EAGLE SERIES

NO. 329

MY HILDEGARDE

BY
ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

...The...
Eagle Series
of Popular Fiction
PRINCIPALLY COPYRIGHTS
ELEGANT COLORED COVERS

This is the pioneer line of copyright novels. Its popularity has increased with every number, until, at the present time it stands unrivalled as regards sales and contents.

It is composed, mainly, of popular copyrighted titles which cannot be had in any other lines, at any price. The authors, as far as literary ability and reputation are concerned, represent the foremost men and women of their time. The books, without exception, are of entrancing interest and manifestly those most desired by the American reading public. A purchase of two or three of these books, at random, will make you a firm believer that there is no line of novels which can compare favorably with the Eagle Series.

327	—	Was She Wife or Widow?	By Malcolm Bell
326	—	Parted by Fate	By Laura Jean Libbey
325	—	The Leighton Homestead (Double Number)	By Mary J. Holmes
324	—	A Love Match	By Sylvanus Cobb
323	—	The Little Countess	By S. E. Boggs
322	—	Mildred	By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes
321	—	Neva’s Three Lovers (Double Number)	By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
320	—	Mynheer Joe	By St. George Rathborne
319	—	Millbank	By Mary J. Holmes
318	—	Staunch of Heart	By Charles Garvice
317	—	Ione	By Laura Jean Libbey
316	—	Edith Lyle’s Secret (Double Number)	By Mary J. Holmes
315	—	The Dark Secret	By May Agnes Fleming
314	—	A Maid’s Fatal Love	By Helen Corwin Pierce
313	—	A Kinsman’s Sin	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands
312	—	Woven on Fate’s Loom	By Charles Garvice
311	—	Wedded by Fate (Double Number)	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
310	—	A Late Repentance	By Mary A. Denison
309	—	The Heiress of Castle Cliffe	By May Agnes Fleming
308	—	Lady Ryhope’s Lover	By Emma Garrison Jones
307	—	The Winning of Isolde	By St. George Rathborne
306	—	Love’s Golden Rule	By Geraldine Fleming
305	—	Led by Love	By Charles Garvice
304	—	Staunch as a Woman	By Charles Garvice.
303	—	The Queen of the Isle	By May Agnes Fleming.
302	—	When Man’s Love Fades	By Hazel Wood.
301	—	The False and the True	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
300	—	The Spider and the Fly	By Charles Garvice.
299	—	Little Miss Whirlwind	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
298	—	Should She Have Left Him?	By William C. Hudson.
297	—	That Girl from Texas	By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
296	—	The Heir of Vering	By Charles Garvice.
295	—	A Terrible Secret	By Geraldine Fleming.
294	—	A Warrior Bold	By St. George Rathborne.
293	—	For Love of Anne Lambart	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
292	—	For Her Only	By Charles Garvice.
291	—	A Mysterious Wedding Ring	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
290	—	A Change of Heart	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
289	—	Married in Mask	By Mansfield T. Walworth.
288	—	Sibyl’s Influence	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
287	—	The Lady of Darracourt	By Charles Garvice.
286	—	A Debt of Vengeance	By Mrs. E. Burke Collins.
285	—	Born to Betray	By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
284	—	Dr. Jack’s Widow	By St. George Rathborne.
283	—	My Lady Pride	By Charles Garvice.
282	—	The Forsaken Bride	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
281	—	For Love Alone	By Wenona Gilman.
280	—	Love’s Dilemma	By Charles Garvice.
279	—	Nina’s Peril	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
278	—	Laura Brayton	By Julia Edwards.
277	—	Brownie’s Triumph	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
276	—	So Nearly Lost	By Charles Garvice.
275	—	Love’s Cruel Whim	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
274	—	A Romantic Girl	By Evelyn E. Green.
273	—	At Swords’ Points	By St. George Rathborne.
272	—	So Fair, So False	By Charles Garvice.
271	—	With Love’s Laurel Crowned	By W. C. Stiles.
270	—	Had She Foreseen	By Dora Delmar.
269	—	Brunette and Blonde	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
268	—	Olivia; or, It Was for Her Sake	By Charles Garvice.
267	—	Jeanne	By Charles Garvice.
266	—	The Welfleet Mystery	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
265	—	First Love is Best	By S. K. Hocking.
264	—	For Gold or Soul	By Lurana W. Sheldon.
263	—	An American Nabob	By St. George Rathborne.
262	—	A Woman’s Faith	By Henry Wallace.
261	—	A Siren’s Heart	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
260	—	At a Girl’s Mercy	By Jean Kate Ludlum.
259	—	By a Golden Cord	By Dora Delmar.
258	—	An Amazing Marriage	By Mrs. Sumner Hayden.
257	—	A Martyred Love	By Charles Garvice.
256	—	Thy Name is Woman	By F. H. Howe.
255	—	The Little Marplot	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
254	—	Little Miss Millions	By St. George Rathborne.
253	—	A Fashionable Marriage	By Mrs. Alex Frazer.
252	—	A Handsome Sinner	By Dora Delmar.
251	—	When Love is True	By Mable Collins.
250	—	A Woman’s Soul	By Charles Garvice.
249	—	What Love Will Do	By Geraldine Fleming.
248	—	Jeanne, Countess Du Barry	By H. L. Williams.
247	—	Within Love’s Portals	By Frank Barrett.
246	—	True to Herself	By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
245	—	A Modern Marriage	By Clara Lanza.
244	—	A Hoiden’s Conquest	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
243	—	His Double Self	By Scott Campbell.
242	—	A Wounded Heart	By Charles Garvice.
241	—	Her Love and Trust	By Adeline Sergeant.
240	—	Saved by the Sword	By St. George Rathborne.
239	—	Don Cæsar De Bazan	By Victor Hugo.
238	—	That Other Woman	By Annie Thomas.
237	—	Woman or Witch?	By Dora Delmar.
235	—	Gratia’s Trials	By Lucy Randall Comfort.
234	—	His Mother’s Sin	By Adeline Sergeant.
233	—	Nora	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
232	—	A Debt of Honor	By Mabel Collins.
230	—	A Woman’s Atonement, and A Mother’s Mistake	By Adah M. Howard.
229	—	For the Sake of the Family	By May Crommelin.
228	—	His Brother’s Widow	By Mary Grace Halpine.
227	—	For Love and Honor	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
226	—	The Roll of Honor	By Annie Thomas.
225	—	A Miserable Woman	By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
224	—	A Sister’s Sacrifice	By Geraldine Fleming.
223	—	Leola Dale’s Fortune	By Charles Garvice.
222	—	The Lily of Mordaunt	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
221	—	The Honorable Jane	By Annie Thomas.
220	—	A Fatal Past	By Dora Russell.
219	—	Lost, A Pearle	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
218	—	A Life for a Love	By Mrs. L. T. Meade.
217	—	His Noble Wife	By George Manville Fenn.
216	—	The Lost Bride	By Clara Augusta.
215	—	Only a Girl’s Love	By Charles Garvice.
214	—	Olga’s Crime	By Frank Barrett.
213	—	The Heiress of Egremont	By Mrs. Harriet Lewis.
212	—	Doubly Wronged	By Adah M. Howard.
211	—	As We Forgive	By Lurana W. Sheldon.
210	—	Wild Oats	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
209	—	She Loved but Left Him	By Julia Edwards.
208	—	A Chase for a Bride	By St. George Rathborne.
207	—	Little Golden’s Daughter	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
206	—	A Daughter of Maryland	By G. Waldo Browne.
205	—	If Love Be Love	By D. Cecil Gibbs.
204	—	With Heart So True	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
203	—	Only One Love	By Charles Garvice.
202	—	Marjorie	By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
201	—	Blind Elsie’s Crime	By Mary Grace Halpine.
200	—	In God’s Country	By D. Higbee.
199	—	Geoffrey’s Victory	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
198	—	Guy Kenmore’s Wife, and The Rose and the Lily	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
197	—	A Woman Scorned	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
196	—	A Sailor’s Sweetheart	By the author of Dr. Jack.
195	—	Her Faithful Knight	By Gertrude Warden.
194	—	A Sinless Crime	By Geraldine Fleming.
193	—	A Vagabond’s Honor	By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
192	—	An Old Man’s Darling, and Jacquelina	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
191	—	A Harvest of Thorns	By Mrs. H. C. Hoffman.
190	—	A Captain of the Kaiser	By St. George Rathborne.
189	—	Berris	By Katharine S. MacQuoid.
188	—	Dorothy Arnold’s Escape	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
187	—	The Black Ball	By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
186	—	Beneath a Spell	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
185	—	The Adventures of Miss Volney	By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
184	—	Sunlight and Gloom	By Geraldine Fleming.
183	—	Quo Vadis	By Henryk Sienkiewicz.
182	—	A Legal Wreck	By William Gillette.
181	—	The Baronet’s Bride	By May Agnes Fleming.
180	—	A Lazy Man’s Work	By Frances Campbell Sparhawk.
179	—	One Man’s Evil	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
178	—	A Slave of Circumstances	By Ernest De Lancey Pierson.
177	—	A True Aristocrat	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
176	—	Jack Gordon, Knight Errant	By William C. Hudson. (Barclay North).
175	—	For Honor’s Sake	By Laura C. Ford.
174	—	His Guardian Angel	By Charles Garvice.
173	—	A Bar Sinister	By the author of Dr. Jack.
172	—	A King and a Coward	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
171	—	That Dakota Girl	By Stella Gilman.
170	—	A Little Radical	By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
169	—	The Trials of an Actress	By Wenona Gilman.
168	—	Thrice Lost, Thrice Won	By May Agnes Fleming.
167	—	The Manhattaners	By Edward S. Van Zile.
166	—	The Masked Bridal	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
165	—	The Road of the Rough	By Maurice M. Minton.
164	—	Couldn’t Say No	By the author of Helen’s Babies.
163	—	A Splendid Egotist	By Mrs. J. H. Walworth.
162	—	A Man of the Name of John	By Florence King.
161	—	Miss Fairfax of Virginia	By the author of Dr. Jack.
160	—	His Way and Her Will	By Frances Aymar Mathews.
159	—	A Fair Maid of Marblehead	By Kate Tannatt Woods.
158	—	Stella, the Star	By Wenona Gilman.
157	—	Who Wins?	By May Agnes Fleming.
156	—	A Soldier Lover	By Edward S. Brooks.
155	—	Nameless Dell	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
154	—	Husband and Foe	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
153	—	Her Son’s Wife	By Hazel Wood.
152	—	A Mute Confessor	By Will N. Harben.
151	—	The Heiress of Glen Gower	By May Agnes Fleming.
150	—	Sunset Pass	By General Charles King.
149	—	The Man She Loved	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
148	—	Will She Win?	By Emma Garrison Jones.
147	—	Under Egyptian Skies	By the author of Dr. Jack.
146	—	Magdalen’s Vow	By May Agnes Fleming.
145	—	Country Lanes and City Pavements	By Maurice M. Minton.
144	—	Dorothy’s Jewels	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
143	—	A Charity Girl	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
142	—	Her Rescue from the Turks	By the author of Dr. Jack.
141	—	Lady Evelyn	By May Agnes Fleming.
140	—	That Girl of Johnson’s	By Jean Kate Ludlum.
139	—	Little Lady Charles	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
138	—	A Fatal Wooing	By Laura Jean Libbey.
137	—	A Wedded Widow	By T. W. Hanshew.
136	—	The Unseen Bridegroom	By May Agnes Fleming.
135	—	Cast Up by the Tide	By Dora Delmar.
134	—	Squire John	By the author of Dr. Jack.
133	—	Max	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
132	—	Whose Was the Crime?	By Gertrude Warden.
131	—	Nerine’s Second Choice	By Adelaide Stirling.
130	—	A Bitter Bondage	By Bertha M. Clay.
129	—	In Sight of St. Paul’s	By Sutton Vane.
128	—	The Scent of the Roses	By Dora Delmar.
127	—	Nobody’s Daughter	By Clara Augusta.
126	—	The Girl from Hong Kong	By the author of Dr. Jack.
125	—	Devil’s Island	By A. D. Hall.
124	—	Prettiest of All	By Julia Edwards.
123	—	Northern Lights	By A. D. Hall.
122	—	Grazia’s Mistake	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
121	—	Cecile’s Marriage	By Lucy Randall Comfort.
120	—	The White Squadron	By T. C. Harbaugh.
119	—	An Ideal Love	By Bertha M. Clay.
118	—	Saved from the Sea	By Richard Duffy.
117	—	She Loved Him	By Charles Garvice.
116	—	The Daughter of the Regiment	By Mary A. Denison.
115	—	A Fair Revolutionist	By the author of Dr. Jack.
114	—	Half a Truth	By Dora Delmar.
113	—	A Crushed Lily	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
112	—	The Cattle King	By A. D. Hall.
111	—	Faithful Shirley	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
110	—	Whose Wife Is She?	By Annie Lisle.
109	—	A Heart’s Bitterness	By Bertha M. Clay.
108	—	A Son of Mars	By the author of Dr. Jack.
107	—	Carla; or, Married at Sight	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
106	—	Lilian, My Lilian	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
105	—	When London Sleeps	By Chas. Darrell.
104	—	A Proud Dishonor	By Genie Holzmeyer.
103	—	The Span of Life	By Sutton Vane.
102	—	Fair But Faithless	By Bertha M. Clay.
101	—	A Goddess of Africa	By the author of Dr. Jack.
100	—	Alice Blake	By Francis S. Smith.
99	—	Audrey’s Recompense	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
98	—	Claire	By Charles Garvice.
97	—	The War Reporter	By Warren Edwards.
96	—	The Little Minister	By J. M. Barrie.
95	—	’Twixt Love and Hate	By Bertha M. Clay.
94	—	Darkest Russia	By H. Grattan Donnelly.
93	—	A Queen of Treachery	By T. W. Hanshew.
92	—	Humanity	By Sutton Vane.
91	—	Sweet Violet	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
90	—	For Fair Virginia	By Russ Whytal.
89	—	A Gentleman from Gascony	By Bicknell Dudley.
88	—	Virgie’s Inheritance	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
87	—	Shenandoah	By J. Perkins Tracy.
86	—	A Widowed Bride	By Lucy Randall Comfort.
85	—	Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold	By Charles Garvice.
84	—	Between Two Hearts	By Bertha M. Clay.
83	—	The Locksmith of Lyons	By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck.
82	—	Captain Impudence	By Edwin Milton Royle.
81	—	Wedded for an Hour	By Emma Garrison Jones.
80	—	The Fair Maid of Fez	By the author of Dr. Jack.
79	—	Marjorie Deane	By Bertha M. Clay.
78	—	The Yankee Champion	By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.
77	—	Tina	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
76	—	Mavourneen	From the celebrated play.
75	—	Under Fire	By T. P. James.
74	—	The Cotton King	By Sutton Vane.
73	—	The Marquis	By Charles Garvice.
72	—	Willful Winnie	By Harriet Sherburne.
71	—	The Spider’s Web	By the author of Dr. Jack.
70	—	In Love’s Crucible	By Bertha M. Clay.
69	—	His Perfect Trust	By a popular author.
68	—	The Little Cuban Rebel	By Edna Winfield.
67	—	Gismonda	By Victorien Sardou.
66	—	Witch Hazel	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
65	—	Won by the Sword	By J. Perkins Tracy.
64	—	Dora Tenney	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
63	—	Lawyer Bell from Boston	By Robert Lee Tyler.
62	—	Stella Stirling	By Julia Edwards.
61	—	La Tosca	By Victorien Sardou.
60	—	The County Fair	By Neil Burgess.
59	—	Gladys Greye	By Bertha M. Clay.
58	—	Major Matterson of Kentucky	By the author of Dr. Jack.
57	—	Rosamond	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
56	—	The Dispatch Bearer	By Warren Edwards.
55	—	Thrice Wedded	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
54	—	Cleopatra	By Victorien Sardou.
53	—	The Old Homestead	By Denman Thompson.
52	—	Woman Against Woman	By Effie Adelaide Rowlands.
51	—	The Price He Paid	By E. Werner.
50	—	Her Ransom	By Charles Garvice.
49	—	None But the Brave	By Robert Lee Tyler.
48	—	Another Man’s Wife	By Bertha M. Clay.
47	—	The Colonel by Brevet	By the author of Dr. Jack.
46	—	Off with the Old Love	By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
45	—	A Yale Man	By Robert Lee Tyler.
44	—	That Dowdy	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
43	—	Little Coquette Bonnie	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
42	—	Another Woman’s Husband	By Bertha M. Clay.
41	—	Her Heart’s Desire	By Charles Garvice.
40	—	Monsieur Bob	By the author of Dr. Jack.
39	—	The Colonel’s Wife	By Warren Edwards.
38	—	The Nabob of Singapore	By the author of Dr. Jack.
37	—	The Heart of Virginia	By J. Perkins Tracy.
36	—	Fedora	By Victorien Sardou.
35	—	The Great Mogul	By the author of Dr. Jack.
34	—	Pretty Geraldine	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
33	—	Mrs. Bob	By the author of Dr. Jack.
32	—	The Blockade Runner	By J. Perkins Tracy.
31	—	A Siren’s Love	By Robert Lee Tyler.
30	—	Baron Sam	By the author of Dr. Jack.
29	—	Theodora	By Victorien Sardou.
28	—	Miss Caprice	By the author of Dr. Jack.
27	—	Estelle’s Millionaire Lover	By Julia Edwards.
26	—	Captain Tom	By the author of Dr. Jack.
25	—	Little Southern Beauty	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
24	—	A Wasted Love	By Charles Garvice.
23	—	Miss Pauline of New York	By the author of Dr. Jack.
22	—	Elaine	By Charles Garvice.
21	—	A Heart’s Idol	By Bertha M. Clay.
20	—	The Senator’s Bride	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
19	—	Mr. Lake of Chicago	By Harry DuBois Milman.
18	—	Dr. Jack’s Wife	By the author of Dr. Jack.
17	—	Leslie’s Loyalty	By Charles Garvice.
16	—	The Fatal Card	By Haddon Chambers and B. C. Stephenson.
15	—	Dr. Jack	By St. George Rathborne.
14	—	Violet Lisle	By Bertha M. Clay.
13	—	The Little Widow	By Julia Edwards.
12	—	Edrie’s Legacy	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
11	—	The Gypsy’s Daughter	By Bertha M. Clay.
10	—	Little Sunshine	By Francis S. Smith.
9	—	The Virginia Heiress	By May Agnes Fleming.
8	—	Beautiful But Poor	By Julia Edwards.
7	—	Two Keys	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
6	—	The Midnight Marriage	By A. M. Douglas.
5	—	The Senator’s Favorite	By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
4	—	For a Woman’s Honor	By Bertha M. Clay.
3	—	He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not	By Julia Edwards.
2	—	Ruby’s Reward	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
1	—	Queen Bess	By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.

