Northern blood cannot warm to true heroism." She
sulked for some time after this, and refused to say anything more; but
desire of imparting was strong in her, and Margaret's smile could not be
resisted indefinitely.

"Come!" she said. "You meant no harm, Marguerite; you cannot understand
me or my people, but I should have known it, and your birth is not your
fault. Listen, then, and see if this will please you."

She seemed to meditate for some time, and when she spoke again it was
still more slowly, as if she were choosing her words.

"Once on a time,--no matter when,--there was a war. A cruel, unjust,
devilish war, when the people of--when my people were ground to the
earth, tortured, annihilated. All that was right and true and good was
on one side; on the other, all that was base and brutal and horrible.
There was no good, none! they are--they were devils, allowed to come to
earth,--who can tell why?

"The--the army of my people had suffered; they were in need of many
things, of food, of shoes, but most of all of arms. The whole nation
cried for bloodshed, and there were not arms for the half of them. How
to get weapons? Near by there was another country, but a short way
across the water--"

"Africa?" asked Peggy innocently. But Rita flashed at her with eyes and
teeth.

"If you will be silent, Calibana! Do I tell this story, or do you? have
I mentioned a name?"

"I beg pardon!" muttered poor Peggy. "I didn't mean to interrupt, Rita;
I only thought Africa was the nearest to Spain across the water."

Rita glowered at her, and continued. "This neighbour-country was rich,
great, powerful; but her people were greedy, slothful, asleep. They had
arms, they had food, money, everything. Did they help my people in their
need? I tell you, no!"

She almost shrieked the last words, and Margaret looked up in some
alarm, but concluding that Rita was merely working herself up to a
dramatic crisis, she went on with her knitting.

"To this rich, slothful country," Rita went on, dwelling on every
adjective with infinite relish, "came a girl, a daughter of the country
that was bleeding, dying. She was young; she had fire in her veins
instead of blood; she was a San Real. She stayed in a house--a
place--near the seashore, a house empty for the great part; full of
rooms, empty of persons. The thought came to her,--Here I could conceal
arms, could preserve them for my country, could deliver them to vessels
coming by sea. It i