An American

About the beginning of the year eighteen hundred and ninety-eight, there had been aroused in the hearts of the people of the United States a strong feeling of pity and compassion toward the inhabitants of the Island of Cuba who were under the ironshod heel of Spain and who had made many appeals for help to our own government in one way and in another.

The time was ripe for a revolution among the dark-skinned populace of the large cities of the Island Empire and many confusing circumstances combined to add to the confusion of sentiments entertained toward the government by those who suffered from its rulings.

Many indignities had been heaped upon the Cubans by those who claimed to represent the young King Alfonso XIII, who, in his far-away palace in old Madrid was as unconscious of what was done in his name, very many times, as he would have disapproved of it had he known it.

The young King and his mother, the Queen regent, tried, in every way within their power, to adjust matters amicably between their rebellious subjects and those whom they had sent across the sea to govern them, but they found this a very difficult matter indeed, and between the fiery tempers of the natives and the over-bearing arrogance of the officers who represented them, the poor crowned heads of sunny Spain certainly had a pretty hard time of it.

The Queen mother was naturally a gentle and a very highly educated and studious woman, while the boy King was as far from being the typical idea of a reigning tyrant as a handsome, well-trained young fellow could well be.

But those who represented these two crowned heads were of quite another pattern as to character and disposition and many were the cruelties charged to the account of certain ones among their number due to the opportunities afforded them of gratifying their lowest impulses and following along the paths that led, for the time being, into what seemed to them to be very pleasant pastures and beside very still waters, which, as is well known, often, besides being still, run deep.

One evening, just as dusk was falling over the little town of San Domingo, there appeared, passing along one of the quiet, shadowy narrow streets, a rather strange procession ... well in advance of the rest of the motley company appeared a village Priest bearing in his hand a crucifix which he held before him as if to fend off something evil ... he was dressed, as is the custom of the Catholic Priests of Cuba, in the flowing vestments of his office and the long cord that was knotted round his ample waist had a huge cross dangling from the end of it which struck against his well-formed legs as he strode along with head held high as if he saw beyond the things of earth and gazed upon some beatific vision which upheld him and lifted him above his immediate environment.

Indeed, there was one who walked beside him though he, himself, was unaware of it, except subconsciously, for Father Felix, as this Priest was known, was wandering among strange thoughts as he passed along that almost silent little street, that one sad evening.

He had been, for many peaceful years, the Priest who had officiated at almost all the public meetings of the village, but, never in his life devoted, as it was to the consideration of holy, high and spiritual matters, had he been called upon to conduct so weird a service as he was, then, about to do.

He wondered, as he marched along, whether he was doing just exactly right in leading these, his simple-minded followers, into what it seemed to them they must do, that night ... he wondered whether, even now, he would not better turn to those who followed after him and call to them to halt and to consider well before they took another single step that might, each one of them, be an irrevocable and a much-to-be-regretted step, for it might lead to what they could not know of ways that might, as well as not, prove very winding and even thorn-strewn ways for those who followed along them. And Father Felix knew that he, alone of all that little company, was gifted with the power to reason out a fair and just conclusion from the premises presented to them all; he knew that he alone had enough of education to even understand the meaning of the words that had been spoken to them all ... he knew that those who came along that little street behind him had trusted to him most implicitly, for many years, in matters that required thought, and, although they had been the ones to beg him to take the step that they were then about to take, he knew that, even then, right at the last, had he been minded to, he might, yet, turn their minds away from what they seemed to be so set upon.

He knew that, if he wished to do so, he could make them see the matter under their consideration in quite another light from what they saw it in at that time ... he knew that he could bend their wills to make them match with his own will for he had done this very many times before ... he was a natural leader, and being well equipped for leadership, he took that place as if it were his natural right ... and so it seemed to be.

Any stranger, glancing along the line of human beings that followed Father Felix and his upheld crucifix, would have noticed many weak and vacillating faces ... many weak and vacillating wills as evidenced by the expressions on those weak and vacillating faces ... many wills that could be bent by anyone who had a strong and capable and domineering mind, and Father Felix had a mind like that ... a natural leader's most commanding mind ... he was a man to win respect wherever he might go ... a man to dominate the wills of those about him ... a man to lead the crowd ... a man to guide the minds of those he met, and, after having occupied the one place in the village that commanded the respect of all, for long, of course they looked to him for guidance and followed where he led as little children follow after the one full-grown human being in their midst.

