xcellent intelligence behind in Havana. These
people would do very well now; they had food; they had, indeed, all
there was, practically, and the senorita might herself starve, if they
did not find Don Carlos soon. That was enough, surely; let them remain
as they were.

"You are right, Manuela!" said Rita, nodding sagely. "We must go
together. Your heart does not appear to be stirred as mine is; but never
mind--the hungry are fed, and that is the thing of importance. Farewell,
then, friends! How do they call you, that I may know how to tell those
whom I shall send?"

The younger woman was named Dolores, she said. Her husband was Pedro
Valdez, and this old one was his mother. If the senorita should see
Pedro--if by Heaven's mercy he should be with the General at this
moment, all would indeed be well. In any case, their prayers and
blessings would go with the senorita and her valued attendant.

Often and often, the soft Spanish speech of compliment and ceremony
sounded hollow and artificial in Rita's ears, even though she had been
used to it all her life; but there was no doubting the sincerity of
these earnest and heartfelt thanks. Her own heart felt very warm, as she
turned, with a final wave of the hands, to take a last look at the
little group by the earth-hovel.

"We have made a good beginning, Manuela," she said. "We have saved three
lives, I truly believe. Now we shall go on with new courage. I feel,
Manuela, that I can do anything--meet any foe. Ah! what is that? a
snake! a horrible green snake! I faint, Manuela! I die--no, I don't.
See, I am the sister of a soldier, and I am not going to die any more,
when I see these fearful creatures. Manuela, do you observe?
I--am--firm; marble, Manuela, is soft in comparison with me. Ah, he is
gone away. This is a world of peril, my poor child. Let us hasten on;
Carlos waits for us, though he does not know it."

Talking thus, with much more of the same kind, Rita pushed on, and
Manuela followed as best she might. Rita had left the parrot's cage
under charge of Dolores, and carried the bird on her shoulder, with only
a cord fastened to his leg. Chico was well used to this, and made no
effort to fly away; indeed, he had reached an age when it was more
comfortable to sit on a soft shoulder and be fed and petted, than to
flutter among strange trees and find his living for himself; so he sat
still, crooning to himself from time to time, and cocking his bright
yellow eye at h