ator against your King. Since you have shown such a love of
Cuban soil you are to become a part of it forever."

* * * * *

Charles Abbott, now standing by the door, shot in the bolt which
secured it, and, by a fortunate, a chance, twist, broke off the
handle. Santacilla, undisturbed, remained seated, smiling while his
fingers played with the plaited loop of his cane.

"This infatuation," he indicated them with a wave, "while it convinced
Havana, never entirely satisfied me. I have been watching you, Jobaba
has been listening, for days. You were very cunning, but, in the end,
you failed; you were neither skilful nor patient enough. Yet, at the
last, all that you heard were fairy tales--the spy that was sent to
Camagueey, ha!"

La Clavel faced him calmly, but, Charles saw, she was pale. He was
revolving a hundred impractical schemes: they had only one end, the
death of Santacilla, but how that was to be brought about with safety
to Cuba evaded him.

"I am not a traitor in the way you mean," she declared; "what your
conceit never allowed you to note was that, in Spain and here, I have
always detested you; and what I did was the result of that. I struck
at you and not at our country, for the court and church and army are
no longer our strength--if we still have any except the knife and
cord--but our weakness."

"Fools," he asserted, unmoved.

"And now you are the fool," she added.

"No, you are wrong; I am only enjoying myself before the show is over.
I wanted to see you, and your young devotee, twist and turn before the
fact of death. I have killed, and seen executed, a number of people,
men and women; but I was still curious--a great dancer and a rich
young American. That is an unusual day."

It was best, Charles Abbott decided, to bring about as much as
possible with no more delay; the prime necessary act accomplished,
they could face the problems of the immediate future steadily. He
quietly produced his pistol and levelled it. The dry click which alone
followed the pulling of the trigger made the officer aware of the
attempt upon his life. A dark angry surge invaded his face, and then
receded. "No man will ever kill me," he repeated. "It is my star." A
hand left the cane and produced a small gold whistle.

Charles stared dully at the useless weapon, with its mounting of
mother-of-pearl, which he still held.

"The cartridges have been too long in their barrels," Santacilla
e