But, as they marched along, full many whispers ran along that motley little company and gave some prescience of the clamor that would come if all their bridled tongues should really become loose again, for, now, they only spoke in whispers dreading discovery of what they were about to do by some of those against whose orders they were doing it.

"I wonder what the Governor would say if he could know the thing that we're about to do," a beardless youth began, as he edged a little nearer to his mother's side, "I wonder what would happen to us, now, if he discovered our intention."

The mother only put her finger on her lips and shook her head at him, but, later on, when they had gone a little further on their journey, she whispered to him:

"I hope the Governor will never know who did what we're about to do, at least, for, if he should discover which of us accomplished the purpose that all the villagers are interested in, we would suffer for our temerity in doing this ... I almost wish we had not joined this mob, my boy ... I almost wish, at least, that I had left you home to mind the house while I will be away from it," and, then, she ended, sadly, "God knows if we shall ever be allowed to see our home again."

There was one who walked among that little company, that evening, who was not as the rest in very many ways, and, yet, her lot was cast in with the rest for she had lived in that small village since her infancy, and, so, it seemed to her and them as well, that she was one of them and, so, must be among them even then, when they were casting in their lots, at Father Felix' instigation, with the ones who so violently opposed the reigning powers that they were held, then, and had been so held, for many weary months, as incommunicado in the village jail or prison in the wide and beautiful and picturesque great prado in the very centre of the town.

The girl who, in very many ways, was different from all the rest was walking in the very centre of the little crowd and, as the others jostled against her, her great blue eyes stared almost vacantly, as it seemed, around her like a startled fawn's when something unknown ventures near to its retreat within its native forest.

She drew her slender figure up to its full height, and she was taller than the rest of those who walked beside her, when someone whispered to her:

"What think you of all this, Estrella? Is it to your taste to be a part of those who, in their puny strength, contend against the strong? Do you think that you'll enjoy the future that we are advancing to? What do you think will happen to us when we reach the prado, anyway? Do you think the Governor has found out what we are going to do and if he does what action will he take? I'm more than half afraid myself ... I don't deny that I'm afraid ... how do you feel about it all?"

"I don't believe I know just how I do feel, Tessa," said the taller girl, "I think that I'm afraid, too ... I know my knees are trembling a very little, so I must be scared the same as you say you are. Let us keep as close together as we can, so, if anything happens to one it will be sure to happen to us both ... it seems to me ..." she ended, dreamily, "that even death itself could not be much worse than the things that we've endured just lately, here."

And then the two young creatures shuddered at the very thought of death and huddled just as close together as they could and marched along among the rest as quietly as if they had not been afraid of anything at all.

At last they reached the prado and Father Felix paused and held his crucifix even a little higher than he had done all along and waited for the little company to assemble directly in front of him, when he stretched his arms out wide in silent blessing on their undertaking, and proceeded toward the little prison that stood at one end of the prado facing the great public square where games were held when fiestas were in order.

But it was for no festal undertaking that they had gathered there, that evening; silent preparations were making as they halted ... battering rams were being raised and carried forward by the men and tears and flowers seemed to be the offering of the women in the crowd to the ones they hoped to liberate from the dark, forbidding precincts of the edifice before them.

Father Felix motioned those who held the battering rams to hold them in their hands in readiness for instant action at a word from him ... then he called aloud to him who kept the keys to bring them forth and give them to him, or he would be, in case that his request should be refused, compelled, in spite of his strong desire to avoid all violence if possible, to use force in effecting the object for which the multitude surrounding him, outside, had gathered there.

He waited, patiently, for several minutes, but, as he received no answer to his demand, he called again:

"Bring forth the keys at once!" he cried raising his voice so that it carried far beyond the limits of the building that stood there before him, "bring them forth unless you wish to force me to use violence for I am determined to liberate the prisoners you hold within, and, if you do not bring to me the keys so that I may open the strong doors with them, why, then, I'll be obliged to break down the barriers that are between the ones you hold within that prison and the freedom that is their natural right. Once more do I command you ..." he cried in a stentorian voice, using the quality of voice that he employed when he intoned with due solemnity, the holy mass, "bring forth to me the keys that I may liberate my children that you hold without the right to hold them, or, if you refuse to do my bidding, then may the consequences of what will follow that refusal be upon your own head...."

