arriages, faces of
savages, of brutes, devils; I feel their glances like poisoned arrows.
They demand, Don Miguel makes answer, shows his papers. Of the instant
these slaves are cringing, are bowing to the earth. "Pass, most
honourable and illustrious Senor Don Miguel Pietoso, with the heavenly
ladies under your charge!" It is over. The volantes roll on. I clasp
Manuela in my arms and whisper, "We are free!" We mingle our tears of
rapture, but for a moment only. We approach the steepest pitch of the
long hill (it is veritably a mountain), a place beyond conception rugged
and difficult. The horses strain and tug; they are at point of
exhaustion. I look at Pasquale; Pasquale has served me since my cradle.
Does his head move, a very little, the least imaginable motion? It is
too dark to see; the moon is not yet risen. But I feel the horses
checked, I feel the carriage pause, an instant, a breath only. I step
noiselessly to the ground; the volante is low, permitting this without
danger. Manuela follows. There is not a sound, not a creak, not the
rustle of a fold. Again it is over. The volante rolls on. Manuela and I
are alone, are free in the mountains of Cuba Libre.

I have but one thought: my country, my brother! Behold me here, in the
society of one, prepared to shed my blood for the other. You would never
guess who else is with us; Chiquito, our poor old friend the parrot, the
sacred legacy of that white saint, our departed aunt. Could I leave him
behind, to unfriendly, perhaps murderous, hands? Old Julio is a Spaniard
at heart; Chiquito is a Cuban bird; his very soul--do you doubt that a
bird has a soul, when I tell you that I have seen it in his eyes,
Marguerite?--his very soul speaks for his country. If you could hear him
cry, "_Viva Cuba Libre!_" The camp is on fire when they hear him. Ah,
they are such brave fellows, our soldiers! poor, in rags, half-fed--it
matters not! each one is a hero, and all are my brothers. Marguerite,
sleep hangs at last upon me. Good-night, beloved; good-night, cool white
soul of ivory and silver. I love thee always devotedly. Have no fear for
me. It is true that the Spaniards are all about us in these mountains,
that at any moment we may be attacked. What of that? If the daughter of
Cuba dies by her brother's side, in her country's cause, my Marguerite
will know that it is well with her. You will shed a tear over the lonely
grave among the Cuban hills; but you will plant a wreath for Rita