, a
wreath of mingled laurel and immortelle, and it will bloom eternally.

Ever, and with a thousand greetings to my honoured and admired uncle,
your

MARGARITA DE SAN REAL MONTFORT.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE NIGHT.

Rita drew a long breath as she folded her letter. She was in a fine glow
of mingled affection and patriotic fervour; it had been a great relief
to pour it all out in Margaret's sympathetic ear, though that ear were a
thousand miles away. Now she really must go to bed. It was one o'clock,
her watch told her. It seemed wicked, profane, to sleep under such
moonlight as this; but still, the body must be preserved.

"But first," she said to herself, "I must have a drop of water; writing
so long has made me thirsty."

She took up the earthen water-jar, but found it empty. Pepe had for once
been faithless; indeed, neither he nor Manuela had escaped the witchery
of the full moon, and she had had little good of them that whole
evening. She glanced at the corner where Manuela lay; the light, regular
breathing told that the girl was sound asleep. It would be a pity to
wake her from her first sweet sleep, poor Manuela. A year, perhaps a
month ago, Rita would not have hesitated an instant; but now she
murmured, "Sleep, little one! I myself will fetch the water."

She stepped out into the moonlight, with the jar in her hand. All was
still as sleep itself. No sound or motion from huts or tent. Under the
palms lay a number of brown bundles, motionless. Dry leaves, piled
together for burning? no! soldiers of Cuba, wrapped in such covering as
they could find, taking their rest. Alone, beside a little heap of twigs
that still smouldered, the sentry sat; his back was turned to her.
Should she speak to him, and ask him to go to the spring for her? No;
how much more interesting to go herself! Everything looked so different
in this magic light; it was a whole new world, the moon's fairyland; who
knew what wonderful sights might meet her eyes? Besides, her old nurse
used to say that water drawn from a pure spring under the full moon
produced a matchless purity of the complexion. Her complexion was well
enough, perhaps, but still--and anyhow, it would be an adventure,
however small a one.

The girl's feet, in their soft leather slippers, made no sound on the
bare earth. The sentry did not turn his head. Silent as a cloud, she
stole across the little glade, and passed under the trees