As, still there was no answer from the dark and gloomy precincts of the edifice before him, he prepared to carry out the threats that he had made.

First, he commanded those who held the battering rams in readiness to advance until they were the proper distance from the doors for the use of their rude weapons, then he told the others to await his word but to be in readiness, each one, to follow where he led, then, holding high his crucifix and calling most devoutly, on the name of God, he came as near to those who were about to use the battering rams as he could do and not impede their movements, then he cried:

"Advance and give no quarter! Do your duty as I have instructed you to the full extent of it! Follow me, my little children, God is good and He will care for us in this our desperate undertaking."

As the heavy detonation of the strokes of those who held the battering rams rang through the building, cries were heard as if of those who were in agony and many shuddered at the sound for well they thought they knew its cause ... it seemed to them that they would be too late ... that those they sought to rescue were even at that moment being foully murdered in their cells because they were about to save them from the fate that they had been condemned to undergo.

The fair Estrella clung to her dark little friend and whispered to her:

"Tessa, it is more terrible than we imagined it would be ... what shall we do? How can we bear to go yet nearer to the horror that the prison hides from us? Tessa ... little Friend ..." she ended, "I'm awfully afraid ... are you?"

"I'm almost scared to death myself, Estrella," Tessa whispered back, "I know I'll die of fright alone if this keeps on much longer ... hear that scream! It's very terrible!"

But, then, all sounds were hushed, for prison doors that had been locked as tight as any prison doors could be had yielded to the heavy blows that had been rained upon them and, as they opened, they could plainly see, in the dim light that fell within that prison's entrance, that they had been, indeed, too late for him who lay at his full length across the entrance to the prison, for his body had been twisted in its fall so that his head that had been almost severed from it lay askew as if its eyes, that stared as wildly and as full of earthly horror as dead eyes could, had been trying to discover something strange about the figure that, but only lately, was as full of life and vigor as was any figure standing there without that prison door.

Estrella gazed at that still figure ... then she screamed in almost more than human agony and darted forward till she crouched beside it as it lay there at the entrance to the prison ... straightening the handsome head, she lifted it until it rested in her lap, and, then, she softly smoothed the dark and clustering curls that hung above the broad, full brow, and looked within the great brown eyes that stared at her, or so it seemed, as if the owner of them had been walking in his sleep, and then she pressed her virgin lips upon the full, be-whiskered mouth of him whose head she held within her lap.

She fainted, then, and fell across the body of the man who lay across the entrance to that prison, and Father Felix lifted her and laid the senseless, almost severed head upon the floor again, and supported her until he left her with her little friend, outside, among the crowd.

And then the village Priest came back and led the men who held the battering rams within the prison to the cells of those they wished to liberate and commanded them to break down those doors as they had broken down the other ones, but, here, he found his way was barred, for, just as soon as blows began to fall upon the doors of those narrow cells those within those cells began to call to them and caution them that, if the doors were broken down, they'd find the prison-guards behind them with their loaded guns and the prisoners told their friends that those loaded guns were pointed at their breasts and would be fired at them just as soon as their cell-doors gave way.

When Father Felix heard this ultimatum he thought that all his efforts had been useless and his deep-laid plans of no avail until he heard a voice behind him softly whisper ... a voice that he had never heard before:

"Be not weary in well-doing. The cell-doors will open and the prisoners come forth alive if you but use the proper means to bring about that end. Call out to those you wish to succor, now, and tell them to be of good cheer for deliverance is at hand."

The soft voice drifted away into silence, then, but the village Priest obeyed its mandates and reassured the ones within those narrow cells and gave them courage to withstand the threats of instant death that faced them there.

And, then, he turned to those who waited his commands and told them that help was very near ... that, waiting there within the corridors of that small prison were those who'd come from far to bring to them assistance ... the kind of help that loaded guns would not affect. Then, he told them of the punishment that would await the ones who disobeyed the orders he was just about to give ... a punishment that would not only last through earthly life but would go on into eternity ... a punishment that would not only blast the earthly tenements but would condemn the souls of those who chose to act in opposition to his orders to everlasting torment.