MY HILDEGARDE

A Strange Story of Adventure in the Land of
Revolutions

ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

AUTHOR OF

“The Winning of Isolde,” “Little Miss Millions,” “Mynheer Joe,”
“Dr. Jack,” “Miss Fairfax of Virginia,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

My Hildegarde

MY HILDEGARDE.

[CHAPTER I. GAY OLD BOLIVAR.]
[CHAPTER II. PERHAPS A FOOL’S ERRAND.]
[CHAPTER III. MAN PROPOSES—FATE DISPOSES.]
[CHAPTER IV. WORSE THAN STRANGERS NOW.]
[CHAPTER V. WHERE JEALOUSY CAN LURK, LOVE IS NOT DEAD.]
[CHAPTER VI. A BAD BLUNDER.]
[CHAPTER VII. THE LOST KEY.]
[CHAPTER VIII. MY TURN COMES.]
[CHAPTER IX. SAVING THE SATCHEL.]
[CHAPTER X. THE SAME FOOL.]
[CHAPTER XI. A STERN CHASE.]
[CHAPTER XII. THE LAST RESORT.]
[CHAPTER XIII. LIVELY WHILE IT LASTED.]
[CHAPTER XIV. HILDEGARDE EMBARKS.]
[CHAPTER XV. THE EMBERS ARE STIRRED.]
[CHAPTER XVI. PASSING THE FORT.]
[CHAPTER XVII. AT TWO BELLS.]
[CHAPTER XVIII. THE MOCKERY OF FATE.]
[CHAPTER XIX. “POOR, WEAK, OLD PAPA.”]
[CHAPTER XX. I TRY TO BRIDGE THE CHASM.]
[CHAPTER XXI. IN THE GRASP OF A HURRICANE.]
[CHAPTER XXII. THE HOUR OF PERIL.]
[CHAPTER XXIII. THE WRECK OF THE YACHT.]
[CHAPTER XXIV. A NIGHT OF TERROR.]
[CHAPTER XXV. ON THE BRINK OF ETERNITY.]
[CHAPTER XXVI. THROUGH THE UNDERTOW.]
[CHAPTER XXVII. STRANDED.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HOSPITALITY OF THE ALCALDE.]
[CHAPTER XXIX. THE GUARD I LOVED.]
[CHAPTER XXX. TO THE RESCUE.]
[CHAPTER XXXI. A REVOLUTIONIST.]
[CHAPTER XXXII. WE INVESTIGATE THE AZOTEA.]
[CHAPTER XXXIII. ROBBINS LAUNCHES A THUNDERBOLT.]
[CHAPTER XXXIV. ONE GOOD TURN AND ANOTHER.]
[CHAPTER XXXV. HOW I CHARGED THE CITADEL.]
[CHAPTER XXXVI. THE LAST STRAW.]
[CHAPTER XXXVII. THE AGE OF ENCHANTMENT.]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. A PRESIDENT FOR ONE NIGHT.]
[CHAPTER XXXIX. THE HAND OF THE WIZARD.]
[CHAPTER XL. WON AT LAST.]

CHAPTER I.

GAY OLD BOLIVAR.

I was tremendously jaded, weary of knocking about the world in the vain hope that a succession of strange sights, and rubbing elbows with queer people, might cause me to forget some very unpleasant events in my past; but which obstinately persisted in clinging to me with a zeal I could not appreciate. So it chanced that in my earnest endeavor to run away from the phantom that seemed to pursue me, I managed to double on my trail and actually overtook it.

It was in Bolivar, one of those semi-tropical cities on the great gulf to the South of our American republic. Of course, Bolivar was not the real name, but it will answer the purpose just as well, especially since a narration of the remarkable events that came under my observation there might stir up a hornet’s nest in the gay little republic, should the bare truth be set forth.

Somehow I quite fancied the place.

There was a bustle in the air rather unusual in Latin-American capitals, as though the good people had imbibed some Yankee ambition from their near contact with the States.

Particularly was this the case at this festal season of the year when, in common with most Spanish-speaking people, the citizens of Bolivar entered with heart and soul into the festival of flowers.

There must always be an attraction in a great concourse of merrymaking people absolutely given over to enjoyment; and as I witnessed this mad festival for the first time, I allowed myself to enter into its riotous fun—anything to blot out the memory of the canker worm that had so long held possession in my heart.

Flowers were everywhere—people in all manner of vehicles, gayly decorated, pelted the pedestrians, and were themselves overwhelmed with an avalanche of roses.

Mischievous damsels, lurking in every conceivable balcony or second-story window took great delight in dropping handfuls of rice upon those who passed beneath. Merry laughter sounded on all sides, and it was hard for me to imagine that this gay city was really Bolivar, the mysterious capital, queen of the romantic Gulf, where half the dark conspiracies that startled the Spanish-American republics were hatched; home of revolutionists exiled for the time being from their native shores, and as wicked a place for its size in all probability as might be found upon the entire terrestrial ball.

And when night came the fun waxed more furious than ever—there is always an inspiration about the gloaming to these citizens of semi-tropical marts—the heat of the day gives place to a delicious, cool air that steals in mayhap over the sparkling blue waters of a glorious bay, bringing the odor of sweet incense as of fragment spices—sounds lose their harsh clang and become strangely mellowed; wonderful fireflies flash their electric lanterns abroad, music steals upon the senses from over many a garden wall, where languorous swains thrum upon mandolin or guitar and sing sentimental serenades to dark-eyed maidens.

All these and more greeted eye and ear in the gay capital when the day of frolic was spent, and night drew her dark mantle about the scene.

I wondered at myself for not having long since wearied of the racket, and taken my last look—some unusual nervous tension appeared to have possession of me, and I could not shake it off; looking back, with the knowledge gained by experience, I am fain to believe it must have been a mysterious case of “coming events casting their shadow before.”

At any rate, I continued to roam aimlessly about the streets where the crowds gathered most densely, where the colored lanterns hung in bewildering profusion, and the fun waxed furious. I even laughed heartily at some ridiculous exhibition on the part of young students dressed in wonderful costumes—the whole town had given itself up to mad enjoyment for the time being, and why should not I forget?

To-morrow would be time enough to remember.

Such an impression did the tinkling music, the merry songs, the laughter and cries of the crowd make upon me that it would long haunt my memory as one of the few nights when the miserable past could be utterly forgotten.

And yet I had never been so near the phantom as during those hours.

While I looked and allowed myself to drift with the idle crowd, content to be an atom in the swirling torrent, I suddenly set eyes on a face that gave me the first genuine thrill of pleasure known for many a long, weary day. My languor was gone, as one might cast aside a useless mantle, and eagerly I began to buffet and push a passage through the crowd in the direction of the man who clung to the equestrian statue of the Liberator and surveyed the wonderful scene with marked interest.

More than one black scowl followed my rather rude passage; perhaps, in my eagerness to advance I was not as polite as these good people would like; and they had no especial love for a Yankee at any time.

All the while I kept my eyes riveted upon the man who occupied the exalted perch, and finally, panting from my exertions, I was in a position to pull at his coat.

He looked down curiously.

“Hello!”

There was nothing of recognition in the exclamation—it was rather in the shape of an interrogative, such as might be expected from a man whose attention has been so unceremoniously attracted.

“Robbins—old fellow—awful glad to see you.”

Again he said, “Hello!” but this time with just-awakened interest, bending his head to peer down at me, and finally dropping to the ground, where he could look into my face.

As he suddenly recognized me he gave a shout that sprang straight from the heart, and immediately seized upon my extended hand, squeezing it until I was almost fain to wince under the pressure.

“Morgan Kenneth, and alive! This is the land of enchantment, sure enough. I can scarce believe my eyes. You, that I believed had found a grave under the wild waves in that hurricane at Samoa! God bless you, my boy! I’m delighted to see you again. If it had been my own brother I don’t believe I’d have grieved more. And you’re really alive?”

I tried to convince him, as well as I was able, by begging him to have a little mercy on my poor digits, so he linked arms with me, in order, as I believed, to hold me close to him, for Mate Robbins, like all sailors, had a grain of superstition in his composition, and secretly feared, as he afterward confessed, that I might vanish from his presence if he failed to keep a tight hold upon me.

We stood there and talked, utterly unmindful of the surging, noisy crowd, wholly given over to the pursuit of pleasure.

When last I saw Milo Robbins, he was clinging to the wreck of the good ship Pathfinder, going to pieces upon the Samoan shore, with the hurricane howling like a pack of fiends from Tophet. Men of war were wrecked in that awful tempest, and scores of valiant bluejackets found a grave beneath the waves, or were later cast upon the shore.

I remember as though it were but yesterday how one British war vessel managed to get up steam and crawl slowly out to sea and safety, and how the brave Yankee bluejackets on the other doomed warships, being dragged mercilessly to their awful fate, gave the fortunate English vessel a roaring cheer as she went by—it was a specimen of pluck such as might proceed from no other people.

How I escaped the threatening doom would make a story in itself, and has no place here. I recovered my senses in the hut of a Samoan chief, where I had lain some days, and it was two weeks ere I felt able to go abroad.

Meanwhile Robbins had sailed away on a ship that chanced to be short-handed, and during the years that had elapsed we had believed each other dead.

It seemed a strange and very inappropriate place to exchange such confidences, bringing to mind, as they did, the terrible scenes of storm and disaster; but for the time I utterly ignored the music and laughter, and was once again clinging to that frail bit of wreck, the sport and plaything of the crashing waves, while around me great warships were breaking to pieces on that cruel shore.

How my heart warmed toward this big manly fellow. Secretly I swore in my soul he should not get away from me again, since his coming had brought the first glimpse of sunshine I had known for many a long day.

I noticed that the sturdy mate of the ill-fated Pathfinder eyed me curiously from time to time, nor could I wonder at it.

Time had made many changes in me since last we met, and I had much to tell him when the opportunity offered, that would almost shake his credulity, so like Aladdin’s tale or the story of Fortunatus would it appear.

Robbins still followed the sea, and his arrival at Bolivar on the night of the “festa” was in the nature of an accident—a lucky one I deemed it, since it brought me once again in contact with a valiant, honest spirit I had always greatly admired in the past.

The romance that once infested the ocean is not yet wholly dead; some miserable Lascars in his crew had conspired together, secretly overwhelmed the faithful sailors, and made prisoners of them, put the mate—the captain was killed in the mêlée adrift in a jollyboat and sailed away to perdition, for the vessel was never heard of again.

Robbins’ luck still pursued him, for he was picked up some days later by an English tramp steamer bound for the gulf ports in search of a cargo of bananas and cocoanuts. So he landed in Bolivar without a picayune in his pocket beyond the few dollars loaned him by the English captain of the tramp. I could have shouted when I heard this; he belonged to me, this valorous son of Neptune, and I was pleased to believe my fortune had, indeed, taken a turn for the better; the sea that had snatched him away at Samoa now restored him to me at Bolivar.

Time surely brings its compensations; but there are some things that can never be remedied on earth—at least, I believed so then.

I could picture his honest joy when, later on, I found time to relate my marvelous story of the great spoils that had fallen into my hands, which had brought me happiness for a time and then the blackest misery known on earth—that of being deserted.

How his eyes would shine when I pointed out the trim little steam yacht in the bay and told him that was to be his charge for all time to come.

The thought was so full of pleasure that I yearned for daylight in order to overwhelm him with this surprise; faculties awoke to life that had lain dormant very, very long, and I was surprised to find that I could actually derive pleasure from anticipation.

It must have been all of two hours we stood there by the statue, with the rollicking citizens holding high carnival around us, as though determined to outdo all previous experiences. Our talk was wholly of the past, for I meant to keep my good news until I could point out the gay little craft from my window in the hotel and ask Robbins how he would like to cruise around the universe in her as master, knocking at the door of every celebrated seaport as we went along and drowning dull care in the life of luxurious ease to be found only on board such a trim vessel.

It was hard to restrain myself, but I took a singular pleasure in thinking what a treat I had in store for the morning.

So when Robbins spoke of looking for a new berth on the following day I begged him to leave it with me, as I thought I knew of an opening, and though he must have been more or less mystified by my chuckles and hints, he readily agreed to do so.

“Do they keep this up all night?” he asked, finally, as a fresh outburst occurred and pandemonium reigned for the time being.

“I really don’t know, but it looks that way. Have you seen enough of the nonsense? If so, let’s adjourn to my hotel, where we may find a little quiet and get some sleep. I have more to tell you in the morning—something you might not believe in the midst of all the riot and romance.”

“Wait, shipmate. There’s a little native girl over yonder who’s been gazing at us this ten minutes past. I think she wants to say something and is afraid.”

As he spoke he smiled in his benign way; rough sailor that he was, Mate Robbins certainly had a face that won confidence, and when he thus allowed his bronzed features to relax, his expression was so inviting that the child hesitated no longer, but darted forward.

Of course, I supposed she was only a beggar, better garbed than the general run of them in Bolivar, and so confident did I feel with regard to this thing that I put my hand instinctively into the pocket where I was accustomed to keeping copper coins, to be used on such occasions.

There I paused, for the child, looking up in Robbins’ still smiling face, said quickly:

“You Amer-i-cano, señor?”

Robbins nodded. He was not the man to deny his country, no matter what trouble might be in ambush.

“You read Amer-i-cano?” asked the waif, still more impressively, her bright, black eyes all the while fixed on his own.

“Passably well,” with a double nod.

“It is for you, then,” she said, suddenly thrusting a paper into his hands, and uttering more words in Spanish, among which I detected thanks to her patron saint that she had found such a thing as an American in the hot old town of Bolivar.

CHAPTER II.

PERHAPS A FOOL’S ERRAND.

Curiosity may have had something to do with my leaning over Robbins’ shoulder as he unfolded the paper. I, too, was an American, and had as much right as he to enter into the spirit of the game; besides, if it proved to be a begging epistle, cunningly contrived, as I suspected was the case, I was better able to stand the racket than poor Robbins, just rescued from the sea.

When he had straightened out the paper and held it so that the light from neighboring lamps fell upon its face, I was surprised at two things—the writing was plain English, and it was in a decidedly feminine hand. My eyes read the heading: “To any American in Bolivar,” and somehow it seemed to strike me as an appeal quite out of the ordinary.

Further down I found this idea strengthened and in a manner calculated to touch whatever of manliness there might be in a fellow.

Here, then, is what I read. I write it verbatim, for I have preserved the original as a precious link in the wonderful chain of events that had so much to do with my whole existence, that bound me to the past with its keen pleasure and pain, and connected me with a future:

“I am an American lady in trouble, kept a prisoner against my will by those who conspire to rob me of my liberty and my fortune. I charge you, in the name of high Heaven, you into whose hands this note may chance to fall, to either take this child to the house of the American Consul, and let her tell him where I am, or else endeavor to save me at once. If money is any object, I will pay ten thousand dollars to be placed on board any English or American steamer. I dare not sign my name, but you can trust the child, who is as true as steel. May God deal with you as you listen to the appeal of

“One in Distress.”

That was a remarkable document, surely.

Robbins looked around at me when he had finished, and I could see that not a single doubt occurred to him.

On my part, more suspicious, I had even wondered what sort of a mantrap might be back of this note, for the possession of wealth makes a man more cautious than when he was a penniless voyager on life’s ocean.

Robbins whistled his astonishment.

“Did you ever know such a thing?” he demanded of me.

“Yes; on the stage, an old story. Sometimes the poor fool escaped, but as often he was sandbagged and robbed.”

“You don’t believe it, then?”

“Oh, I won’t say that I’m willing to go as far as any man to test it,” carelessly.

