nowy draperies falling softly about you, consider my
bed! a pile of dried grasses and leaves, shaken and tossed anew every
morning, covered with a camp blanket. I tell you, the gods might sleep
on it, and ask no better. In another corner sleeps Manuela, my faithful
maid, my humble friend, the companion of my wanderings. Some day you
shall see Manuela; she is an excellent creature. Cultivated, no;
intellinctual--what is that for a word, Marguerite? Ah! when will you
learn Spanish, that I may pour my soul with freedom?--no; but a heart
of gold, a spirit of fire and crystal. She keeps my hut neat, she
arranges my toilet,--singular toilets, my dear, yet not wholly
unbecoming, I almost fancy,--she helps me in a thousand ways. She has a
little love-affair, that is a keen interest to me; Pepe, formerly the
servant of Carlos, adores her, and she casts tender eyes upon the young
soldier. For me, as you know, Marguerite, these things are for ever
past, buried in the grave of my hero, in the stately tomb that hides the
ashes of the Santillos. I take a sorrowful pleasure in watching the
budding happiness of these young creatures. More of this another time.

I sit, Marguerite, in the doorway of my little house. It is the middle
hour of the night, when tomb-yards gape, as your Shakespeare says. Am I
sleepy? No! The camp slumbers, but I--I am awake, and I watch. I had a
very long siesta, too. The moon is full, and the little glade is bathed
in silver light. Here in Cuba, Marguerite, the moon is other than with
you in the north. You call her pale moon, gentle moon, I know not what.
Here she shines fiercely, with passion, with palpitations of fiery
silver. The palms, the aloes, the tangled woods about the camp, are
black as night; all else is a flood of airy silver. I float, I swim in
this flood, entranced, enraptured. I ask myself, have I lived till now?
is not this the first real thrill of life I have ever experienced? I
alone wake, as I said; the others slumber profoundly. The General in his
tent; ah, that you could know him, Marguerite! that you and my uncle
could embrace this noble, this godlike figure! He is no longer young,
the snows of seventy winters have blanched his clustering locks; it is
the only sign of age. For the rest, erect, vigorous, a knight, a
paladin, a--in effect, a son of Cuba. The younger officers regard him as
a divinity; they live or die at his command. They are three, these
officers; Carlos is one; the others,