And, then, he turned to those who, breathlessly, were waiting for the orders he was just about to give, and said to them:

"When I have counted up to three, prepare to break the doors down ... when I have counted up to six, if so be they remain unopened, go on and break them in!" he stopped a moment, then, to ascertain whether his followers fully understood the instructions he was giving to them ... seeing all of them alert, he continued, "to you who are within, I make this unalterable statement. Choose between a longer lease of earthly life and instant death! Choose between forgiveness for your past sins or everlasting punishment! Open these doors from within or we will break them down and those whose human bodies we will find, lying stark and cold in earthly death, will not be those of our dear friends who are your prisoners, for there are those within those cells of whose presence you are unaware but who are potent in the cause of right and truth and justice. I will now proceed to count ... one ... two ... three ..." at that, he heard a key thrust rapidly within a lock, but, as it was unturned, he went on counting, "four ..." he heard another key inserted in a lock, "five ..." he waited just a second longer, then, than he had done before, hoping that the keys would turn before the final number had to come, but, as they did not do that, he opened his mouth to pronounce the fatal word and was about to utter it, when, suddenly, all the cell-doors opened and the prison-guards within had fallen on their knees in superstitious terror of what they did not know, and, so, instead of uttering the fatal number, good Father Felix said, "Thank God!" and raised his crucifix and pronounced a blessing on them all, both prisoners and those who'd guarded them.

* * *

When Father Felix ceased to be engaged in silent prayer he lowered the crucifix he held in his right hand and placed it in the bosom of the robe he wore and welcomed those who came from out that gloomy prison-cell with praises and with prayers upon their trembling lips; he took their hands in his and held them for a moment as they passed in slow procession, for they were very weak from fasting and from long confinement, on their way out into the open light of day.

The first of all who passed from out those gloomy cells was he who'd called to Father Felix to stay the hands of those who sought to liberate the prisoners ... he was taller than the rest of those who crowded out into the corridor and they seemed to follow him as if he were their natural leader.

He only paused a moment when he reached the side of the Priest and hurried on as if he sought someone whom he hoped to find among the motley multitude who surged around the broken doors that led into the prado where most of the women were assembled waiting for the more desperate action of the men who'd gone inside the prison.

The liberated prisoner, although he, too, was weak and worn as all of his companions were, yet rushed with rapid strides from side to side of the excited mob whose clamor, now released, quite filled the prado with vociferous shouts of joy, until he seemed to find the object of his hasty search, for, when he came to where Estrella lay supported by her little friend upon a hastily constructed bed of straw and grass, he stooped above her anxiously and leaned to look within her face, but, when her wide and terror-stricken eyes looked into his, he turned away as if he had not found the one he was in search of after all.

Estrella raised herself upon one elbow and rested on the ready shoulder of her little friend while she gazed after his retreating form with an eagerness not unmixed with sudden fear; it seemed as if the girl were fascinated by him, and, yet, dreaded his approach, for she did not even speak to him although she knew that he had been one of those whom they had come to liberate and had looked forward to greeting him when he should be released.

But the horror that had been thrust upon her at the very entrance of that dark and gloomy prison had quite unnerved her and had made her shrink from any contact with the prisoners who, now, came trooping out and mingled with the crowd by which they were soon, as it seemed, absorbed.

Then, suddenly, a trumpet blast rang through the wide and spacious prado and a company of mounted cavalry, with naked swords uplifted, rode madly in among the crowd and scattered it as chaff is scattered by a furious wind ... cries of agony were heard as some were trampled by the horses, tortured by the cruel spurs which their infuriated riders were driving into their tender skins, and many men and women fell into disordered heaps of human misery in wildly scrambling toward a place of temporary safety.

The soldiers gave no quarter to the fleeing masses of the people but kept driving all of them who stood upon their feet at all toward the open streets of the little village that led out of the prado, ordering them to cease from disturbing the peace and calling upon them in the name of the young King, Alfonso XIII, to disperse at once and to return to their homes in the village without delay.

The most of those within the prado had been driven out before the commanding officer of the soldiers noticed that the prison doors were open, even then, at first he did not perceive just what the crowd had been collected for, or he might have given other orders than he had.

When he beheld the broken doors he marvelled greatly, for this was an unlooked-for and unprecedented method of liberating political prisoners in San Domingo and the commanding officer did not know just what action to take in the matter but felt that he must wait for further orders from his superiors in command before taking any drastic steps to quell the evident uprising of public opinion.