“That’s more like your old self, Morgan, my boy,” he said, heartily; and I wondered whether he would continue to address me in that delightful old familiar way when he learned what a mighty nabob I had become since the hurricane that separated us at Samoa.

I looked at the girl.

She was still watching his face with an eagerness that baffled description.

There could be no doubt that she was wholly devoted to the cause of the author of that wonderful appeal, whether trickery lay back of it or not.

“Come, you know where the consul lives—we’ll take the child to him,” he cried, eager to dip into the adventure.

“Softly there; the thing’s impossible,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“It happens the consul is away on a junketing trip. I was invited, but lacked the nerve to try the awful conveyances to the interior of this healthy young republic.”

Robbins was never cast down; no matter when the masts went by the board, and the gigantic billows swept everything movable from the deck, his cheery voice was wont to bellow out words of hope, and with him there was always another chance.

“Well, then, it devolves on us, sure enough,” was what he said, lightly.

“You seem to count me in,” I said, with a smile.

“Because I know you too well to believe you could ever refuse to respond to such an appeal for help. Am I right, Morgan?”

“I guess you are—at least I’m quite fool enough to risk a broken head in such a mad adventure. There’s something in the air that urges one on; this is the land of romance and strange happenings, and I’m in a humor for anything to-night. Oh, yes, if you intend going with the girl, I’m at your side, though I rather imagine we may have a brawl of it before we finish the game.”

“Well, what of it? We are two, and in a good cause able to hold our own against a legion of these miserable Greasers. But—if you feel doubtful about it, Morgan, I hope what I’ve said won’t move you to take up arms against your good judgment. If it’s a fool’s errand, better that only one head be broken.”

“Nonsense. Don’t you understand that I’m in a humor to do anything to-night—that I even welcome this adventure as something calculated to break the horrid monotony of my existence? Besides, something draws me on, and I don’t believe I could hold back now, no matter if I were sure of hard knocks.”

He looked relieved.

“Well, that ought to settle it. But see here, didn’t you say you talked Spanish?”

I confessed that I could manage to fairly hold up my end of a conversation, provided the other party were something of a mind reader.

“Suppose you question her, then?”

That appeared to be a bright thought, and I proceeded to carry it out; but my success was hardly flattering, since the child either would not or could not understand my fearfully constructed sentences, and made answer always in about the same vein, her stock of English being as limited as was my supply of Spanish.

“You come—good lady—she cry mucho—me love lady—show Amer-i-cano casa—bueno—you come—me glad.”

At length I desisted.

“We must take our chances, Robbins. The girl is here to lead us. Shall we make a start?” I asked, for since I was in the game, the sooner I saw what I had to face the better.

“Immediately. You won’t reconsider, Morgan?” he said; perhaps a little lingering doubt assailing him.

“Reconsider! No, indeed! Just remember this is my funeral as well as yours. So trot along, my hearty, and keep one eye out for breakers ahead.”

Robbins laughed at my warning, said something in his kindly voice to the dark-faced little peon girl, who at once took hold of his big fist and walked at his side.

So we threaded the crowded, noisy thoroughfares of Bolivar, like knights of old, in quest of adventure; indeed, it struck me there was something very Quixotic in our astonishing mission, but Robbins seemed to be so deeply in earnest, I dismissed all idea of laughing at the matter, and resolved to see it through, no matter where the caprice of fortune might drift me.

Once I allowed my hand to rest lightly on the faithful little revolver I made it a point to always carry, though before this treasure trove had fallen to my share I had scorned to go armed save with nature’s weapons. Reassured by its presence, I transferred it to a side pocket of my blouse, and then felt better able to face a sudden emergency.

Everywhere the scene was pretty nearly the same; houses were illuminated, and crowds jostled us on the narrow pave; but we were in no hurry, and avoided the crush as much as possible.

One thing pleased me—we were not as yet headed for the meaner portion of the capital, but rather sought the better part, where the mansions of the wealthy lay. So my faith began to take root, and I even dared to mentally picture the poor American lady so far from her native land, who had evidently fallen into some trap, perhaps betrayed by those she trusted.

In and out we wound our way, attracting as little attention as possible, and finally the small guide drew up in front of a large building, the like of which was not to be found in all Bolivar.

“What! not this casa?” I exclaimed, aghast.

“Si, Señor Amer-i-cano, this casa,” she said with a serious nod.

I think I muttered something under my breath, something that implied disgust, for I knew that remarkable building was the residence of the august alcalde, the high and mighty mayor of Bolivar.

CHAPTER III.

MAN PROPOSES—FATE DISPOSES.

Robbins saw there was something wrong with me, and demanded to know the cause. Strange to say, when I had given him the information, he did not seem to think it a very serious matter, at least declared he could not see how it was to cut any particular figure in our affair.

“If anything it favors us,” he said, stoutly.

Perhaps my miserable suspicions made me uncommonly dull of comprehension, for I considered that the mariner had certainly taken a wrong view of the situation, and begged him to explain why he felt so positive.

“You say this is the palace of the big mogul of the place, the alcalde?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly—the girl will say as much. See, she nods her head in the affirmative when you mention the name.”

“All right, his worship is going to have visitors to-night, then.”

“Umph! He already has them, if what we see and hear is any indication,” for the big casa was illuminated, and the sounds of music, together with the murmur of many voices, told of a social gathering.

“Then he’s about to have a couple not down on the list.”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“Well, I guess not, except to grow more positive. This doesn’t bear the earmarks of a trap; if the girl had led us to some low den or rookery, we might expect such a thing; but here it’s different. The house of the mayor. Then you can wager it was a lady wrote that, and she’s in trouble.”

I surrendered.

His reasoning was so clear, his manner so confiding, that he carried me with him.

“No doubt you’re right—I withdraw all my objections, and stand ready to back you in anything, even to facing the alcalde before his guests and demanding our fair countrywoman.”

“How d’ye know she’s fair?”

“Know? Oh, I guessed it; they always are on the stage, you know. Besides,” clutching at a straw, “the girl said something about the beautiful lady.”

“Well, I don’t think it’ll come to facing the old fox among his guests, and taking him by the nose. This girleen has other aims in view, or I’ll eat my hat. Say when, and she’ll show us a way in.”

“Vamos,” I said, which, being interpreted, means “let us go,” and the girl, who had been watching us eagerly during the brief discussion, at once clutched my hand. Perhaps it had suddenly dawned upon her mind that I was a power in the land, or it may be my knowledge of a little Spanish led her to believe I was head and shoulders to the front in the expedition.

Robbins grunted his satisfaction at this turn of affairs, and I really suspect the fellow had an idea the child feared lest I might spoil all by backing out and meant to cling fast to me, so that I would come under her influence.

When we began to move around to the rear of the great wall that inclosed the gardens of the alcalde, I realized that Robbins had guessed one thing right, and that in that quarter there must be some secret door through which we were to enter.

It proved exactly so, and when five minutes had gone by we stood among palms and ferns and tropical shrubs that grew in rank luxuriance.

With colored lanterns hung here and there, the garden was a scene of enchantment, and music stealing from some concealed orchestra within the house added to the charm.

Luckily, few persons were abroad, and these the girl managed to avoid by following a path that was not often used, leading as it did, to the toolhouse, where the gardener kept the implements of his calling.

By this time I awoke to the fact that this little affair had all the earmarks of an adventure far above the common, and I even began to forget my cynical distrust of all who wore petticoats, and felt the honest thrill of satisfaction that must always accompany any effort to assist a woman in distress.

We cautiously entered the house.

Now, not being accustomed to sneaking in at the back way, I experienced a cold chill at the possibility of our being taken for common burglars, with suspicious designs upon the worthy alcalde’s silver. It was not a pleasant thought, and the possible consequences loomed up before me with startling distinctness; but, having come thus far, nothing on earth could force me to back out. So I permitted the girl to draw me along just as she willed, while the big mate came at my heels.

I was quite taken with the amazing dexterity shown by the little guide in avoiding anything that threatened discovery. Several times voices told of persons approaching, and on such occasions she hustled the two of us into a convenient room until the danger had passed.

Once we were even jammed into a closet, where we almost suffocated; but the movement was a brilliant success, for the party went by without a suspicion that two skulkers stood within arm’s length of them.

I saw they were ladies handsomely dressed and wearing flashing jewels, doubtless the wives of the leading business men of Bolivar; and the sight of those sparkling gems made me chuckle as I remembered that we were apparently sustaining the character of rogues, for who else would enter a worthy mayor’s house in the secret fashion we had done?

And the thought occurred to me that we were bound to have considerable trouble in leaving the building, even though we succeeded in accomplishing our design of reaching the fair prisoner.

Another startling thought occurred to me—somehow, these brave ideas are apt to leap into existence after one has gone too far to retreat—what if, after all, this lady who wrote such a touching appeal for aid should turn out to be some member of the alcalde’s own family circle, with a singular hallucination, sending out these letters by wholesale under fortune hunter’s zeal—in short, crazy?

Were we the only ones victimized?

Then my common sense arose and throttled this base suspicion; it was an American woman appealing to the chivalry of her countrymen, and I was a fool to believe anything to the contrary. The fact of the house owner being the alcalde did not prevent him from meriting the name of a rascal. I had known governors whose hand itched for spoils, and who were not above the common follies of life. Well, at any-rate, we would soon know. All seemed to be going smoothly, and presently we would be able to meet the writer of the note face to face.

Various reflections came to me as we skulked along, now creeping up a back flight of stairs, seldom found in a Bolivar house, and anon scouring a dark corridor that turned and twisted in a manner positively confusing.

Once we came out upon a narrow porch that looked down upon the patio or court always found in the dwellings of well-to-do Spanish-Americans, and fashioned after the Moorish type, from which it was copied centuries ago, when those people overran Southern Spain.

Here plashed the fountain amid luxuriant flowers and cosy seats, where I could see a number of couples taking their ease. But there was danger of discovery here, and we did not linger, but once more entered the corridor.

Finally the girl stopped before a door, and I knew we had reached the climax of our adventure. Presently we would see our countrywoman, in whose interest Robbins and myself had entered upon this Quixotic cruise. Really, it was quite exciting and would doubtless arouse a languid interest upon future occasions when I smoked my cigar and pondered upon this night’s work. I turned to look at my good comrade. The light was not of the best, but I could see that Robbins was looking as serious as an owl; this sort of thing appealed to his chivalrous nature; he should have lived in the days of the crusades, and my word for it, he would have won renown as a model knight, ever ready to flash his sword in beauty’s cause.

For Robbins, I was fain to believe, had never as yet had an affair of the heart and was full of old-fashioned ideas about womankind that were in vogue during our great grandmothers’ time, but seem woefully out of date among the butterflies of society’s swirl to-day.

The girl knew where the key was hung, and I wondered why she had not ere now attempted to lead the beautiful prisoner from the house to the calle, where in due time she might have reached the protection of the Stars and Stripes over the door of our consul’s office.

So she opened the door, and in a whisper bade us enter. Perhaps Robbins was more eager than myself; somehow I stepped aside and allowed him to enter first.

Was it a sense of chivalry? If any romance was to grow out of this escapade of the night, I was just then quite willing that he should carry off all the honors. For myself, that sort of thing had, I believed, lost all its attraction, since it is said the burned child dreads the fire, and I had been singed.

As I passed beyond the door the girl cautiously closed and locked it; but suspicion had now ceased to worry me, and I looked upon this simply in the light of prudence. For I had already discovered there was a lady in the room.

The lamp, shaded with a crimson globe, was burning with less than full power, but the light was sufficient to show me that the apartment was handsomely and sumptuously furnished. Robbins was just ahead, and his big bulk allowed me only that fleeting glimpse of a lady rising in haste from her chair, but even then I seemed to grasp the idea that she was a charming personality.

Ah! Perhaps our mission was not fated to be such a fool’s errand, after all.

I was content for the time being to let Robbins play first fiddle, ready to back him up should he need assistance in words or deeds. The mate, thrown upon his resources, was bowing, hat in hand.

“Madam, I am an American, and you can trust us,” he managed to say, boldly. Then I heard her utter a cry of delight.

“At last—it has come. I shall leave these hateful scenes, never to return. Oh, Carmecita, blessed child, what do I not owe to you!”

I believe you could have knocked me down with a feather when that voice fell upon my hearing, for it aroused all the memories I had thought buried in the dead past.

Yet it seemed so preposterous, so incredible, that I could not trust to my ears alone, but pushed up alongside of Robbins, where nothing could come between my vision and the lady of the alcalde’s casa.

It was not so singular that I should turn white and stand there as though suddenly stricken dumb, wondering at the world’s smallness after all, for I found myself looking upon the face that had haunted me, sleeping or waking, these two years, which I had roamed the world over in the endeavor to forget, yet without success, the fair countenance of one whom, in the fondness of my heart, I had once called my wife—my Hildegarde!

CHAPTER IV.

WORSE THAN STRANGERS NOW.

It was a decidedly unpleasant sensation that so nearly overcame me when I made this remarkable discovery in the lordly casa of the worthy alcalde.

Surprise and consternation about constituted the whole, for had I not often vowed never again to set eyes on that fair face, once madly loved, and here a perverse fate had actually taken me by the neck and forced me into her presence.

I hated her—yes, I felt certain I did—not so much because of the wrong she had done me as for the fact that, strange paradox, I could not cease to love her!

This weakness, how often I had cursed it, and then dreamed that once again my Hildegarde and I were Maying, making love among the flowers, dead to all the world, only to wake up furious with myself because I could not bruise my heart sufficiently to stamp out her false image.

And there I was looking upon the same maddening beauty that had once made a fool of me. By Heaven! she was prettier than ever and I ground my teeth with rage when I felt my miserable traitor heart throbbing like a triphammer against my ribs.

She knew me, too, despite the fact that I had grown a mustache and Vandyke beard since last we parted, and looked ten years older.

I saw her eyes dilate as though she were unable to believe her senses; what the various emotions that chased each other over her pink and white face meant I was unable to decide.

But she must have seen from my cold and haughty manner that I had not come to sue for her queenly pardon; my wrongs still rankled in my breast, or something did that answered the same purpose, and there was no sign of yielding in my appearance.

And yet, God knows I had difficulty in fighting down the mad longing to rush forward and seize upon her, to crush her to my heart as I had once been wont to do, and, casting aside all doubt, and pride, and hateful memories, call her again, “my Hildegarde.”

Her voice aroused me from the half stupor into which I had been thrown by the very violence of these various warring emotions.

“So, it is you?” she said, coldly.

That killed every bud of promise, even as a frost blights those of vegetation, and I was immediately thrown on my guard.

If she could be hateful, there was no good reason why I might not match her.

“Yes, I believe it is. My friend Robbins induced me to join him in this affair. I did not dream of meeting you, though.”

“Perhaps you might not have come if you had seen my name in the note?”

The scorn of her words lashed me. How she hated me, who had once been all the world to her.

“It would have made no difference; a woman in distress needed help—that should be enough for any one calling himself a man.”

“I am glad to hear you subscribe to such lofty sentiments; there was a time when you hardly thought the same.”

“Pardon me, I don’t care to discuss the past. That is buried beyond recall. I have forgotten it.”

I lied when I said that; what man can ever forget who has lived a year or two in Paradise, even though kicked out finally? But no matter, it served my purpose, for she took especial pains to show how she hated me, and I was not the one to be outdone by a woman.

There was some more play of the emotions upon her face; I saw a hand pressed against her heart, but of course it was only because my cold-blooded words had cut her pride, and she hardly knew just how to answer me.

Then she arose to the occasion, and I could see her blue eyes flash as they had flashed that day we had the nasty quarrel ending in my abandoning the palace I called home.

“You are a brute, Morgan Kenneth! Oh, how I detest you!” she said, hotly.

I smiled in derision; knowing that she hated me anyway, there was no reason why I should cringe to hear her say so; and yet, despite that sarcastic smile, deep down in my heart, I quailed under her scorn.

“I beg of you to ignore the past, at least until we are in other quarters than this. You have appealed for assistance. I confess I haven’t an iota of understanding as to how you came here, with whom, or what manner of danger you wish to avoid. It does not matter. We have come, and we are at your service. Where would you go to seek an asylum from your enemies?”

I spoke as calmly as might be expected of a man under such remarkable conditions.

She had become so nervous that, unable to stand still, she walked up and down with her fingers locking both hands together.

Heavens! what punishment for a man who had wrestled for two years to forget this queenly creature, and now to meet her thus!

Finally she said:

“I hoped to find safety at the home of the consul.”

“But he has gone out of town and will not be back short of a week; perhaps he may be killed on that wretched little railway.”

“Then an American or English vessel might give me a refuge,” she continued.

“Robbins, is the steamer you came on still in port?” I asked.

“I am sorry to say that it is not. The captain found a letter awaiting him to start for Guayamas without delay and load bananas there.”

“Then there is not an American or British vessel in the harbor?”

“I saw only one—a little steam yacht that flew the Stars and Stripes,” he answered, quickly.

I turned to my lady.

“That steam yacht is mine—you can find an asylum on board and will be taken wherever you wish.”

Then her eyes blazed again—so far as I knew I had not said anything uncivil, or calculated to arouse her temper, and yet she seemed to look upon my proposition in the light of an affront.

She even stamped her little foot in anger.

“Thank you, I prefer remaining here, and enduring all things, to going aboard that hateful yacht.”

