y, and when she did this, Margaret had such an
uncontrollable fit of coughing that it almost produced an armistice.

[Illustration: "CUBA LIBRE."]

Now Spain was told that she was growing weak, a decrepit, bleeding old
woman. Her fate was upon her; let her die!

Obeying the imperious gesture, Peggy sank on her knees, and had the
satisfaction of hearing that "the old serpent died bravely." The fan did
more and more dreadful execution, and now she lay gasping, dying, on the
floor. Standing above her was a triumphant young goddess, waving the
flag of _Cuba libre_, and declaring, with her foot on the neck of the
prostrate tyrant, that despotism was dead, and that Freedom was
descending from heaven, robed in the Cuban colours, and surrounded by a
choir of angels, all singing the national anthem. And here Rita actually
pulled from her bosom a small flag showing the Cuban colours, and waved
it, crying that the blood-red banner of war (the fan) was now furled
forever, and that Cuba and the United States, now twin sisters, would
proceed to rule the world after the most approved methods. This ended
the scene, and the two actors stood before Margaret, one very red and
sheepish, the other glowing like flame with pride and enthusiasm,
awaiting her plaudits. Margaret clapped and shouted as loud as she
could, and expressed her admiration warmly enough; but Rita shook her
head and sighed.

"Ah, for an audience!" she cried. "To pour out one's heart, to live the
life of one's country, and have but one to see it,--it is sad, it is
tragic. Do I exaggerate, Marguerite?--it is death-dealing!" Then she
praised Peggy, and told her that she had made a magnificent tyrant, and
had died as game as possible. "Ah!" she said. "What it would be if you
could only do something real for Cuba! I would shed my blood, would pour
out its ultimate drops (Rita's idioms were apt to become foreign when
she was excited), but if you also could do something, my cousins, what
glory, what joy for you; and it may be possible. No, hush! not a word!
At present, I breathe not a whisper, I am the grave. But there may come
a day, an hour, when I shall call to you with the voice of a trumpet;
and you,--you will awaken, halves of my heart; you will spring to my
side, you will--Marguerite, you are laughing! At what, I ask you?"

"I beg your pardon, dear," said Margaret. "I was only thinking that a
trumpet might really be needed, since a bell is not loud enough. The
dinne