Father Felix had seen the soldiers as they dashed into the prado and he hastened outside the prison intending to meet them and hold some colloquy with their leader, but, when he had reached the centre of the prado the soldiers were driving the crowd out at the farther end of the enclosure, so that, instead of meeting the leader of the soldiery he came upon his own people as they lay in disordered heaps or staggered to their feet.

Observing Estrella and Tessa crouched back against a wall as far away from the soldiers as they could manage to put themselves, he approached them and asked them what they knew about this new phase of the tumultuous doings of the day.

The two girls greeted him joyfully for they had had their fill of horror and welcomed the Priest who represented to them the sanctity of the church:

"Father Felix," cried the little Tessa, "tell us what we are to do next and where we are to go and what we are to do when we get there, for we are dreadfully upset and poor Estrella has had a terrible shock and is still weakened from her fainting fit, while I am just as I have been right along ... scared half to death."

The good Priest stopped beside the girls long enough to tell them to quietly go to their own homes and stay indoors until morning, then he passed on to the other groups, and, where he could do so, assisted them to leave the prado, preparatory to seeking their own places of abode where he advised them all to remain if possible without molestation from the authorities.

When Father Felix had reached the little cluster of people surrounding the liberated prisoner whom we have mentioned before, he came to a halt, and, beckoning the young man referred to to follow him, he passed on out of ear-shot of the rest and said to him:

"I wish that you would explain to me how it happens that Estrella is in need of help and you, although free, are not by her side. How does it happen, Manuello, that your half-sister has only her little friend, Tessa, to lean upon, while your strong arms are without a burden?"

The young fellow hung his head as if ashamed, for a moment, before he answered Father Felix, and seemed to ponder deeply over his reply to the good Priest's intimate question:

"I can tell you about that in a very few words, Father," he at length summoned courage to say, "I have only within the past few most delightful moments been freed from a loathesome dungeon and have been receiving the felicitations of some of my friends on my fortunate escape. I did not realize that Estrella needed my services ... if so, of course I will at once offer them to her."

Bowing low before Father Felix, he put his right hand to his head as if to doff its covering, but, finding it bare except for his thick mop of dishevelled brown hair, he smiled, instead, and, suiting his actions to his words, approached the two girls who still remained where Father Felix had left them as if afraid to move:

"Allow me!" he cried, gayly, extending one strong arm to each of the maidens, "Accept my escort to whatever place you desire to go!"

Estrella seemed to take no notice of the offered arm, but Tessa eagerly laid hold of the proffered protection and snuggled her small person against the tall figure of the young fellow who turned to her companion as if to discover the cause of her apparent coolness.

"Why so silent, fair Lady?" he inquired, "Have you no congratulations to offer me upon my recent harrowing experience and subsequent and most fortunate escape?"

Estrella did not answer him at first, but gazed intently into his eager face as if to read there the inner motives that prompted his lightly-spoken words.

After she had looked into his face for a few seconds of earnest scrutiny, she said to him:

"Manuello, why did you not speak to me when we first met after your liberation from the prison? Why have you spent the time since then among the others instead of looking after my interests? Have you ceased to care for me during your incarceration? What have I done to deserve such treatment from you? Have I not treated you as a sister should? In what way have I offended you, Manuello?"

As she uttered these words her fair face flushed with the tide of deep emotion that swept over it and her blue eyes grew dark and full of feeling. She placed one of her hands on his arm, lightly, but held herself aloof from contact with his person.

He recognized this attitude of hers by standing a little more erectly and holding the arm on which her hand had been laid, stiffly extended a little from his body:

"How suddenly affectionate you have become, my soft and yielding sister! It seems to me that I remember how earnestly you plead with me to cease embracing you whenever opportunity was afforded to me, before I went to prison for my sins.... I think you are the girl who used to say to me 'please, Manuello, don't hold my hand so tightly! You are too rough!' I do not wish to be considered rough by any woman, and, so, I am more cautious in approaching your sacred person, now that I have had time to reflect upon your many words."

"How can you speak so to her, Manuello," exclaimed the dark-skinned Tessa, "now that you are free once more? Poor Estrella has had a most terrible experience, here, tonight ... you ought to comfort instead of scolding her."