Now what was there about the beautiful boat to incur her anger, save that it had been my lonely floating home for a long time, and must in that way be associated with my hateful personality that it had to come in for a share of her obloquy?

“Oh, if you object to my presence, I shall remain ashore and let Robbins take charge of the boat while you are aboard,” I said, quickly.

She gave me a look as of daggers drawn, but I could not interpret it, stupid that I was.

“Pray, give yourself no concern about the matter. If I had dreamed it would cause you this trouble I would have died rather than send that note for help. It was all a dreadful mistake.”

“Yes, a dreadful mistake,” I murmured.

Again she gave me a quick look, and then resumed her theatrical air that made her seem so irresistibly charming that I found it extremely difficult to keep on hating her.

“I am sorry to have given you so much trouble, Mr.—a—Robbins, but, after all, I have decided that there are situations more painful than the one I am now in under this roof, and that I must change my mind and remain here.”

CHAPTER V.

WHERE JEALOUSY CAN LURK, LOVE IS NOT DEAD.

Of course they say a woman has a perfect right to change her mind, and that we lords of creation must submit with a good grace; but occasions may arise when such a face-about seems too exasperating to endure.

Such a sensation overwhelmed me when I heard Hildegarde positively declare that, much as she desired to escape from the old alcalde’s roof, she preferred remaining there, face to face with some evil that had heretofore frightened her, to owing her freedom to me.

It was not at all flattering, and cut me like a two-edged dagger; but, all the same, I was more than ever determined she should escape from her prison, even though I were compelled to use force in the transaction.

Really, it was a situation that seemed fast bordering on the ridiculous rather than the tragic.

“A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still,” and who could say that, should we insist on rescuing her, Hildegarde, who could be perverse when she wished, might not come back again to the miserable old alcalde’s, just to spite me? But my mind was made up.

“Really, we can’t allow you to change your intentions. We have come here for a purpose, and don’t mean to give it up,” I said, as firmly yet as gently as I could.

She looked at me queerly.

“You mean that you intend to rescue me, whether I wish it or not?” she breathed.

“I mean that I wish you for the time being to forget you ever knew me, to forget that you hate me, and only consider that I am a gentleman desirous of assisting you. When you are safe from this peril, which I can’t for the life of me understand, then I will quickly sink once more into oblivion and trouble you no longer.”

“I—did not know the world was so small,” she said, musingly.

“Nor I. Until I saw you here I thought you in the gay whirl of Paris or at least in New York.”

“And I thought you—but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters any longer. Do you really mean to say you won’t let me change my mind?”

“Pardon me, not in this case, because I am sure you don’t mean it, and only do so through pique.”

“Oh, this is very romantic,” she laughed in a sarcastic way; “a pretty woman rescued even against her will. How finely it would read.”

“I am done with romance, madam.”

“Indeed? That is news to me. But what if I choose to call out and bring the alcalde and his people to prevent your carrying me off?”

She only said it to tantalize me—the very idea of such a thing was monstrous; but it gave me an opportunity for some little heroics.

“Then it would be a bad thing for our friend the alcalde and his friends,” I returned.

“Would you fight—you?” she cried, her eyes sparkling with new animation, as though the situation appealed to her irresistibly.

“It was agreed between Robbins and myself that we would never be taken alive. Perhaps your hatred of me would be satisfied and the past fully avenged if you saw me lying here at your feet covered with wounds and dying,” I said, solemnly, for a touch of the old witchery was upon me—the sheen of her golden hair, the glow of her bonnie blue eyes, the very scent of her garments, united to create a riot in my treacherous heart that I only subdued with an iron grip.

She shivered at my foreboding words and I fancied turned pale.

Then she smiled to conceal her perturbation.

When I look back upon this scene I feel sad to think what cheap theatrical business I bordered upon when I so graphically pictured my forlorn fate; but to the best of my belief I spoke just what I felt as I stood there and found my grand resolutions to hate and scorn trembling in the balance in the presence of the lady who was now, alas! no longer—my Hildegarde.

“Oh, your argument overwhelms me. It would be too sad a fate for one to whom the gods have given the face and figure of an Apollo together with the fortune of a Crœsus. I see I must surrender against my will.”

In her words and manner there was an air of scorn, which I could not but feel.

What would I give to prove my manhood in the eyes of this woman, who persisted in believing me a weakling, when God knows that if any such spirit animated me in the old days, it had been completely annihilated during my two years of lonely wanderings.

Nevertheless, I was really delighted to hear her give in to my authority for once; perhaps had I been more steadfast in the past—— But what was the use of lamenting what was beyond recall?

“Then we are to be permitted the pleasure of saving you from this strange peril that hangs over you?” I asked, trying to appear quite calm.

“I will leave this house with you,” she replied.

It would have pleased me better had she shown fuller confidence in my willingness and ability to protect her, but the old spirit appeared to be still strong within her heart, the long-harbored doubt concerning my strength of purpose.

With that I had to be content.

It would be folly for me to deny that I had a strange tremor in the region of my heart when I took an outer garment from her hands and folded it about her.

She looked up in one of her old coquettish ways that stirred the sluggish depths in my heart, and then coldly thanked me as she might her maid.

I knew too well how useless it would be for me to make glowing promises; another might hear me with satisfaction, but this woman believed she knew me too well to dream there was the least drop of heroic blood in my veins.

Well, my appearance on the scene in answer to her appeal for help must have been the first blow at this barrier.

Please Heaven, there might yet be others.

Yes, I longed for an opportunity to show, by silent deeds, what she would never believe in words.

After such a wonderful meeting between estranged souls, anything was possible, and who could say that I might not yet be given the chance for which I prayed?

You may be sure that Robbins had stood there listening to what passed, and looking the next thing to being paralyzed.

He found it hard to understand what a wild freak of fortune had been played, and that this charming woman of the alcalde’s mansion had once been very near and dear to me.

Still, the good mariner was far from being a fool, and once his benumbed faculties got into working order, he reasoned the thing out pretty well, though still aghast at the strange chance that drew us together in old Bolivar.

Having entertained some vague hope that the quest of little Carmencita might not be in vain, she had arranged things for a hasty departure. All she seemed desirous of taking with her was contained in a very small handbag.

I saw that she was dressed for walking and could not but admire her good taste. But, then, she had always been sensible in all things save one, and that, alas! the most vital, concerning her estimation of her husband’s qualities as a man.

As I watched her gather up a few trinkets and put them in the bag, I suddenly received a tremendous shock.

My eyes, in glancing toward the quaint dresser, had fallen upon a diminutive silver frame that inclosed the photograph of a man’s head.

Perhaps it is a very ordinary occurrence for a lady to thus decorate her dressing table, but, all the same, it gave me a dreadful shock.

Involuntarily I clinched my teeth and took a step forward, with flashing eyes; but just then she snatched up the miserable silver thing and thrust it into the handbag, at the same time looking over her shoulder at me with suddenly flaming cheeks.

I said nothing, but a demon had sprung up in my heart. Whose picture was this which she was so eager to keep where she could look upon it the last thing before retiring and the first thing upon arising?

Well, what did it matter to me? What reason had I to be jealous—I who had fled from the sight of her after settling half of my fortune on her, and who had written that henceforth, since I was unable to make her happy, we would be as dead to each other?

I was a fool to care.

Of course I summoned those forces which I had been so carefully marshaling these two years back, and whipped my traitor heart into line, but it was a close shave, for I would have given much for a sight of that picture, in order to discover what my successor looked like.

“I am ready,” she said, quietly.

The color had left her cheeks as suddenly as it flamed there, and I could easily see she was annoyed at something—perhaps because I dared presume to be impertinently curious regarding her private affairs.

Well, I deserved it all, for had I not given her to understand she could never more be other than a stranger to me?

What a fool I had been.

Perhaps there might have been some way in which I could have convinced her of my worthiness without desertion; but what wonders we might perform if our foresight only equaled the result of our bitter experience.

I turned to Robbins, who, feeling that after all he was to be recognized in the adventure, assumed an air of importance, though he could hardly keep his eyes from Hildegarde’s face until she drew the hood of her cloak so as to almost conceal its rounded contour.

“After you, old friend. I think you’re in a clearer state of mind than myself, and better able to lead. We must trust to the child.”

“You can trust our lives with her,” came from under the hood.

I nerved myself for the ordeal.

“Will you let me assist you?” I said to Hildegarde.

“Thank you, I do not need any help,” she replied.

Well, I had done my duty as a gentleman, and she could not complain that I was a boor.

“At least allow me to carry the bag.”

She hesitated, I know not why, and then gave it over.

I recognized it as one I had picked up in London when we were doing the sights of Europe; it had had my name on a silver plate. Almost unconsciously I raised it to see if that tag remained intact—yes, there were the distinct letters, “Morgan Kenneth, Esq.”

She must have forgotten to have it taken off, for of course with the man, she hated the name, and had undoubtedly resumed her maiden one after procuring her divorce, to which she was entitled by my desertion.

How strange it was to be gripping that little bag again; how different the conditions now from the time when I purchased it; then my cup of bliss seemed full and running over, with a charming wife and a grand fortune all in one year; now it was filled, but, alas! with gall and wormwood, my hopes lying cold in ashes, my feeling toward the world one of suspicion and disgust.

There was at least a singular satisfaction in the fact that while we fled to the uttermost parts of the earth to avoid each other fate had brought us face to face in this old city that I had never heard of two months before.

What did it all mean?

I dared not allow myself to hope there could be the faintest chance of a reconciliation. She hated me—had she not just said so?—even as I now loathed myself forever giving up such a charming being.

Perhaps it was intended that our dead romance was to be finally buried with a fanfare of trumpets and some tragedy; perhaps ere the end came she was to discover how terribly she had misjudged me in the past, when she was wont to taunt me upon my lack of heroic qualities.

Robbins had some few words with the girl, and then Carmencita, giving one earnest look at the lady whom she adored, led the way.

After Robbins came Hildegarde, while I, like a dutiful follower, brought up the rear, grasping in my hand the little bag that held her trinkets, her jewelry, and the picture which she had seriously objected to my seeing—the picture of a man who had perhaps crept into the heart I had basely deserted, and was now enshrined there as her hero, a position I had never been able to obtain in those days of old when, as I have said, she deigned to allow me to call her “my Hildegarde.”

CHAPTER VI.

A BAD BLUNDER.

Really, the governor of the city and his guests were bent on having a merry time, if the noise they made could be taken as an evidence. I hoped they might be so fully occupied in their feasting as to allow us a clear field to escape from the house.

The stupendous surprise had given me much to think about, and my mind was in a pretty whirl as I walked humbly behind the hooded and cloaked “fellow-countrywoman in distress,” whose bag, once my bag, I carried.

Suppose we should run across some of the servants, who, grasping the situation, would give the alarm—I could easily imagine the excitement that must speedily follow. Could we reach the garden in safety? Well, Robbins was a man of remarkable resolution, and I believed there was another in a savage enough frame of mind to back him up should the occasion arise, so that we could make it extremely interesting for the alcalde.

Carmencita did her part well.

She seemed to be constantly alert for signs of danger. But we were making progress all the while, and the garden drew nearer; once under the shelter of that tropical growth, we might believe ourselves in a fair way toward safety.

When we reached the calle beyond the walls, what then? I felt almost certain Hildegarde would utterly refuse to accept a refuge on board my yacht, so great had been the antipathy she had shown at mention of such a thing, as though it might be freighted with horrors and dissipated roués, instead of being the sedate bachelor quarters of a very lonely fellow who endeavored to forget that he had once been happy, by surrounding himself with books and curios from many lands; perhaps a poor nest in which to install a lady, but with a pure atmosphere, please Heaven.

Then I reflected that it was time enough to cross a bridge when we came to it—we were not yet out of the house and she might change her mind with regard to the yacht; indeed, out of curiosity, be as eager to go on board as she had at first seemed averse to it.

Now we were on the lower floor, and as yet all seemed well.

Five minutes, perhaps less, would tell the story.

It was a serious thing, this braving the anger of the alcalde, who as judge and mayor might yet have the chance to condemn us to the execrable miseries of the Black Hole.

Would she consider that I had undertaken any risk in the endeavor to serve a woman in trouble?—would she dream that had I known the identity of the one who sent out that appeal, memories of the past might have spurred me on to prove that her one-time estimate of my nature was false?

What a fool I was to bother myself whether she cared or not.

It was too late—much too late to matter now.

Then came a sudden hitch—things did not continue to move along as smoothly.

Some one came upon us—I heard a voice questioning little Carmencita, and then roundly abusing her, though much that was said was Greek to my ears, I being but an indifferent Spanish scholar.

Then Robbins took a hand in the matter, fearing that the child would be struck, such was the anger in which the man addressed her.

I saw her try to hold the mate back, as she uttered a terrified little cry, but the big fellow’s indignation was too keen, and with Carmencita clinging to his coat he rushed at the bully.

The passage was but meagerly lighted, but I could see him let fly with all the vigor of his indignant soul.

You have probably many a time watched a noble ten-pin, the last of the half score, go floundering into the ditch under the assault of a well delivered ball—so this fellow of generous proportions was bowled over when Robbins struck home.

I would that it had been my arm that sent him sprawling, for Hildegarde gave Robbins such a look of undisguised admiration as to arouse my deepest envy.

Perhaps my turn would come next.

The bully, who would have laid a hand on the child, scrambled to his feet.

He made off in so hasty a manner that it struck me as ludicrous, nor did it occur to us that we should have prevented his flight until it was too late.

That was a bad blunder, which was apt to cost us dear.

He no sooner found himself clear of us than he began to whoop it up at a lively rate, calling “Murder! thieves! fire!” in a manner that was bound to attract attention, for though the music was on, the boom of his great voice echoed far above all else.

“That was well done, sir,” said Hildegarde, “but we must surely run for it now, for you have knocked down the alcalde himself!”

That was certainly a wretched piece of luck all around, but having done so stupendous a wrong we were dolts not to have tied him neck and crop and thrust him into some corner to cool his heels while we made off.

Robbins did not seem to care an iota; I believe he would just as soon have given the same medicine to the president of the republic, should an occasion arise that called for heroic treatment of this character.

Carmencita no longer tugged at his coat to hold him back—indeed, it was just the opposite; for, horrified at what he had done to the doughty mayor, who in her young eyes was a very august individual, to be greatly feared, she was bent on urging him to make all haste to leave the hacienda.

All of us were of one mind—we did not seem to have the remotest desire to linger there; any natural curiosity we might be supposed to feel concerning what our worthy alcalde might do on his return, backed by a troop of guests, was wholly swallowed up by the thought of reaching the garden, and eventually the calle.

In our forward movement we had the bad fortune to run upon certain of the servants engaged in carrying various hot foods to the dining chamber where the guests were soon expected to assemble.

Here Robbins—confound his luck!—was right in the swim again, while I, being only a rear guard, as it were, had to jog along carrying that miserable bag, and cheated out of my due.

He seemed to have his hand in, and assailed those terrified peons hip and thigh with a lusty vigor that would have done credit to any knight-errant or swashbuckler.

They did some remarkable acrobatic feats under the influence he brought to bear, and it was a miracle that Robbins escaped the deluge of flying viands that strewed the passage after the encounter.

But our end was attained, we had a free and unobstructed way to the exit, and the gardens lay beyond.

The music had abruptly stopped; I could easily imagine how the demoralized alcalde had hurled the players over each other in his fierce desire to make himself heard.

His booming voice sounded like a broadside from the old frigate Constitution, and what he said brought out a tremendous ovation from the male part of his hearers.

We were not lingering just then to discover what his idea of the whole matter might be—in fact, we had not the slightest curiosity in that direction, and but one aim in life—to reach a harbor of refuge.

I was well pleased to see the rear door again—here we had gained entrance to the grand casa, and it was necessary that it serve us again as an exit.

Doubtless, already the numerous visitors of the noble hidalgo were scouring every room and corridor of the great pile of masonry, eager to discover the bold rascals who had dared set upon his excellency and use him as though he were an ox in the shambles.

Let them hunt—the garden lay before us, and after that the street and safety.

Just as my foot crossed the threshold there arose a strange sound; it was the wild clang of a bell, harsh and discordant, and there seemed to be concentrated alarm and terror in its brazen throat, just as the peal of the fire bell at dead of night awakens the liveliest anticipations of dread.

To me it seemed to go with the rest—I was so thoroughly aroused that a thousand bells could not have added another thrill; but Carmencita uttered a wail of anguish as she cried aloud half in Spanish:

“It is the alarm bell! Oh, dear lady, the holy mother protect us now—they will have fastened the door in the wall by the time we reach it. We are lost!—he will kill us all!”

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST KEY.

What Carmencita wailed may have struck dumb terror to the heart of her mistress, but for my part I saw as yet no reason to despair. The association with such a man as Robbins was in itself quite enough to inspire confidence; and besides, there were other good reasons why I should scorn to show the white feather.

We had already started to traverse the gardens, while that infernal alarm bell kept up its fearful clatter, loud enough to awaken the dead.

“Don’t be anxious, we will surely find a way out, door or no door,” I managed to say, close to the hooded head.

Hildegarde turned as if to look at me, but made no attempt at replying, for with such a din it must have been quite useless.

Robbins permitted himself to be guided by the girl, for though he may have felt sure as to the route, it was best to so act that a blunder was out of the question.

