of her father's fortunes being restored, the Senhora De Sylva
was entering a gate that led to the left front of the house, when the
young man came out whom she had seen leaving the headquarters tent.
Again he rode like one in a hurry, and she noted that he emerged from a
side path which gave access to the lawn. He gave her a sharp glance as
he passed. She received an impression of a strong face, with
stern-looking, bright, steel-blue eyes, a mouth tensely set, an aspect
at once confident yet self-contained. She was sure now he was not a
Brazilian, and he differed most materially from the mental picture of
Captain James Coke created by the many conversations in which he had
figured during her long voyage from Southampton in company with David
Verity and Dickey Bulmer.

So Carmela wondered now who he could be, nor was her wonder lessened
when she peered through the screen of trees, and saw a girl, whom she
recognized instantly as Iris, furtively dabbing her tear-stained face
with a handkerchief.

Unhappily, the President's daughter was not attractive in appearance.
She had fine eyes, and she moved with the natural elegance of her race,
but her features were somewhat angular for one of pure-blooded
Portuguese descent, and a too well-defined chin was more effectual as
an index of character than as an element of personal charm. Close
acquaintance with the cosmopolitan society of Paris and London had
familiarized her with many types of European and American beauty, and
her surprise that such an uncommonly good-looking girl should be the
niece of David Verity was not unmingled with pique at finding her
already installed in remote Las Flores.

The veranda seemed to be a hive of feminine industry. The Dona
Pondillo and her daughters, together with the female relatives of
several noted men among the insurgents, were cutting and stitching most
industriously. Iris Yorke's advice, perhaps her assistance, was
evidently in demand. Assuming that the young man who rode thither so
rapidly had gone to see her, she could not have been absent from the
sewing party more than five minutes, yet half a dozen ladies were
clamoring for her already. The truth was that many of them had never
plied a needle before in their lives. They had to be taught
everything. One peasant woman would have accomplished more real work
than any five of the Librationist _grandes dames_.

Despite her firm chin, Carmela De Sylva did not contemn the
meret