The tender-hearted little girl looked up at the big man reproachfully and reached around his back to pat Estrella's shoulder, but he only stalked along between the two girls, sullenly and almost silently.

At length, they reached the little cottage where Estrella and her family lived and Tessa ran along a little further to her own home while Manuello and his half-sister entered their own dwelling.

It happened that they were alone, at first, as the other members of the little family had not yet returned from the prado, and, in that interval of time, considerable was said and done by both of them.

"Manuello," said the girl, putting one hand on each of his broad shoulders, "have you no pity for me, now that Victorio is dead? You must have seen his poor, mangled body lying there at the entrance of the prison, Manuello ... can you tell how he came to die just as he and all the rest were about to be released from prison?"

Her tear-stained face was very near to his and his own lips began to tremble before he mustered courage to answer her:

"Of course, I'm sorry for you, Estrella," he began haltingly and slow, "of course I pity you as well as any other woman whose lover's newly dead. As to how he happened to be killed ... why, I guess you will never know just what did happen in that prison when those battering rams began to rock it by their impact ... I am certain that I cannot give you much explanation as I, myself, was one of those who suffered, although you do not seem concerned as to that in any way."

"You escaped alive, Manuello, and poor Victorio did not for his poor head was almost severed from his body ..." said Estrella, weeping violently, with deep-drawn sobs of agony, "I lifted him and tried to hold his head upon my lap ... oh, Manuello," she continued, clinging to him involuntarily, "it was very terrible!"

Her sufferings seemed to move him for he put his arms about her shoulders and drew her head forward until it rested on his broad and palpitating breast:

"Poor little girl!" he murmured, softly, stroking her fair hair, "Poor little Estrella! I am sorry for you ... I do pity you, though why you chose Victorio for your lover was always beyond my comprehension."

* * *

When Father Felix left the prado he went directly to the church where he officiated, and, thence, into the small refectory behind it; here, he removed the flowing vestments he had worn when engaged in the enterprise which we have described in a previous chapter of this book, and assumed a more conventional and handy garb for he had work to do that would require all the strength of his arms and all the muscles of his broad back; he had set himself a task that was never meant for priestly hands to do, and, in the doing of it, he would need all the strength that years of careful living and an inh

erited and bounding health had bestowed upon him.

He, at once, began preparations for the work he had to do, and, to begin with, he adjusted the heavy cross which he always wore about his neck so that it would hang exactly in front of him and not over-balance his body by being on one side or the other; this cross had been a relic much prized by him of an old Priest with whom he had studied and whose sainted memory he revered almost as much as that of the saints whom he had been taught to worship along with the Virgin Mary and The Babe of Bethlehem; then, he put on next to his skin a hair-cloth shirt so constructed as not to scratch and yet to be very warm; over this he placed a heavy riding-coat which had been given to him by one of those who attended the services he conducted in the church; these garments, together with heavy breeches and warm, woolen stockings worn under heavy boots, completed, with the addition of a broad-brimmed hat, a disguise that would deceive almost any person who was acquainted with his ordinary appearance.

Having clothed himself to his own satisfaction, he took a heavy stick he had handy in his strong right hand and proceeded to leave the vicinity where he was accustomed, at all hours, to be found, and, stealthily and quietly, exercising all the precaution of which he was capable, he proceeded up the street that ran behind the little church with as much of haste as was consistent with the object of his journey.

When he had gone about two blocks from the church he turned sharply to his left and proceeded about as far again up the street that led away from the village, then, turning again to his left, he walked briskly for another block or two, when he came to a sharp turn and paused as if in doubt as to just which turn to take, when, suddenly, as if from the ground at his feet, he heard a low voice addressing him in no uncertain language:

"Turn toward the right side of this street," whispered the voice, "take the right-hand side of this street and then turn again toward the left when you have gone for two more blocks toward the right. You will find the object of your search has been in waiting for you for some hours and is now growing impatient ... so make all possible haste, good Father Felix ... make all possible haste for she is sore pressed with fatigue and fear."

When the voice had ceased speaking to him, Father Felix followed the direction it gave him, implicitly, and found, indeed, as it had assured him, the object of the night-journey he had just made, waiting for him with great impatience, coupled with much fear and dread of consequences; he hastened to reassure her as soon as he reached her side by saying softly to her:

"Be of good cheer, dear Madam. The work that you commissioned me to do has been well done and all of the prisoners excepting one are now at liberty. Unfortunately, one of our friends lost his life just before the wide doors of the prison were burst open ... no one seems to know how this came about, but we found his dead body across the very entrance as if, indeed, he had been about to join our ranks outside when death overtook and stopped him."