We were lucky enough not to run across any gardener, and the idea flashed into my mind that this fellow might be busily engaged fastening the door in the wall.

Hildegarde bore herself well, I am bound to admit—many women must have been dreadfully shocked by the clamorous racket which we had aroused, and bordered close upon hysterics; but she was able to contain herself, though I had no doubt that she must be trembling violently.

Somehow a wave of great pity seemed to fill my heart, for it was truly a most abominable situation for any lady as gently bred as I knew her to have been, carefully sheltered from all scenes of violence, and with the blood of peace-loving Quakers running in her veins.

Then the wall loomed up ahead.

How dreadfully lofty it seemed—I had paid little attention to its height before, but now it appalled me, for there seemed a chance that should the door be closed to our exit we must clamber over the wall in some way if we would escape.

There was a moving figure that caught my attention—coming toward us on the run, and as he rushed into the glow of a lantern that hung from a bush loaded with flowers, I saw that it was the gardener.

He held something in his hand which I immediately determined was the key to the door, the panacea for all our troubles.

Apparently he caught sight of us at about the same time, for his forward motion ceased, and it looked very much as though he were about to begin a retrograde one.

Here was my chance.

Robbins might have run at him, but such a move must have only added the wings of fear to the gardener’s flight.

I had a better plan, a swifter messenger, for that key was decidedly essential to our comfort, and even heroic measures might be pardoned in the effort to secure the talisman that would prove our “open sesame.”

Accordingly, as quick as a flash I rushed to the fore, giving Robbins no time to act, and as I jumped I drew from its place of concealment the reliable little firearm which I had learned through excessive target practice to use almost as well as an expert.

“Stand, or you are a dead man!”

That was what I shouted in Spanish—at least I tried to say it, though assured later on by little Carmencita that what I so fiercely ejaculated was more to the effect that I took the fellow for a ghost come back from the dead, and was ordering him to return to the kingdom of the departed shades.

Never mind; my fierce demeanor should surely have convinced him that he was in dire peril unless he surrendered.

The fool did not have sense enough to see he had not the ghost of a chance to escape—or perhaps he took it for granted that I was as abominable a pistol shot as his countrymen.

When I saw that he meant to disregard my stern command, and that there was immediate danger of both man and key slipping through our fingers, I realized that the time had come for action rather than words.

Now it was not in my heart to kill the poor devil—I had never sent a human being into the other world as yet, though coming uncommonly near it while attacked by Italian brigands on one occasion, and later on when some heathen Chinese thought me a soft mark on the outskirts of old Canton.

Besides, this fellow was in the alcalde’s pay, and only did his duty in the premises.

To wing him then was the height of my ambition as I threw my little firearm forward in a fashion in vogue among all good pistol shots.

Then came the spiteful little crack, hardly louder than the snapping of one’s finger, for modern powder is next to noiseless in its detonation.

“He’s down!” exclaimed Robbins, setting his six foot frame in motion.

I remained with our charge and advanced more quietly.

“Oh, I hope you have not killed him! It was too bad to shoot!” said Hildegarde.

I felt chagrined—what I did never appeared worthy of praise in her eyes, yet she could applaud that tall athlete, Robbins, when he knocked down a man a foot under his height.

“No danger—I aimed to disable; our lives may depend on getting that key, else I wouldn’t have shot the poor devil,” I said, coldly.

All the same I knew I was in for rough usage in case we were caught, for I had drawn the blood of the alcalde’s servant, and while in these queer little republics money is a plaster that can cure almost any political ill, still it must needs be a liberal dose that could soothe the ruffled feelings of the enraged mayor after what we had done on this night of nights.

But we were not captured yet—far from it.

Why, the game was young, and there must needs be many a twist and turn before one could call the cards.

Meanwhile we reached the spot where the wretched gardener lay.

He only had a small leaden pellet in his leg, but the shock had quite overwhelmed him, being unused to warfare, and no doubt he believed himself on the road to a speedy dissolution.

At any rate he bawled lustily in terror one instant, and then called upon his patron saint to ferry him over the Styx the next, mixing up his appeals in a manner truly laughable, until Robbins made a threatening gesture which hushed his vociferation.

“The key!” I shouted, for if anything the noise had swelled to still greater volume, and one must raise his voice to be heard.

“Yes—I am looking for it—I would swear he had it in his hand,” cried the mate, already down on his hands and knees.

“We must find it—everything depends on it.”

“He must have thrown it when he fell.”

It was a bright suggestion, for just beyond the fellow was a dense cluster of bushes.

If we had more light possibly a quick search would discover the missing key.

And this caused me to remember the lantern that was suspended from a twig near by.

I turned to obtain possession of it only to find that the same thought had occurred to another, for Hildegarde already had it in her hand and was tripping toward me.

As I took the lantern from her I could not help from throwing a quick glance under the hood of her face—it was very white and looked, yes, a little pinched with excitement and fright.

“Courage,” I said, involuntarily, just as I might have addressed a strange lady thus thrown upon our protection.

Then I sprang to where Robbins, still on his hands and knees, was groping about among the grass and bushes, bent on finding that elusive key.

It seemed to take a fiendish delight in mocking our search, and as the seconds crept by I began to tremble with apprehension lest, after all, we might be cornered like rats, and eventually fall into the hands of our enemies, or be cut down.

A cry from Hildegarde made me spring erect and turn like a tiger—I could hardly tell why I had such a thrill, save that it was caused by the thought that ruffianly hands might have been laid upon her.

She stood with only little Carmencita at her side, and both were pointing.

“See! the gardener—he escapes!” was what I made out.

Then I saw a moving object—it was the fellow I had shot in the leg, for having discovered that he was not yet quite dead, and no longer menaced by the frowning Robbins, he had rolled to one side and was now pulling himself away very much as I have seen a wounded hare, with both hind legs shattered, drag itself to a burrow.

What mattered it?—the key was what we wanted now most of all; let the poor devil seek safety after his own fashion.

Robbins was also disgusted—I saw him look up, and wondered whether he had conceived the idea of chasing the creeping wretch, to throttle him until he confessed what he had done with the key.

But it was something else that had occurred to my good friend.

“Keep looking, Morgan, while I run and make sure if the door is fast.”

As he said this, I saw him bound away.

The door could only be a biscuit’s toss down the wall, and his errand would not consume more than a couple of minutes at the most, while much might hinge upon the result.

I had the lantern, and with added zeal kept up the search. Did ever a more obstinate key exist than the one we so eagerly sought to discover? At least I had never heard of it.

Then back came Robbins, panting from his exertions, for these big men always become winded more easily than those of us who are blessed with lesser bulk.

As I glanced up into his face, I read our finish there; disappointment was plainly expressed in the grim manner in which the mate clinched his teeth.

Such men are not easily downed, and the glow of his eyes told us of a sullen determination to keep up the good work, even though we were compelled to force a way into the hacienda and reach the street by fighting those who might there oppose our progress.

CHAPTER VIII.

MY TURN COMES.

“We must go back—there is a large party advancing. Even if we found the key, the chances are we could hardly use it.”

Robbins’ declaration gave me a chill.

Go back? That meant to the house where we could no longer hope to remain concealed! Was this the beginning of the end?

I braced myself for the shock—above all, I must remember whose eyes were upon me—the chance I had often prayed for might now be close at hand, and at any rate I must appear to be as cool as an iceberg, no matter if my blood seemed on fire and my heart thumped like a force pump.

“Then let us go—something may turn up. The door is lost to us, but there are other ways of reaching the street, and we’re going to get there,” I said, with dogged determination.

So we wheeled around.

I could not say what object I had in holding on to the lantern—perhaps it was purely mechanical on my part, but, after all, it proved a very lucky move.

No doubt Robbins was also endeavoring to whip his faculties into line and conjure up some new plan, which, if successfully carried out, might result in our escape.

I know I never racked my brains with a greater vim in the whole course of my life than during that brief passage of time.

And the idea that suddenly dawned upon me was, after all, more in the nature of a genuine inspiration than the result of reasoning.

As we proceeded we came to the abrupt turn where the path left the wall, and took up a direct line for the casa itself.

Here stood the little toolhouse of the gardener.

We had seen it twice before, and on each occasion I had given it but a cursory glance, but now it suddenly appealed to me with almost irresistible persuasion.

“Stop here—I have a plan!” I exclaimed.

Fortunately, the hottest part of the hunt seemed to cover other parts of the gardens, and this particular section was as yet free to us.

“What have you found?” demanded Robbins.

I pointed to the gardener’s toolhouse.

“Bah! they will surely search that.”

“But I don’t mean to hide,” I said.

“A fort, then—it might serve for a little time, but capture would be sure.”

“Nonsense, man! The roof—don’t you see it is almost as high as the wall.”

Then Robbins gave a cry of delight.

“Bully boy!—our chance at last! Now, only to get on the roof! Oh, for a ladder.”

“Let us look.”

The door of the long, little building was wide open, though, if my memory served me rightly, it had been closed when we passed before.

This mystery was quickly explained when my friend pointed to some blood spots upon the sill; the wounded gardener had sought refuge in the place, it being his first thought as a haven.

At our entrance the poor devil who had been trying to conceal himself behind a lot of pots and tubs, believing we had followed with the purpose of finishing him, began to pray about as vigorously as I ever heard any one.

One quick glance around failed to show me what I longed to see more than all else—a ladder.

There was a coil of stout rope hanging from a peg, and this I seized upon and tossed over to Robbins, who seemed disposed to let me run the whole business now, perhaps because it was I who had conceived the idea.

It was full time I was forging to the front.

Having grasped the bull by the horns, I went from one thing to another without a break.

Hardly had Robbins clutched the rope than I was bending over the terrified gardener, and gripping his shoulder so fiercely that, believing his last minute had come, he let out a yell and appeared about to keel right over, to avoid which I shook him with considerable roughness, and luckily remembering, as I thought, one particular word of Spanish, I shouted in the old fellow’s ear:

“Escalado! escalado! escalado!”

And he actually comprehended me this time, which fact must be put down to my credit.

Understanding that he had a chance for his miserable life, the fellow aroused himself and sprang a jargon upon me which was about as intelligible as so much Sanscrit or Hebrew would have been, accompanying his words with vehement and eloquent gestures.

For the life of me I did not know whether he was begging me to spare him for the sake of his sixteen motherless bairns, or asking the favor of being buried in the true faith.

I shook him again, and shouted louder:

“Escalado! escalado!—where is the escalado?”

More wild protestations that were as Greek, more flinging of the arms. Confound the old chap! why couldn’t he speak English?

“Señor—oh, señor!”

It was little Carmencita who called aloud, and looking up I discovered that both she and Hildegarde were in the doorway, surveying all that went on with eager curiosity.

Oh! here was an interpreter, and my misery gave promise of being ended.

“What does he say?” I demanded, furious to think of the time wasted.

“The ladder is behind the toolhouse,” she said, in a mixture of Spanish and English.

“Good! good! Robbins, lay hold on it. We may be happy yet.”

I withdrew my hand from the frightened chap, who straightway fell to groaning his prayers as though desirous of preparing himself for being speedily ushered into eternity.

I cared no longer for his woes—there was good Robbins buckling under the weight of the ladder, which he had found just as the girl had said.

I was more than once inclined to believe her bright eyes had discovered it sticking out, and that the gardener had not, after all, understood my elegant Spanish phraseology, bad luck to him!

Robbins quickly had the ladder slanting up to the roof of the toolhouse—it was long enough to extend a foot above the wall, a fact I noted with extreme satisfaction, for I had to think of getting down as well as up.

“Can you ascend?”

I half extended my hand to assist Hildegarde, but perhaps she failed to note the fact, or else did not care to accept my aid, for she mounted the ladder with the agility of a gazelle leaping over the green veldt—a swish of her skirts and she had landed upon the gently sloping roof of the toolhouse.

I wanted to cry “well done,” but something seemed to hold my tongue; she would not care for such an expression of appreciation on my part.

“You next, Carmencita,” I said, and the child was up in almost a twinkling, to meet the eager, outstretched hand above, and be drawn safely to the roof.

“I’m last,” declared Robbins.

“Very good,” was my reply, and with a rush I darted up the ladder.

Then came the sturdy mate—the lantern I had blown out and left below, as we had no longer any need for its services, and its light might betray us to the enemy.

They had scattered in various directions, so that the whole garden seemed to be undergoing a species of spring cleaning, bushes being roundly whipped and every foot of ground closely searched—all but the very corner where we were so busily engaged in working out our own salvation.

No sooner was Robbins able to plant his feet upon the roof than he laid hold of his side of the clumsy ladder, even as I had grasped the other.

It was a cumbersome affair, that certainly reflected no great credit on its builder, but something had to come when the two of us got to work, and hence the ladder was successfully hoisted and swung over the outside of the wall.

What did this mean? It failed to touch the bottom! There must be a greater depth in the street than on the garden side.

We bent down, holding it with main strength, and still found no footing.

“It must go,” I gasped, red in the face.

“Surely. We take chances. Say when,” was the reply of the mate.

“Now, then.”

Both released our hold together—there was a dull sound below, as the foot of the ladder struck, and I listened with my heart in my mouth, expecting a crash as it toppled over, but it failed to come.

At least, we did not seem reduced to the sterner resort to the rope, as yet.

“Hold on—let me go,” I cried, clutching hold of the eager Robbins, who was already halfway over the parapet of the adobe wall.

“Nixy—my business—yours is to look after her, Morgan,” he hurriedly answered.

Undoubtedly she heard him.

I could not contradict the fellow—surely that was not the time or place to enter into a discussion as to what my duty might be toward Hildegarde; once it had been my highest ambition to serve her as a man may only serve the one woman he loves on earth, but that had long since passed, and I was no longer anything of a factor in her world, only a bitter memory of a past that she would sooner forget.

Meanwhile Robbins had found a footing on the top round of the ladder.

“Will it hold?” I inquired, eagerly, fearfully, for I dreaded lest the old thing would topple over and precipitate him into the street.

It was bad enough with Robbins, but, deprived of his cheery presence, our chances would be poor indeed.

“Yes, I think so. Take this rope and lower one end with me—it will help steady things. Once below, I’ll put the ladder on a secure foundation.”

Then he went down.

A few brief seconds of suspense—I knew he had reached the street, for he let go the rope, which I pulled up and made a noose at the end.

I could hear him move the ladder some, in order to plant it more steadily.

It was a time of great suspense—those in the garden had discovered our presence on the roof of the toolhouse, and while some ran to the door in the wall, hoping to get out and cut off our escape, others gathered below, and not only shouted at us, but began to throw things, the curs!

I was tempted to open on them with my pistol, but realized that other affairs needed attention.

The noose was slipped about Carmencita, and the child, lowered by my arms to the ladder, made the descent in safety.

Once more the rope was drawn up. Hildegarde was next. She took the noose from my hand and slipped it under her arms without my assistance; I could not but admire her courage. Next she stepped to the edge of the wall, and looked fearfully down to where the unseen ladder stood.

“You must forgive me, but it can’t be helped,” I said, suddenly, with a determination that would not be baffled.

In another instant I had her again in my arms, she whom I had not seen for two long years, and yet who had once been flesh of my flesh, the woman I had loved above all else on God’s footstool, and whom I had in my fool’s paradise called—“wife!”

CHAPTER IX.

SAVING THE SATCHEL.

There were certainly enough dramatic elements concentrated in that critical moment to make it an epoch of my life, long to be marked with a white cross.

Those in the garden were throwing whatever they could lay hands on, and if the shower of missiles such as adobe bricks and broken flowerpots was not overwhelming it could be laid to the scarcity of material rather then any lack of desire on the part of the excited participants.

One fellow appeared to have a gun of some sort, and began banging away with a recklessness that gave me a cold chill.

True, I had no fear of his aim, but there was always danger from an accidental hit, for I had seen greenhorns bring the largest fish to net, and knew the quality of luck.

I had an idea one or two of the bolder spirits among the alcalde’s guests were endeavoring to climb to the roof of the toolhouse, a feat only to be accomplished by the most athletic.

These things, vexatious as they certainly were, could not keep me from devoting my whole energies toward the task now engaging my attention.

In fact, they were of no greater moment than a swarm of angry bees buzzing about my ears.

Perhaps Hildegarde might have ventured to make some remonstrance had I given her an opportunity to do so; but my prompt action swept everything before it.

I would not dare attempt to analyze the very peculiar feeling that came over me at the magnetic touch of her person; I had steeled my heart to resist all influences of this kind, and foolishly believed I was strong enough to approach this woman as calmly and indifferently as though she were a stranger.

Alas! I realized my mistake as I crushed her almost savagely in my arms; surely there was hardly any necessity for such a bear’s hug.

Would she notice my unnecessary fervor, and in her soul despise me for such weakness?

The thought, coming with electrical swiftness, made me strong again; I could not bear her scorn or contempt.

So I lowered her over the parapet of the wall, seeking to so arrange it that her feet might rest upon the upper round of the unseen ladder.

She seemed quite self-possessed, and aided me by grasping the top of the wall.

“The ladder—have you found it?” I called in her ear, close to my lips.

“Yes—yes—let me go!” she panted.

Perhaps other reasons influenced her—perhaps she was even anxious for my safety; but in the perversity of my heart I chose to believe that it was the desire to be free from the hateful clasp of my arms.

