"and I want some ragged boy's
clothes by morning, Leon. Very ragged. Also an old pair of boots."

"That is not good," protested the Haitian, "every boy here goes
barefoot, Yes!"

Stuart was taken aback. This difficulty had not occurred to him. It was
true. Not only the boys, but practically nine men out of ten in Haiti go
barefoot. This Stuart could not do. Accustomed to wearing shoes, he
would cut his feet on the stones at every step he took on the roads, or
run thorns into them every step he took in the open country.

"I must have boots," he declared, "but old ones. Those I've been
wearing," he nodded to where they lay on the floor--for this
conversation was carried on with the boy wearing nothing but his new
brown skin--"would give me away at once."

"I will try and get them," answered Leon. His good-humored mouth opened
in a wide smile. "Name of a Serpent!" he ejaculated, "but you are the
image of the son of my half-sister!"

At which saying, perhaps Stuart ought to have been flattered, since it
evidenced the success of his disguise. But, being American, it ruffled
him to be told he resembled a negro.

He went to bed, far from pleased with himself and rather convinced that
he had been hasty. Yet his last waking thought, if it had been put into
words, would have been:

"It's the right thing to do, and I'm going through with it!"

CHAPTER II

WHERE BLACK MEN RULE

Stuart was not the only person on the streets of Cap Haitien the next
morning who was conscious of personal danger. Manuel Polliovo was ill at
ease. Bearing the secret that he bore, the Cuban knew that a hint of it
would bring him instant death, or, if the authorities had time to
intervene, incarceration in a Haitian prison, a fate sometimes worse
than death. Even the dreaded presence of U. S. Marines would not hold
the negro barbarians back, if they knew.

Manuel was by no means blind to his peril. He was relieved in the
thought that the American, Garfield, was where he could not do him any
harm, but there were other dangers. Hence he was startled and jumped
nervously, on hearing a voice by his elbow.

"Do you want a guide, Senor?"

"A guide, Boy! Where to?"

The answer came clear and meaningly:

"To the Citadel of the Black Emperor!"

The Cuban grew cold, under the burning sun, and, professional
conspirator though he was, his face blenched. His hand instinctively
sought the pocket wherein lay his revolver.

Yet he dare not k