"Which of the prisoners was killed?" asked the woman who had been waiting there for his coming, eagerly and apprehensively.

"I do not suppose that you were acquainted with the young fellow ..." answered the good Father Felix, soothingly, "he was called Victorio Colenzo ... he was the lover of a girl I know very well and she was with the crowd, who followed me; she dashed into the entrance of the prison and held his head, which had been almost severed from its body, in her lap until she fainted and became mercifully unconscious of her horrible surroundings ... the poor girl was almost crazed with agony and regret, for she had flouted him to some extent because of his revolutionary sentiments...."

He had gotten that far in his narrative little thinking of the intense interest it had for the woman listening to it, until he happened to look earnestly at her when he saw, in an instant, that it held for her great personal appeal; he stopped at that knowledge and waited for her to explain the situation if so be she wished to do so; at length, between low-drawn sobs, she said, falteringly:

"You say Victorio Colenzo was the lover of some light girl you know? Indeed, you are much mistaken. Instead of being any girl's lover, he belonged solely to me. He was my own dearly beloved husband, Father Felix. I had not yet told you of our marriage for I wanted you to think of me only in my own personal right, but I am the widow of the man whose shameful and horrible death you have just been describing to me ... I am the weeping widow of Victorio Colenzo, Father Felix, and, if it be in my power, his death shall be avenged in blood!"

As she ceased speaking she put her hands before her face and gave way, utterly, to her great sorrow, for she had but spoken the solemn truth although no one of her many acquaintances suspected that she was a married woman at all.

Father Felix was dumbfounded by the intelligence the young woman had just given to him and pitied her from the very bottom of his tender heart and he blamed his blundering tongue for giving to her such a shock as he had just been the cause of; at the same time he could not blame himself as much as he might have done had he not known of the marriage contract of Estrella and this same man of whom he had been speaking; he hastened to place this young girl in the right light before his companion by saying:

"My dear Madam, as to the girl of whom I was just speaking, she is in every sense of the word a good girl and innocent of any wrong intention; if there is a sinner in this matter it was he who is now not to be condemned by any human being, for he has gone before his Maker Who will mete out to him whatever is his just dessert. I am deeply grieved that I should have caused you this deep grief at this time, but, as the circumstances are, you would have been obliged to know it very soon in any case."

The young woman who had been waiting for the Priest to come to her to make his report as to how he had done the work that she had set for him to do, was beautiful as any dream of womanhood could ever be.

Her great gray eyes, that shone like stars upon a misty night, were lifted to his face and questioned him as to the truth of his last statement while they plainly showed the almost holy faith she had in all he did:

"Dear Father Felix," she said, finally, stifling as best she could the sobs that shook her slender figure, "dear Father Felix, I know you speak the truth, and, yet, it does not seem to me that he could have ever been a hypocrite such as a man would have to be to be what you infer he was. He was my darling husband ... if he, also, was the lover of a trusting girl, then he sinned most grievously ... it breaks my heart," she ended, clasping her soft, white hands together spasmodically, "it breaks my heart to think he could be such a villain as you say he was. Dear Father Felix," she began again, for hope will sometimes come upon the very heels of wild despair, "dear Father Felix, are you sure that this man who is newly dead can be the Victorio Colenzo that I know ... the man who is ... I hope he is ... my own dear husband? The one I mean was a prisoner with the others you have liberated ... it was for his sake alone that I arranged to have you do the work you've done ... might it not be that you have been mistaken in the man? Might there not have even been two men bearing the same name within that prison?"

Eagerly and hopefully, she questioned the good Priest. He sadly shook his head and said to her:

"The young man whose body lay within the entrance to the prison when we had battered down the door, was tall and very dark ... his hair was like a raven's wing for blackness ... his eyes were like the falcon's in their keenness ... he was a handsome fellow in every possible way and the girl, Estrella, of whom I spoke, fairly worshipped him although her own family flouted her for doing so, as he only came to see her at long intervals and seemed ashamed to be seen with her ... seldom ever went out anywhere with her, but they were plighted lovers ... that I know ... they came to me together, one evening, in the church, and I blessed their future union, believing him to be an honest man and knowing her to be a gentle, true and loving girl."