Promptly I released her. The rope was still with me, and I held on to that, planting myself firmly against the parapet of the adobe wall, so that I might be in a position to bear a shock should she by any mischance lose her footing.

While I lowered away, unconsciously breathing a prayer of thanks with each yard gained, I became conscious of the fact that the mixed assemblage in the garden had found a new supply of missiles, for all manner of things rattled about me, and several times I was struck quite heavily.

But nothing turned me from my grim determination to carry out my project to the very end. A sigh of relief escaped me when I realized from the sudden slackening of the rope that Hildegarde was safely deposited upon the pavement outside.

Now I could pay attention to my own case.

It was high time.

One of the bold climbers had managed to gain the roof of the toolhouse.

He was just staggering to his feet, and I could see in the faint light from the lanterns carried by those in the gardens, that he wore some sort of gorgeous uniform.

Then it flashed across me that this could be no other than the illustrious Gen. Toreado, commander-in-chief of the grand army of several hundred barefoot soldiers, a man who had been a soldier of fortune all his life, leader in ten revolutions, and one not to be lightly offended.

It was not my intention at that particular moment to tarry there—I had no reason to desire an interview with the ferocious old fire eater who was wont to go raging up and down like a burning brand, through these wonderful little Central American republics.

My hand was on the parapet of the wall, and I knew I could reach the ladder and hustle down to apparent safety before the general could scramble over the gently sloping room to prevent me.

This I was just in the act of doing, when of a sudden I remembered something.

It was that confounded satchel!

I had, of course, laid it down, the better to place Hildegarde on the ladder.

To abandon it was not to be considered for even an instant.

What would she say to me? It contained perhaps her jewels—yes, and there was that silver picture frame inclosing the photo of my lucky successor. Surely these things were worth risking my life for.

At any rate, I did not take the time to think over the matter—a man is bound to act pretty much on impulse in such a case.

I abandoned all present ideas of retreat, and instead, sounded the charge.

No doubt that sturdy old war horse Gen. Toreado, was considerably surprised when I gave an Indian yell and descended upon him with all the fury of a young tornado.

I did not mean he should have any chance to draw a weapon, not caring to spit myself, carried forward by the violence of my rush, upon his Toledo blade.

He was a much older man than I, but a soldier must take hard knocks as they come, and it was neither the time nor place to solve questions of military etiquette.

I rammed him good and hard, meaning to clear the deck in one round.

The general had doubtless found considerable difficulty in making the ascent, for he was still breathing heavily when I ran up against him.

It was much easier going down.

All he had to do was to spread out his legs and arms like a huge jumping frog, take a lovely somersault, and, presto! the thing was done.

If one looks far enough there is usually adequate compensation for all laborious efforts.

But I am of the opinion that the venerable fire eater never fully realized how striking an example of equation I solved when I tumbled him so neatly from the roof of the toolshed; and should I ever have the misfortune to fall into his hands, something besides gratitude would mark his action toward me.

Of course, I had not the slightest idea of ever becoming his prisoner.

Another head had cropped up above the edge of the roof, but when I made a dash in that quarter, the fellow let go in a hurry, and crashed down on those who were so industriously boosting him from below.

All of this in plain view of the alcalde and his merry guests, who were almost beside themselves with astonishment and rage.

The missiles flew hotter than ever, a perfect bombardment of Fort Sumter, so to speak; but my mind was now set upon finding the precious bag, and I did not even try to dodge the magnificent assortment of decayed vegetables, adobe bricks and miscellaneous gardener’s tools that clattered upon the roof.

Could I have unconsciously kicked the satchel overboard when I made my furious rush for the doughty general?

This was my first thought when I failed to locate it immediately.

Singularly enough, the loss of the exasperating thing affected me tremendously—I even dreaded the thought of facing the owner again without my trust. What would she say, and how her tears must flow for that lost photo in the silver frame—hang him!

Then sudden joy—an object caught my eye that looked suspiciously like the bag.

I pounced upon it with an eagerness born of despair, and almost shouted “hallelujah!” when I found it was what I sought.

Now to conduct a masterly retreat.

No one else had as yet appeared on the roof, and apparently my enemies had ceased to worry me for a brief interval.

I tried to do everything decently and in order, but found it convenient to make each second tell, for I had already received several knocks from various missiles, thrown with more or less vigor, and there was danger lest one might do me irreparable damage.

When I flung myself over the wall, I was at first unable to find the ladder—my swaying feet struck only an empty void, and the awful thought came into my head that perhaps enemies had arrived in the calle and removed my only means of escape.

Just then, however, I heard a voice which I recognized even in the midst of the riotous proceedings as belonging to Robbins:

“To the left—only a foot or so—to the left!” was what he shouted.

Of course, I knew this was for my guidance—that he had seen my ineffectual search for the ladder, and was bent on telling me where it lay.

So I readily found footing, and lost no time in sliding down to the ground, where Robbins caught me in his arms, and set me on my feet.

It was just as well, for my head had begun to spin a little, possibly from the effect of a collision with an adobe brick that had not been any too soft.

“Why did you go back?” asked a voice, close to my ear—Hildegarde’s voice.

“To get the satchel,” I replied, grimly, “and to do it I had to tumble that magnificent old Gen. Toreado from the roof.”

“It was splendid; but, oh, so foolish of you!”

That served as an enigma for me, and often I pondered upon its possibilities, without being able to decide just what she meant to imply.

But Robbins, like a sensible fellow, had no idea of letting us stay there a second more than was absolutely necessary for me to get my wind.

“Come, let’s dust it,” he said; “the beggars are bearing down on us yonder.”

What he said was only actual truth, for a crowd was coming down the calle, uttering all sorts of cries, and ready to give us more trouble than we were prepared to face.

So we ran.

CHAPTER X.

THE SAME FOOL.

I take it that even the bravest of soldiers do not consider that a masterly retreat reflects upon their valor, especially when it can only be avoided by serious consequences.

As for Robbins and myself, we hadn’t the least scruple about levanting, and our only anxiety lay in the fear that we might not be able to get away speedily enough, for those fellows were swooping down with considerable promptness, and we had those in our charge who could not be expected to run as rapidly as ourselves.

I must confess I was pleasantly surprised to see that Carmencita could gallop along like a young fawn, while Hildegarde also proved herself able to accomplish something in that line.

So we left the circus behind—for they were still keeping up the delectable chorus over the garden wall in a manner that would have won great praise on the comic opera stage.

My one thought now was to cover the acres of ground separating us from the “pebbly strand,” where the dimpling waters of the Caribbean kissed the shore of Tobasco, one time a republic.

The good city of Bolivar would ere long be a very unhealthy place for a fellow of my size: doubtless I had been recognized as a Yankee by some of the rabble. Words I had shouted would have betrayed this fact, if nothing else, and there were few enough of my breed in the capital, so that my identification would be easy.

Truly, the sooner my feet trod the deck of my saucy little vessel, the better for my peace of mind. They have an uncomfortable way of standing a fellow up before a file of barefoot soldiers, and against a dead wall, in these revolutionary republics, and then trying the case after the execution; and when one considers what wretched shots these fellows are, the fear lest they might miss their mark and require a second volley, would be greater than the actual pangs of dissolution.

For the moment I had forgotten what Hildegarde had so vehemently declared about ever setting foot on my yacht.

Really, there was no other refuge—it was Hobson’s choice.

If she proved obdurate, and ventured to fly in the face of good fortune, we must adopt some other plan, for I was grimly determined she should owe her escape to my much abused boat.

Escape—from what?

Well, there was the riotous mob back yonder, danger enough in itself; but, going back to the prime cause—escape from what?

That reminded me of the fact that as yet I had not the faintest inkling concerning the nature of the peril that menaced her in the house of Bolivar’s worthy alcalde.

My willingness to risk life and liberty in her service for what might simply be a whim—to do all this while utterly in the dark as to the cause—would these things occur to her as worthy of notice?

Well, we were making good time, you may be sure, hoping to outdistance the crowd.

They had sighted us, however, and were in full cry, like a pack of hounds after a fox.

We chose the more unfrequented streets for many reasons, chief among which was the fact that on the main thoroughfares our passage must of necessity be blocked by the merrymaking crowds.

There was always a danger lest some fellow, prowling in these darker calles for some evil purpose, might endeavor to bring us to bay.

I would feel genuinely sorry for him if Robbins found a chance to smash a blow straight from the shoulder into his face, for the big mate possessed the power of a bull.

At the same time, while I ran alongside of Hildegarde, I held something in my hand, the one that was disengaged from that accursed satchel—something that few men care to face, at least when the finger of desperation toys with the trigger.

I was not in a mood for play.

It had apparently reached a point where the whole population of Bolivar was arrayed against us—men, women and children.

The man who raised a hand against Hildegarde would rue the consequences.

I was bent upon saving her—perhaps for that other fellow, whom I hated; but, nevertheless, I was determined to save her at any cost.

All the while we were zigzagging across the city, and nearing blue water.

I tried to imagine I could smell the salty air, but that was impossible in Bolivar, since every cable had an odor peculiar unto itself, and each exceeded the preceding one in intensity.

Now and then I bawled out which turn Robbins was to make, who galloped in the van with the little dark-faced girl, for he was a complete stranger in Bolivar, while I had haunted almost every street in the days of my idling.

Once I saw a dark figure rise up ahead as if about to seize upon the mate, doubtless thinking all that came to his net fair prey.

Poor fool! He did not know that it would have been better for him to have run up against a steam engine than that son of Neptune, with his sledgehammer fist.

I heard an awful impact, saw the fellow go whirling back into the darkness whence he had so eagerly sprung, and, when passing the scene of the encounter, doleful groans told me that chap would trouble us no more.

About this time another thing occurred to give me anxiety.

Hildegarde had tripped along in a fashion to arouse my secret admiration, for it had never occurred to me in the past that she had the making of a heroine in her. I had considered her simply a little domestic despot, who would rule the family roost or at once abdicate.

But the chase was beginning to tell upon the little woman; excitement had lent her wings, as it were, up to now; but even this goad began to fail in spurring her on.

We could not be far away from the shore now, and possibly in five minutes our eyes would be gladdened by a glimpse of the dancing waves shimmering in the tropical night, with the lights of my yacht gleaming there like a beacon of hope.

Yes, Hildegarde was failing.

I could hear her panting; being no experienced sprinter, she had not learned to keep her lips together while she ran.

There was danger of a collapse.

Really, this would not do at all.

I could hardly pick her up and carry her, even though she were willing; but there was a way in which I might assist.

The now useless weapon I thrust into a pocket, changed that miserable handbag to my other set of digits, and then, for the second time that night, without so much as “by your leave,” threw an arm around Hildegarde.

Did she shrink? Was her hatred for me so bitter that she would face any danger rather than suffer such contact? Well, I did not feel any movement of this sort, nor would it have made the least difference to me in the desperate condition of affairs that confronted us.

Now we made out better.

With such assistance as I could give, Hildegarde was enabled to keep up.

Strange how I should at such a critical moment allow my thoughts to fly far back into the dim past to where a young man and a maiden fair sauntered through wheat fields and clover patches, each forgetful of the fact that there had been lovers true before their day.

Perhaps close contact between a sturdy arm and a winsome waist has been responsible for some very queer things, but I venture to declare it never gave a man more utter contempt for present danger than fell upon me just then.

Why, I felt as though I could have “taken wings of the morning,” and soared away with her far from the maddening crowd, so that we two might once more go Maying as in those halcyon days before she chose to consider me deficient in manly attributes, and renew the vows made under the chestnut blooms.

I suppose men will continue to make fools of themselves until the end of time—that is perfectly natural; but it may be set down as a little surprising when one deliberately swears he means to remain a celibate the remainder of his life, and then bows down a second time before the cruel goddess who had been the cause of his wanderings.

Bah! I grew disgusted with myself, and unconsciously fierce in my actions, until a little “Oh!” close beside me gave warning that it was something more fragile than a stone idol of the ancient mound builders of Mexico that I embraced.

The bay—would it ever come into view?

And what then? How were we to pass over the intervening water, so as to reach my yacht?

I kept a boat ashore during the day, but it was now late at night, and it would be only through the merest luck if such were the case at this time.

Besides, where we reached the water might be a considerable distance from the spot where the yacht’s boat lay.

Still, there was others, and we would not find fault because the craft lacked the conveniences of my own dainty naphtha launch.

By chance, before we came to the water, we had to cross a lighted street, and, intuitively, I knew my companion had turned to look at me.

Her hood had fallen back, her golden hair was streaming in the wind like Lady Godiva’s and she never looked more distractingly lovely, albeit the terror of this thing had whitened her delicate face, usually aglow with roses, and lent a strange, wild gleam to her blue eyes as she fastened them on me.

My first thought was that she was afraid of me because of my fierce eagerness, but when she spoke I knew I had been in error.

“See the blood on my arm—on your face. Oh, God, Morgan! you—you are cruelly hurt!” she cried.

CHAPTER XI.

A STERN CHASE.

When Hildegarde cried out in such evident dismay upon discovering that I was bleeding more or less profusely from some miserable cut on the head, my first sensation, strange as it may seem, was one of pleasure.

That she should care at all whether I suffered was a singular thing in itself, for people do not usually interest themselves in those for whom they profess to entertain a feeling of scorn that at least borders on hatred.

This feeling was only too transitory, a fleeting glimpse, as it were, of that Paradise, the doors of which were shut against me forever.

Then came the speedy reaction.

Of course, it was at the sight of blood she was dismayed; women seldom can see it without more or less alarm; and, besides, it had dabbled the side of her dress—my blood, shed for her, but, alas, shed in vain!

“It’s too bad. I’m sorry it stained your dress; really, I didn’t know I was hurt,” I managed to stammer, in some confusion, for the sudden change in thought that it was the gown and not my condition which caused her dismay gave me a bad turn.

There was not time for further conversation.

We had reached the water front at last, thank goodness! and now for a change of base.

Just as I had pictured in my mind, there was the noble harbor, with the little waves shimmering in the soft starlight, and lapping the shore with that slumberous murmur so pleasing to the romantic soul.

Eagerly I threw my gaze far out upon the bay to where I had last seen my yacht.

Her anchorage had not been changed, and her lights were plainly visible; indeed, it seemed to me she was unusually illuminated.

A cry from Robbins drew my attention to another quarter:

“A steamer in port! Arrived after sundown!”

Sure enough, not a great distance away from the yacht, other lights could be seen, indicating the huge, black hulk of a steamer at anchor.

Then I was able to give something of a guess as to why the yacht was illuminated. I had been expecting visitors to join me here, and the steamer had arrived in unusually quick time, ahead of her schedule.

Those were matters that gave me very little concern just then.

A man cannot be expected to take much notice of future social engagements when a noisy pack of enraged citizens is in full cry at his heels—and they were coming along in quite fine style, I assure you, a genuine mob, such as I had read about in stories of Paris under the Reign of Terror, men and women vying with each other in the savage shout of:

“Muerta los Gringoes!”

It was rather thrilling, but decidedly unpleasant, all the same.

What we wanted now was a boat, and we needed it badly, too.

Little we cared what kind of a boat it was, so long as it would comfortably hold the crowd and allow of decent progress through the water.

There was none at the exact spot where we burst upon the shore.

Hence, it became necessary that we keep up our jog trot until we met the object of which we were in search.

In starting along the water line, we were careful to head toward the levee, where the business of the port was carried on, passengers and freight landed from steamers, and where any number of boats of all sizes and descriptions would be found, day and night.

On the other hand, had we turned to the left, we might have run less chance of meeting opposition, but, all the same, our opportunities for finding a craft would be smaller.

At the time Hildegarde cried out upon discovering blood upon her gown, I had hastily withdrawn my supporting arm.

Without the assistance I had given her, she made poor progress, indeed, so that I was forced to once more encircle her waist; the mischief had already been done, and it could not be made worse.

A shout from Robbins—a shout that gave me sudden pleasure, for it seemed to prophesy good news.

I saw him rush forward and bend over some dark object on the beach.

It was a boat!

Alas! there was no sign of oars, or any other propelling power, and, without these, what folly to think of going upon the great bay.

We could not linger to lament our wretched fortune; already the leaders of the pursuing mob had come stringing out from among the houses, and were even now chasing along the strand.

Better luck next time. Because one boat proved unavailable was no reason for despair.

There would be a number of them presently, and it would be a singular thing on this still night if we did not find one already in the water, ready for use.

I knew a spot where we always landed from the yacht, and there I felt positive of discovering just what we sought.

Ha! Another dark object hove in sight, but this time Robbins did not shout—one disappointment had made him shy.

It was just as well, for, while this boat was equipped with oars, it was far too small to hold the four of us.

Here Robbins and I had a very brief clash, springing from a bit of brief generosity on his part.

“Two can go—you and the lady,” he said; “even the child might squeeze in.”

“And you?” I demanded.

“I’ll take my chances farther on,” was the unabashed reply.

“I’ll see you—in Guinea first! Just gallop along; and, remember, we sink or swim together.”

Robbins was forced to give in, but he did hate to lose this chance of sending us to safety; no doubt he knew from the tone of my voice that I was accustomed to having my own way, and wouldn’t be balked.

