eneral with her prettiest courtesy, and he vowed he was not
worthy to taste such delicacies from such a hand. So, with interchange
of compliments, and with a real friendliness that was far better, the
little feast went on gaily; and when, late in the evening, Rita withdrew
to her tent, she told Manuela that she had never enjoyed anything so
much in her life; never!

CHAPTER V.

TO MARGARET.

CAMP OF THE SONS OF CUBA,
May the --, Midnight.

MY MARGUERITE:--What will you say when your eyes, those calm gray eyes,
rest upon the above heading? Will they open wider, I ask myself? Will
the breath come quicker between those cool rose-leaves of your lips? "It
is true!" you will murmur to yourself. "She has done as she said, as she
swore she would. My Rita, my wild pomegranate flower, has kept her vow;
she is in the mountains with Carlos; she has taken her place beside the
defenders of her country."

Ah! you thought it was play, Marguerite, confess it! You thought the
wild Cuban girl was uttering empty breath of nothingness; you have had
no real anxiety, you never dreamed that I should really find
myself--where now I am. Where is it? Listen, Marguerite! My house--once
Carlos's house, now mine by his brotherly gift--stands in a little glen
of the hills. An open space, once dry grass, now bare earth, baked by
the sun, trodden by many feet; a cluster of palms, a mountain spring
gushing from a rock hard by; on every side hills, the brown, rugged
hills of Cuba, fairer to me than cloudy Alps of Italy, or those other
great mountains of which never can I remember the barbarous names. To
teach me geography, Marguerite, you never could succeed, you will
remember; more than our poor Peggy history. Poor little Peggy! I could
wish she were here with me; it would be the greatest pleasure of her
life. For you, Marguerite, the scene is too wild, too stern; but Peggy
has a martial spirit under her somewhat clumsy exterior. But I wander,
and Peggy is without doubt sleeping at this moment under the stern eye
of her schoolmistress. I began to tell you about my house, Marguerite.
So small a house you saw never. Standing, I reach up my hand and touch
the roof, of brown canvas, less fresh than once it was. Sitting, I
stretch out my arms--here is one wall; there--almost, but a few feet
between--is the other. In a corner my bed--ah, Marguerite! on your white
couch there, with s