EAGLE SERIES

NO. 329

MY HILDEGARDE

BY
ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE

STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK

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MY HILDEGARDE

A Strange Story of Adventure in the Land of
Revolutions

BY

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

Copyright, 1902
By STREET & SMITH

My Hildegarde

MY HILDEGARDE.

CONTENTS

[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.”