But I never could forget the brave fellow’s genuine, disinterested generosity, though I would see him even farther than Guinea ere I would accept his sacrifice.

We were again on the jump.

These two disappointments were serious in more than one way.

They aroused false hopes, and at the same time allowed our pursuers to draw nearer, for while we halted they continued to advance, eager to close with the Gringoes who had created such an uproar in Bolivar this night of the flower feast.

No doubt they were very anxious to make our acquaintance at short range; the rumor that a glittering reward for our apprehension, dead or alive, by the worthy alcalde had permeated their ranks and enthused them with the most ardent zeal.

On our part, we respectfully declined the honor of an introduction, and were even more anxious to shake the dust of Bolivar’s metropolis from our shoes than they were to have us depart hence.

We were now drawing close to the wooden landing stage.

Here, I felt positive, we must find what we sought; but, should this prove a fallacy, then was our finish in sight.

At least, I seemed to feel a grim sort of humor in the fact that Hildegarde would realize my worth when I had departed hence.

She could not have gone much farther, I am positive; that had been a killing pace for the little woman; surely, something she had never done before, and might never again have to undertake during the whole course of her natural life.

I could feel her becoming more and more a dead weight on my arm.

At length, just as we drew near the stage, her feet lagged, and then utterly refused to move.

She looked up at me almost piteously, and never shall I forget the expression of her face as I beheld it in the cold starlight.

“Leave me! oh! leave me, and save yourself, Morgan!” she whispered, having no breath for more.

“No, I’ll be d—— if I do!” I cried, almost savagely, and with that I snatched her up as though she were an infant, and thus laden, I pattered out on the landing stage.

Already I heard Robbins cheering, and I knew he had struck a bonanza.

This renewed my strength, for there is no incentment in this world equal to newly aroused hope.

I had already scented more trouble.

Robbins had not found the quay deserted, for I could see several figures besides his out yonder.

These I knew to be native boatmen, anxious to find trade, since a steamer had anchored in the harbor.

They were, as a rule, rough fellows, eager to earn a real at any time, but, if inclined to be ugly, would make bad customers.

When I arrived, I found Robbins already at loggerheads with the fellows.

Through Carmencita, he had endeavored to hire one of them to take us to the yacht.

Ordinarily, the men would have jumped at the opportunity to earn a fat fee, but they seemed to realize that something out of the usual run was in the wind, and they “hung in stays”—that is, refused to come about to our way of thinking.

Probably their quick ears must have caught what it was their compatriots on the beach were shouting as they ran along, and thus knew of the dazzling reward that had been offered for our apprehension.

Really, the case was one that demanded heroic treatment.

There were three of the boatmen—big, hulking chaps all, and could they delay us only a few minutes, all was lost.

I grasped the situation as fully as though it were spread before me in illuminated text.

And I knew that promptness alone could save us such a crisis.

My first act was to gently deposit my burden upon the planks of the landing stage, after which I laid hold upon the little argument I carried in a back pocket.

Robbins was ahead of me.

One of the boatmen, itching to possess some of that dazzling reward, had reached out and actually laid his dirty hand on the mate.

Talk about your catapults of olden days that hurled huge stones against the gate of citadel or fortress, they could not have gotten in their insidious work with greater effect than did the mate of the Pathfinder.

I saw the big boatman suddenly double up, after the manner of a hinge—at the same time he seemed propelled through space, vanished in blackness beyond the end of the platform, and immediately a tremendous splash announced his safe arrival below.

It was now my turn to take command.

“Put the ladies in a boat, and be quick about it, Robbins. I’ll keep these chaps in check. Sing out when you’re ready!” I cried.

The other boatmen had recoiled when they saw the starlight gleam wickedly from the blue barrel of the revolver with which I confronted them.

“Get out! run! or you are dead men! Vamos—muerta!” I shouted.

They comprehended the menacing action, if not my elegant phraseology, and began to back away from such dangerous quarters.

Still, they were ugly and treacherous customers.

It was my desire to have more of their room and less of their company about the time I must jump into the boat.

The crowd had almost reached the quay, and in thirty seconds all would be lost; but in good time I heard Robbins’ cheery voice over the edge of the stringpiece shouting:

“Ready, Morgan! Jump for it, man!”

And I jumped.

CHAPTER XII.

THE LAST RESORT.

The native boatmen made a rush at the last instant, encouraged by the near proximity of their fellows; but they missed me by ten feet.

I landed in the stern of the boat, just where Robbins had intended I should.

He already had the oars in his hands, having severed the painter with his knife, and instantly bent his broad back with a swoop that might have done credit to a champion sculler getting away from the starting line.

We moved—open water appeared between the boat and the landing stage. Thank Heaven! we were off!

It was too early to crow; there were other boats, and some of those fellows could row even as well as the muscular mate.

Still, we had the chance for which we erstwhile so ardently prayed.

The affair had now assumed a different phase, and promised to be a water chase. With my yacht in sight, I had great hopes of winning out.

Besides, Hildegarde was going on board—she must have forgotten her violent declaration that nothing could induce her to set her foot on that detestable yacht.

When I dropped into the stern of the boat, I naturally floundered a little; but it was beamy enough to allow one a chance to recover, and I knew I had business to attend to at my end, as well as Robbins did with his oars.

For instance, there were two ugly boatmen on the landing stage; I imagined they would be in just the humor to hurl anything after us they could lay their hands on, and since we were not alone in the boat, it was my business to prevent such a bombardment.

As their forms loomed up on the edge of the planks, and I saw one fellow raise his arm to hurl some heavy weight into our boat that might have sunk us, not to mention the chances for mangled limbs, I sent him my compliments instanter.

With the flash and the report, both men dropped flat upon the dock, one from fright, the other, I fervently hoped, because he had a bit of hot lead somewhere about his anatomy. When I heard him groaning and uttering a perfect prize collection of swear words, I knew I had pinked the rascal, and my spirits went up accordingly.

Robbins was tugging away like an engine, but the clumsy old boat seemed to move through the water like a tub or a derelict.

I heard the mate grumble.

“What’s wrong, old man?” I called, watching the quay for expected figures, for we were still too close for comfort, despite strenuous exertions.

“Pulls like she had an anchor down. Holy Moses! how’ll we ever get there at this rate?”

His words gave me a sudden thought, born of suspicion; I looked over the rounded stern of the boat, and was just in time to discover a human head, which instantly vanished.

“Now she moves!” cried the mate.

“Yes; it was that lubber holding on to the keel and dragging—the fellow you sent in.”

It was fortunate I discovered his clever ruse when I did, for a little more of it would have ruined us.

We were leaving the quay well behind now, but I could see that it was rapidly filling with people, who shouted in a way that might not be misunderstood.

Of course, they would immediately seize upon all the available boats at the landing stage, and put out in hot pursuit.

Who cared? With the open bay before us, and my good yacht in sight, I felt as though this stage of my troubles was nearing its end.

We could hear them tumbling into the boats, and I only hoped their eagerness to share in the golden reward would cause them to overcrowd every craft.

Then came the splash of oars in the water, and we knew we were in for the last stage of this really exciting affair.

I had great confidence in Robbins, more than I felt in the oars he handled, which I feared were of the usual treacherous character habitual among those shiftless boatmen of Bolivar, and which might snap under his mighty strokes.

Still the crowd gathered, as though half of the city’s population had been drawn to the water side by this modest little affair of ours.

Never had the frail landing stage been put to such a severe test.

I trembled for the result, and my fears proved not without foundation, for suddenly there came a tremendous crash, a din of shouting and shrieking, not unmixed with laughter, for the tide was low and the water shallow, and then we knew Bolivar would be put to the expense of a new landing stage as one result of this wonderful “gringo hunt.”

Hildegarde was naturally alarmed at the tremendous commotion back of us, and feared that some scores of persons might be drowned; but I calmed her as best I could by explaining how very shallow the water was, and what amphibious creatures these people were.

Besides, we had troubles of our own, and in a case of this kind “every tub must stand on its own bottom.”

The rude boat was but a hollow mockery when it came to a question of speed—perhaps by some accident we had chanced upon the very poorest of the lot, but it could not be set down against Robbins, who at the time was compelled to accept what the gods gave him, and to be influenced more by the position of the various craft than anything else.

I had hoped we would hold our own, and thus lead the pursuers a merry dance up to the very side of the yacht.

It was not to be.

My ear was not finely educated in matters of this sort, but even I could tell that we were being steadily overhauled.

There was no mystery about it—the other boats pulled two pairs of oars apiece.

That probably meant more work for me.

I remembered that I had discharged a number of shots, and that in its present condition my revolver was next to useless.

And I also joyfully recollected purchasing a box of cartridges that very evening, intending to take it aboard the yacht.

What great, good fortune! Why, things were working harmoniously all around!

My nimble fingers started to search for that godsend of a pasteboard box, which was discovered snugly reposing in a pocket of my coat. Then I tore it open, and proceeded to load.

I rather guess few men ever replenished the chambers of a revolver under more singular and exciting conditions, with a jerky boat, only starlight to see by, and closely pursued by several detachments of fierce, vindictive natives.

Who the fellows in the other boat might be I neither knew nor cared; perhaps some of them might have been numbered among the original guests of the mayor, although I doubted this very much, as those chaps, if they had kept up the long chase, would have been too winded to do much rowing.

More likely they consisted of other watermen, or soldiers recruited by the riotous mob in its whirlwind passage through the town.

Men in all lands are mightily moved by the alluring glitter of a golden prize, and these fellows risked everything with that in view.

Hence, I had no other feeling for them save contempt; they might have aroused my respect could I have believed them influenced by any patriotic motive, but hired assassins deserved no mercy at my hands.

And I was grimly resolved that, having enlisted for the war, I was not to be deterred from doing my duty, with a precious cargo on board and a haven in sight.

Let them come on; there would be more blood than mine to flow, for no man should put a foot inside this old tub while I had a shot left or could wield a boathook.

Straining my eyes, I could see two boats coming up; the other had fallen behind, being like our own, a poor makeshift.

They were overhauling us fast enough, and unless some miracle offered, we must take our chances with them.

As near as I could make out in the starlight, there were about four men in each boat; the odds were certainly overwhelming, but true Anglo-Saxon hearts do not quail when the difficulties mount upward.

I believed I could materially lessen their number ere they came alongside, and perhaps create something of consternation in their ranks.

Nearer still, until I could see the figure in each bow, waiting to grapple with us; nearer, while Robbins strained every muscle, pulling as man never pulled before; then came a shout of joy from our pursuers, the meaning of which I realized only too well, for I had heard one of the oars snap in my comrade’s fearful grip, and knew we were at last helpless on the water.

CHAPTER XIII.

LIVELY WHILE IT LASTED.

Really, it seemed as though the Fates were against us in this adventure, since we had to fight most desperately for every small advantage gained.

I had, it may be remembered, more than once fervently longed for some opportunity to prove my valor in the sight of this doubting little woman, so that she might realize how she had wronged me in the past; perhaps it was a childish desire, but a most natural one withal, such as most men would feel under similar conditions.

But, really, I had not expected such a deluge of desperate conditions to overwhelm us, even as the avalanche does the unlucky traveler on the Swiss Alps.

One may even have too much of a good thing.

At least, I thought so when I heard that miserable oar snap, and found the boats of our enemies swooping down upon us.

Robbins made no further effort to escape.

He was like a lion at bay.

I heard him give a roar of rage as he snatched up the boathook and threw its barbed end aloft.

Just as might have been expected, the two boats came up, one on either side, as if the whole thing had been previously arranged.

My first thought was of Hildegarde, fearing she might receive some injury in the mêlée that was imminent, and surely that feeling did me credit.

“Lie down in the bottom of the boat—quick!”

Now, I could distinctly remember the time, since it was not so far back, when she had absolutely defied my lawful authority, and blankly refused to heed my request.

Not so now, for she seemed to recognize that in this case I not only knew what might be right, but was also in a position to command.

So she crouched down, with the terrified child clasped in her arms, while we two desperate men prepared to put up the best fight we knew how.

And, strangely enough, in that second of time, when there was a breathing space before the arrival of the boats, my strained ears caught a sound that thrilled me with renewed hope—it was the distinct “chug-chug-chug” of a little naphtha engine, and I knew that the launch had set out from the yacht and was bearing down upon us.

If we could only resist this savage attack for a few moments, we were saved.

“Keep back—keep back!” I shouted, as I stood up in the stern and waved my pistol, for I wanted no man’s blood on my hands, if it could possibly be avoided.

Perhaps they understood, for they laughed derisively and pulled wildly on.

It was time to begin.

I had the sole power of bridging the little distance still separating the boats, but which the rapid pace with which they advanced was quickly annihilating.

Again my long practice with a pistol served me a good turn.

My first shot was all right.

I had picked out the fellow who leaned over the bow, like a gaunt harpy, eager to lay hold as they came up and to fasten the boats together, while his companions smothered us with very numbers.

He made quite a fuss over the matter; really, you might have thought he was the recipient of a cannon ball somewhere about his anatomy, instead of a tiny leaden pill.

I knew he was not much to be feared in the coming encounter, and turned to present my further compliments to the fellow who dangled from the bow of the other boat.

Jove! he had a pistol, too, and even as I looked that way, it flashed fire, while the angry bellow rang over the water.

How lucky for us that he had never made it his hobby to do target practice some thousands of times like myself, else would the bullet have found better service than to whistle past our ears, and go ricochetting over the water beyond.

That settled him.

I considered him too dangerous an individual to lose sight of—doubtless, his weapon still contained five shots, and if he kept on blazing away in this reckless manner, who could tell but that one bullet might, by some wonderful accident, do us serious damage.

Such things have happened.

As soon as I had covered this individual, I felt a grim satisfaction, for I knew his name was Dennis, and that he was my game.

He proved to be even more averse to taking his medicine than my first patient, for he floundered around in the boat, whooping it up like a wild Yaqui Indian, and threatened to bring the whole outfit to grief; realizing which, one of the rowers knocked him overboard, and the fellow at the stern dragged him in again, doubtless somewhat cooled by his immersion.

Brief though the time had been which was consumed in this little comedy, or tragedy, as you please, it was enough to bring the boats alongside.

Robbins saw his chance with the boathook to keep one of them at arm’s length, so to speak.

He planted it solidly against the bow of the boat, and effectually blocked its progress, while moving our own craft a little.

This gave me a chance at the other.

There were three fellows besides the cripple.

They saw me crouching there, waiting like a Nemesis for them, and the sight was not at all to their liking.

A couple of them began to yelp dismally, like a dog that sees his finish when the irate master draws near, whip in hand.

Cowards at heart, they would have fled the spot if given a chance; but the battle was now on, and even rats at bay are to be feared.

The third fellow proved to have more sand, for he made a wicked lunge at me with his oar, and only that I threw up my left arm, I must have received a blow on the cranium that, following the first, might have done for me entirely.

As it was, I would have a sore arm for some time to come, and might thank my lucky stars that it had not been broken, for he made a vicious blow.

Thankful for past favors, I returned him a Roland for his Oliver, for I fired when he was only five feet from the muzzle of my pistol, and it did not require target practice then to bring down my bird.

Instead of shooting the other two howling dervishes in the boat, I bent over, seized an oar from the craft, and then gave the latter a vigorous push that sent it far off.

Thus had I, single handed, gained the mastery over one of the hostile boats.

Robbins needed help. He was embroiled in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle with the other chaps.

Probably they had seized upon his boathook and drawn alongside in that way; I do not know just how it was done, but when I turned, after my successful little crusade, I found the whole three were reaching out for the mate, and threatening to come aboard.

The captured oar was in my hands, and surely I knew only too well what misery it was capable of producing when properly applied.

My stout ashen weapon, as I expected, served to create a diversion among the ranks of the enemy.

The first man who sampled its qualities went down in the bottom of the boat in a heap, to mingle his groans and swear words with the fellow who sat wildly feeling here and there over the whole surface of his anatomy, endeavoring to discover where my bullet had lodged.

I think there must have been magic in the ashen blade, it seemed to so promptly cure the maniac qualities of all to whom it was applied, so that they underwent an instantaneous change, and became almost angels.

That left two. Surely, we could manage them.

Robbins was giving one some severe treatment when I turned my batteries on the remaining chap.

This time I merely planted the end of my oar against the pit of his stomach, and then applied some strength in a sudden shove. He staggered back, tripped over a thwart, or the two moaning fellows in the bottom of the boat, and measured his length there with a most ominous crash.

So successful had been this method of attack that I persisted in applying it; when you have a good thing, it is wise to push it along.

I managed this time to get the oar against the side of the boat, upon which I worked with such earnestness of purpose that it was pushed away from the craft we occupied.

And this brought about another unlucky contretemps for the enemy. Robbins had a grip on the last of them, and seemed loath to let go until he found he was dragging the chap over the side; then, when he did release his clutch, the fellow having no hold on either boat, fell between them into the tide.

This was the last of the Mohicans—the coast seemed clear, though the third boat, heavily laden, was coming up with a rush.

We did not mean to wait for them.

For my part, I had had quite enough of the scramble, and longed to rest my aching head on a pillow.

At once I passed the captured oar into Robbins’ hands, and he dropped back into his seat.

Then, as we began to move again, I noticed the crouching figures in the bottom of the boat, and my heart filled with pity. I cried:

“Have no further fear, Hildegarde. We are safe!”

