medicine in New York, so
probably he talked to me a little more freely than he should. He says
he warned the commandant of the fortress that unless Rojas is moved to
the upper tier of cells, above the water-line, he will die in six
months. And the commandant told him not to meddle in affairs of state,
that his orders from the President were that Rojas 'must never again
feel the heat of the sun.'"

Peter de Peyster exclaimed profanely. "Are there no men in this
country?" he growled. "Why don't his friends get him out?"

"They'd have to get themselves out first," explained Roddy. "Alvarez
made a clean sweep of it, even of his wife and his two daughters, the
women you saw. He exiled them, and they went to Curacao. They have
plenty of money, and they _could_ have lived in Paris or London. He
has been minister in both places, and has many friends over there, but
even though they cannot see him or communicate with him, they settled
down in Curacao so that they might be near him.

"The night his wife was ordered out of the country she was allowed to
say good-by to him in the fortress, and there she arranged that every
night at sunset she and her daughters would look toward Port Cabello,
and he would look toward Curacao. The women bought a villa on the
cliff, to the left of the harbor of Willemstad as you enter, and the
people, the Dutch and the Spaniards and negroes, all know the story,
and when they see the three women on the cliff at sunset it is like
the Angelus ringing, and, they say, the people pray that the women may
see him again."

For a long time Peter de Peyster sat scowling at the prison, and Roddy
did not speak, for it is not possible to room with another man through
two years of college life and not know something of his moods.

Then Peter leaned toward Roddy and stared into his face. His voice
carried the suggestion of a challenge.

"I hear something!" he whispered.

Whether his friend spoke in metaphor or stated a fact, Roddy could not
determine. He looked at him questioningly, and raised his head to
listen. Save for the whisper of the waves against the base of the
fortress, there was no sound.

"What?" asked Roddy.

"I hear the call of the White Mice," said Peter de Peyster.

There was a long silence. Then Roddy laughed softly, his eyes half
closed; the muscles around the lower jaw drew tight.

Often before Peter had seen the look in his face, notably on a
memorable afternoon when Roddy went to th