushed in at this juncture, and taking me unawares made me a prisoner."

"Not before one or more had suffered at your hands, I warrant," she asserted, stoutly, for since Roderic would not sound his own trumpet it was necessary that some one else blow it for him.

Ah! the man who has such a faithful heart looking after his interests is blest indeed.

"Well, I must confess I did not inflict much punishment upon them because they hung on like so many leeches, quite overpowering me. Besides, I knew they would hardly dare do me any bodily harm."

Then he told what followed, and how they put him in the cellar to clip his wings, as they said.

Finally came the last scene in the drama where the door opened and he had Georgia in his arms again.

Roderic made little of this, for the conviction was now forcing itself upon even his dull masculine mind that such tender scenes might not be in the best taste possible, considering the circumstances.

"And thus you see me on deck once more, a little the worse for wear perhaps, but ready to sail with you to-morrow, if you say the word," he ended.

"You are happy, Roderic?"

"Yes, God has been very, very good to me. I don't deserve it, cousin."

"You look forward to meeting Georgia in the island beyond the sea?"

"She has already started there, and it would be strange if we did not meet, either before or after San Juan falls into American hands."

"Is she—very beautiful, Roderic?"

"You shall say for yourself when you see her, for it is my fondest hope that you may be the dearest of friends. You will promise me that, Cleo?"

Again she resolutely thrust self aside.

"Whom you love must be a sister to me, cousin. Yes, I give you such a promise willingly."

The rebellion in her heart was kept down with a firm hand—what was human might struggle and cry out, but it could not overcome the divine element that came from Calvary—the desire to sacrifice self for the good of one beloved.