"My father will not hear him named!" she cried. "He would have Cuba
continue a slave, she, who will be the queen and goddess of the sea when
the war is over! Ah, Marguerite! my heart is on flame when I speak of my
country. Well,--we met them there. They are both with the army, the
insurgents, as the Spaniards call them. We walked up and down. The
orange-blossoms were so sweet, the fragrance hung like clouds in the
air. I had a lace mantilla over my head,--I will show it to you one day.
We talked of _Cuba libre_, and they told us how they live there in the
mountains. Ah! if a girl could fight, would I be here? No; a sword
should be by my side, a plume in my hat, and I would be with Carlos and
Fernando in the mountains. Well,--ah, the bad part is to come! Carlos
had been wounded; his arm was in a sling. Folly, to make it of a white
handkerchief! The senora--my father's wife--must have seen it shining
among the trees; we know it must have been that, for we girls wore black
dresses of purpose,--a woman thinks of what a man never dreams of. She
called my father; he came out, raging. We had a fine scene. Burning
words passed between my father and Carlos. They vowed never to see each
other more. They went, and Conchita and I go fainting, dying, into the
house. Three days after comes my uncle's letter,--behold me here!
Marguerite, this is my story. Preserve it in your bosom, it is a sacred
confidence."

Margaret hardly knew whether she were in real life, or in a theatre.
Rita's voice, though low, vibrated with passion; her eyes were liquid
fire; her little hands clenched themselves, and she drew her breath in
through her closed teeth with a savage sound. Then, suddenly, all was
changed. She flung her arms apart, and burst into laughter.

"Your face!" she cried. "Marguerite, your face! what a study of horror!
You, cool stream, flowing over white sands, you have never seen a rapid,
how much less a torrent. You, do you know what life is? My faith, I
think not! I frighten you, my cousin."

Margaret was indeed troubled as well as absorbed in all she had heard.
What a volcano this girl was! What might she not do or say, in some
moment of passion? This was all new to Margaret; her life had been so
sheltered, a quiet stream indeed, till her father's death the year
before. She had known few girls save her schoolmates, for the most part
quiet, studious girls like herself. She had lived a great deal in books,
and knew far more about Sp