CHAPTER XIV.

HILDEGARDE EMBARKS.

To tell the truth, I must have imbibed something of the pride that came to old-time Romans when returning victorious from the wars, but if they felt as “rocky” as I did after my experience with adobes and ashen oars, surely they were not to be particularly envied.

It is always a great satisfaction to win out—success causes us to forget for the time being the bruised head and weary frame—a generous glow suffuses the heart, and we puff out with a feeling of consequence.

I had done enough to be pardoned for some such weakness.

And she, Hildegarde, had seen it all.

Did she think me a coward now, a vain boaster, who would flee before a shadow?

Well, I guess not—at least, there was reason to believe I had vindicated my right to be called a man.

The third boat still pursued us, but in a half-hearted way, for they had discovered what an earthquake had overwhelmed the others, and experienced a change of opinion regarding the desirability of getting to close quarters.

Besides, Robbins was pulling steadily, and at every stroke our craft was pushed a length ahead.

I looked around.

There upon the water I saw a rapidly approaching object—a boat with a lantern in it, a boat that coughed intermittently as it bore down upon us.

I knew that sound well; had I not explored creeks and lagoons in Florida, up the Amazon, and even along the Nile in that same little launch?

The chaps back of us were still keeping up more or less of a racket, but distance was already mellowing the sound, and I knew I could make myself heard.

So I bellowed out, using my hands in lieu of a fog-horn:

“Ahoy! Wagner—Cummings—this way!”

Just as I expected, there was an immediate and cheery response, and the launch bore down upon us.

The pursuers had given it up; perhaps believed that with reinforcements at hand we might turn the tables and chase them; or it might be more worthy motives caused them to go back and assist their demoralized comrades.

I cared not a picayune what the motive, so long as we were rid of the fellows.

Hildegarde once more sat upon a thwart.

Her arm was around Carmencita, and, though unable to account for the fact, I could see that she was awaiting events with her nerves at the highest tension.

Strange if, after all I had done, she held that old grudge against me still, and allowed it to make the acceptance of a temporary shelter on board my yacht a painful necessity.

I could not quite discharge these bitter thoughts that insisted upon crowding upon me.

The launch bore around and came up alongside our clumsy craft.

I was never more glad to grasp hold of it.

Karl Wagner, with another, was aboard—the stout engineer, I think it was—their departure had been in such haste, they had not waited for more recruits.

“Let me help you in, Hildegarde,” I said, quietly, and withal not able to avoid a little tenderness in my voice, for she had been so sadly frightened during the battle on the water, I felt genuinely sorry for her.

She did not refuse, and actually gave me her hand, so that I might help her.

Perhaps it was the blow I had so recently received that made me feel so dizzy just then; surely, the touch of a hand could not set my heart to beating so madly that the blood went rushing to my head, and after all I had vowed about bitter feelings, hatred and such things in general toward womankind, and this little despot in particular.

Robbins quickly swung the little girl into the launch, and then we followed suit.

The boat was left adrift.

As I lounged there, regardless of the fact that my precious blood might be soiling the cushions, it all seemed very like a fantastic dream—the rapid events of this night.

True, all Bolivar was in an uproar because of our bold work, and doubtless the worthy alcalde was marshaling his little army with the intention of seeking our capture, so that we might be forced to pay heavily for our fun.

Bah! we could afford to laugh at all the alcaldes in Bolivar, or any other Central American republic, once our feet had pressed the deck of the yacht.

Long before he could embark with his arms, we would have steam up and be leaving the harbor, with the sea before us.

Another thing came to me, and I was really surprised to see how much genuine pleasure it brought in its train; she must be aboard the yacht, for days, perhaps weeks, and it would surely be my fault if I failed to find some golden opportunity for affecting a reconciliation; yes, there was little use deceiving myself, I loved her still, loved her better than before, and I was ever willing to bow my proud head to her yoke if so be—— Phew! I had forgotten that there might be some disagreeable news for me, since I had refused to hear from her during the two years of our separation.

What if she had secured a divorce? I had some reason to believe this were so; but, good heavens, what if she had gone even further, and in pique married some other fellow?

That brought out a cold sweat.

I remembered that I had not taken the trouble to ask her how she came to be in a foreign city like Bolivar, and a guest of the alcalde. Perhaps some one vested with authority had taken her there. I remembered the silver frame and the photograph of which I had obtained but a glimpse, enough to see that it was a man.

It would have pleased me had this bag been forgotten and left in the abandoned boat; but little Carmencita had kept tight hold of it.

Apparently, my condition might be considered very much mixed.

We were now nearing the yacht.

I could tell that those on board were anticipating a speedy move, for acting under orders, some one had started up the fires, and fresh sparks were shooting out of her funnel.

This was fortunate.

Bolivar, with its noble harbor, would not be the place for us after this night.

We must skip if we desired to avoid the consequences of bearding the august alcalde in his ancestral castle, and outraging his person with a knockdown argument.

Besides, much blood had been spilled, for which we must justly be held to account.

I did not know that we had killed any one—I hope not, even though the provocation had been great; but we had seriously incapacitated half a dozen worthy citizens of Bolivar from continuing their regular avocations for some time to come, and would be held strictly accountable, if caught.

The justice in these Central American courts always leans in favor of the citizen as against the foreigner, who, whether in the right or not, usually finds himself bound to pay the costs.

Against this the Yankee spirit rose up in arms, and since protests never avail in such a case, the only resort was flight.

Hildegarde had not said one word. I thought I had felt a little pressure when I held her hand, but it may have been imagination.

As we drew closer to the yacht, I saw her turn and give me a quick glance, though she did not speak.

What it was influenced her I had no idea at the time, though later on the secret was laid bare to my gaze.

Looking myself to the yacht, I saw there were a number of persons along the rail, about the place where we would draw alongside, there being a landing stage swung over, with several steps to it.

One was a woman, for I could see the skirt of her light gown swaying in the gentle breeze.

I knew who it was.

My expected guests from the steamer were aboard the yacht.

It never occurred to me to see any connection between the presence of Diana Thorpe aboard my boat and the intense antipathy shown by Hildegarde to coming aboard.

Then a strange thing occurred.

Hildegarde, as if possessed of a sudden overpowering notion, suddenly veiled her face behind a flimsy web that had apparently been fastened to her hat.

This act surprised me.

Evidently, she did not care to be immediately recognized—she knew who leaned over the rail, her elegant figure outlined against the lights beyond.

I was too dizzy to understand why she should do this thing; I can remember that it struck me as queer, and yet, at the same time, I was not unwilling to humor her caprice, and keep her secret for a little time.

At least, I would be better able to wrestle with it when I got rid of this awful ringing in my head, and could ponder upon it rationally. She had some reason, that was evident.

At last we were alongside.

Robbins lifted Carmencita up, and willing hands helped her on deck.

Hildegarde neatly avoided my proffered assistance, and allowed the mate to help her, which caused me to bite my lips in chagrin.

Then I climbed aboard, to be immediately met by an effusive young woman and a handsome, dapper little gentleman, who wrung my hands and acted as though they were really very glad to see me.

CHAPTER XV.

THE EMBERS ARE STIRRED.

Hildegarde—strange how that name has always affected me, above all other names on earth—Hildegarde had immediately walked some little distance away upon reaching the deck of the yacht.

No doubt she felt the curious eyes of the royal Diana fastened upon her, and though I had known the time when this beauty had to be content with the rôle of second fiddle when Hildegarde was present, the latter seemed to shrink from facing her now.

Why was this?

Indeed, I could not guess, though half a dozen vague thoughts flashed through my racked brain.

Perhaps she had no reason to be proud of her presence in this Central American metropolis, and hotbed of revolution—perhaps things had happened of which I was utterly ignorant, but of which Diana must be cognizant. Perhaps—and here was the keenest rub of all, for it came as a personal blow—perhaps she was utterly ashamed to be seen in my company, after the manner in which I had once left her.

Well, I had no shame in the matter, and stood ready to do the thing over again if I might serve her.

When Thorpe had wrung my hand like a pump handle in his old, mechanical way, so characteristic of the fellow, who pretended to be a snob, yet was, at heart, a good chap, he began to bombard me with questions.

Really, I could not blame him for being eager to know what I had been doing to get myself embroiled in such a hot mess with the citizens of Bolivar; and as for his fair cousin, Diana, she was almost consumed with feminine curiosity.

The presence of a mysterious woman in the case added to its piquancy in her mind.

I was not in the humor to gratify this curiosity, at least just then, since other things needed my attention.

“Pardon me for the present, my friends, I beg, and when the opportunity arrives I will relate the story. Just now much demands my attention; I am wounded, the yacht must get out of here before we are overwhelmed—and a lady needs my attention. In half an hour I will join you.”

Then I bawled out to Cummings, who had taken charge since our captain was left seriously ill at New Orleans:

“Mr. Cummings, we must get out of this without delay. Have the launch aboard, the anchor up, and before we are an hour out I’ll talk with you about our course.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” he replied, for Cummings was an old nautical man, whose home had been for many years upon the briny, wherever his hat chanced to be hung.

I forgot Robbins for the time being, but he was just the chap to make himself quite at home anywhere.

Hildegarde had stood at a distance, waiting to see what disposition I would make of her; she could not have heard what passed between the Thorpes and myself, and I rather fancied she had no desire to listen.

There was an attitude of pride in the way she stood there which I did not like.

Surely, I had given her no fresh cause for dislike or scorn; on the contrary, I was fool enough to cherish a fond hope that my battles in her behalf on this mad night might serve to blot out my shortcomings of the past, if such a thing were possible.

“I must apologize for leaving you even for a minute,” I said, in a low voice.

“It does not matter—you need not apologize. I expected this, and must pay for my weakness in coming,” she replied, coldly.

That was certainly Greek to me; when one has the key, all these puzzles become as simple as the easiest sum in arithmetic, but lacking that, they prove enigmas.

She expected what—that I would neglect her? Surely, she had become captious, indeed, when a minute’s unavoidable delay on my part was to be so keenly resented.

I bit my lips with vexation.

“If you will go with me, Hildegarde, I can show you your stateroom.”

“My stateroom?” she echoed, with just a trace of bitterness in her voice. “I beg that you will not deprive any lady or yourself of an apartment on account of my presence on board. I would not have it for the world.”

“Make your mind easy; no one has occupied this stateroom since I left Algiers, where I had a party of friends aboard.”

“In that case I accept. It will not be for long. I shall expect you to land me at some American port, where I can be in telegraphic touch with New York.”

I did not answer, perhaps because I wanted to make no reply that would commit me to a measure I might be averse to carrying out.

We entered the cabin.

It was brightly illuminated, and if I do say it myself, who perhaps should not, that cabin was about as cozy a den as any one would desire.

There were books in racks, easy-chairs, divans and furnishings that had cost me quite a snug sum of money.

The prevailing tint was old rose, her favorite color, as I knew well.

That person must be hard to please who failed to find solid satisfaction aboard the Wanderer.

Hildegarde threw back the veil that had concealed her face, for which I was more than glad, as I felt eager to look upon her beauty again, strangely eager.

She was no longer deathly pale, as when I carried her in my arms to the quay, or when she crouched in the bottom of the boat while Robbins and myself engaged in our hot little engagement with the enemy; instead, a glow was in her cheeks, a sparkle in her eyes, and though the chase had loosened her golden hair, I never saw her look so distractedly charming as at that moment.

She glanced around, and a wave of color passed over her brow; then I knew she had recognized the choice I had made in the prevailing tint of the hangings, with the full knowledge that it had been her favorite.

Slowly her eyes traveled around, even the pictures not escaping her scrutiny.

I heard her give a sigh, as of relief.

Good heavens! could it be possible she had been under the impression I kept such bachelor quarters aboard that my yacht was not a fit place for a lady? Would that account for her aversion to the thought of coming aboard?

It seemed almost incredible; surely, she should know my tastes of old, and that no matter what my weakness might be, it did not run in the line of debauchery.

Then she turned to me, and I saw an expression of genuine anxiety sweep over her face.

“Oh! you are wounded—you look terrible—it must be seen to. How can I forgive myself for thinking as I did when you have been in such peril for me? Please go to as little trouble as you can for me; show me my room, and I will bother you no more to-night. It is all so unfortunate, so wretched, that I am almost sorry I sent that note.”

“Well, I am not,” I said, firmly; “but I must present a very disagreeable sight to any one’s eyes. We have no maid aboard, unfortunately, so I have to do the honors myself. This is your room, Hildegarde.”

I opened the door.

The little cubbyhole did look rather alluring, I am bound to confess, and it quite pleased Hildegarde, who could not suppress an ejaculation of pleasure.

“Will it do?” I asked, humbly. She must never know what strange thoughts used to haunt me whenever I shut myself in that particular little stateroom and endeavored to imagine her there, and how more than once I had even been unmanly enough to shed a few tears over the dismal prospect of such a strange event ever happening to take myself sternly to task afterward about it.

“It is very sweet and lovely. I thank you for all your kindness, Morgan,” she said, with a tremor in her voice that affected me curiously.

“I’m glad you like it,” I replied, tempted to tell her that she had been in my mind when I fixed up that little place, but realizing the folly of any sentiment between us whom fate had drifted asunder until a whole gulf yawned between, an impassable gulf.

“Now, go and have your wound attended to. I should be very sorry if you suffered any serious inconvenience on my account. Of course, you are mystified because of finding me in Bolivar; it is a strange story, and I promise to tell it to you some other time—perhaps to-morrow.”

“I confess I am very curious about it.”

“Nor can I blame you. On my part, I am amazed at the wonderful chance that brought you, of all men on earth, there to my assistance. It seems incredible—it worries me to think the world is so very small or that a cruel fate persists in throwing us together.”

“Cruel, Hildegarde?”

“Yes, cruel, because it is needless, since we can never be even friends again. It would not do—it would be monstrous!”

Her words shocked me.

They seemed to suggest some dreadful barrier between us; on my part, I knew of none, save our dispute and separation, both of which might be forgiven, and the abyss bridged with the planks of love and charity.

Ah! perhaps it was on her side. The old suspicion arose again concerning her having obtained her freedom at the hands of the law, and married again.

I shivered as with a chill, and then ground my teeth together.

She must not suspect my weakness, at least until I had heard her story, and knew the worst I might expect.

“It shall be as you say, Hildegarde. This has been such a strange fortune that threw us together I had begun to hope there might be a meaning to it; but I shall respect your wishes always.”

I turned to go.

“One other favor, Morgan.”

“A dozen, if you like.”

“Would it be possible for the present to keep my identity unknown?”

I knew she was thinking of Diana—her red cheeks betrayed her.

“Why not, if you desire it?” I replied.

“You are very kind; it would please me.”

“Shall I send Carmencita to you? She can act as your maid, as I presume she is?”

“Yes, please; and, Morgan—once more, I thank you. God bless you!” and the door closed.

CHAPTER XVI.

PASSING THE FORT.

It was not very strange that while under the spell of Hildegarde’s presence I should forget all about my poor, banged head; when a fellow’s heart is thumping tumultuously against his ribs, as though laboring under an attack of fever, he cannot be expected to remember such trifles as a few bruises.

Of one thing I had suddenly become firmly convinced, and it gave me a spasm of joy such as had been a stranger to me for two long years.

She loved me still; Hildegarde loved me in spite of all that had passed, of my desertion, and the long interval of silence that had elapsed.

What, though there were obstacles, surely they could be hurled aside. I felt just then as though I might defy the world, if need be, since my claim was founded on justice; she had been in the past, and, if Heaven were kind, might once more be my Hildegarde.

So it was in almost a merry frame of mind I made my way out of the cabin again.

My spirits were lighter than they had been these many moons; much remained to be explained, and difficulties to be overcome, but oh, the ecstasy of believing that the old love still burned within her heart.

Once on deck, I looked for the girl.

Already they were getting the anchor up, and raising the launch aboard by means of block and tackle attached to the davits.

Carmencita I easily found; the child was shrinking against the cabin bulkhead, and seemed overwhelmed with shyness in the presence of Diana.

I imagined the latter might have been endeavoring to extract some information from her, but from my own experience, I knew how hopeless this must be without a knowledge of Spanish, which, I felt sure, she did not possess.

“Come with me, Carmencita, to your mistress. What is that you have there? Oh, her bag. Let me carry it for you.”

I saw Diana’s eyes fastened curiously upon the little article as I took hold of it; but thought no more about the matter, or what she might weave from the fact of my initials being on the bag.

It gave me a queer feeling to take hold of the thing again—that photograph, you know. After all, was there anything so strange about that? Suppose some one would point out a very handsome fellow on the street and say confidentially to you: “Two years from now that chap will be your wife’s husband?” I suppose it would give you a start, and every time you saw him after that you would be certain to have a bad feeling.

Well, that covered my case, only it was even more aggravated, since I had some reason to suspect the two years had already flown, and the prophecy was an accomplished fact.

I stalked into the cabin, and knocked at the door of Hildegarde’s stateroom, which she at once opened.

“I’ve brought him—I mean the bag, to you, and here’s Carmencita, too,” I said, extending my burden, which she eagerly pounced upon.

“Oh! I wouldn’t have lost that for worlds!”

MY HILDEGARDE

MY HILDEGARDE

MY HILDEGARDE.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.