"I fear he was my husband, Father Felix.... I fear the very one I hoped to liberate has lost his life and lost his honor, too. Father Felix, tell me how to bear this great and hopeless sorrow! Is there any way to bear a sorrow such as this one is? Can I shut my Husband's memory from my heart because I can no longer have respect for him? Is there any way," she wailed, pleadingly, "is there any way to bear a sorrow such as this one is? Tell me, good Father, tell me, is there any way of escape for me who am as innocent as is this young girl of whom you have just spoken? Is there some way in which I can assist her, Father Felix? Perhaps it is my duty, under these circumstances, to hunt her up and try to help her, who is, also, as it were, a widow of my darling Husband. Must I do this, Father? Would it be my duty, as the wife of Victorio Colenzo, to look this girl up and try to help her bear her sorrow on account of his death?"

The good Priest looked at her in deep amazement, but he answered her as calmly as he could command his voice to speak:

"No, my Daughter, no ... that would be going beyond reason as to duty. It might be right for you to send her something if she were in need of monetary assistance.... I do not think she is, however, I do not think Estrella is in need of anything to live upon ... they had not been married, you understand ... she was not his wife as you were ... only just he'd promised he would marry her, sometime. No, you owe her nothing more than womanly sympathy in her bereavement and you do not need to see her at all, for that matter. It would give you unnecessary pain, it seems to me. As for her, if we can, we will let her remain in ignorance of the character of him she loved ... she would the sooner repair the injury, it seems to me, if she could still respect his memory. It must be doubly hard for you, my Daughter, to lose him and respect for him at the same time ... yet, it would have been a terrible knowledge for you to have gained ... that he had misled this innocent girl ... even during his life. A man has little thought of the women who love him when he plays fast and loose with more than one of them at a time, anyway. I wish I knew what words to say to you to make you strong to bear this misery, dear Daughter ... you must bear it all alone, I know that much ... only God in His great Mercy, can assist you in this matter ... only He can tell you what to do or how to endure your agony of spirit, for only He can understand your heart. I am but a feeble instrument in God's Own Hands, my dear, afflicted Daughter.... I am but a very feeble instrument.... I wish I knew the way to help you bear this thing. I wish that I could say the fitting word to turn your mind to other thoughts, for only in the mind can fitting help be found ... only the spiritual side of your strong nature can uphold you now."

He'd kept on talking to her hoping to alleviate her pain in some degree ... hoping that her fits of violent and heart-breaking weeping would grow farther and farther apart until they would cease altogether so that, being calmer, she could better face this heavy burden that was hers, and hers alone, to bear. Seeing no cessation of her sobs and moans of agony of spirit, he began to speak of other matters, hoping to distract her mind and turn her thoughts to other things, thereby giving her an opportunity to face the sorrow that had come upon her so suddenly with more strength than she would have if she continued to dwell on it alone. So he bethought him of the soldiery and of their coming riding into the prado and he began to tell her of this phase of the adventure he had on her account, mainly. She listened calmly to this narrative and even asked some questions, haltingly, but, just as soon as that account was ended, she began again to ask concerning poor Victorio:

"Where have they taken his remains, good Father? Where can I find my darling Husband's body? How can I bear to have to see his face which has always to my knowledge been so full of life and youth and perfect health lying stark and still with no expression in his glorious dark eyes that always looked so lovingly at me? Father Felix, even now, it seems to me that there must be some mistake about my Husband's being the same man who was the lover of this girl you know about.... I think that I will see her ... there ... beside my darling Husband's body and decide the matter for myself instead of listening to the tales that have been told to me. That is how I think I will proceed," she ended, then, quite calmly, as it seemed, for secretly she then began to hope that it was not her husband, after all, "That is how I will proceed about this terrible calamity, Father Felix. I will see this girl beside the body of the man she says has been her lover ... he may not be my darling Husband, after all."

And so their conference ended, he giving her explicit directions as to where Victorio's body had been placed, and she thanking him for carrying out her wishes even though, as it seemed then, the very thing she had him do the work for had failed her utterly.

Father Felix went back, then, to the refectory, with this complicated matter bearing hard upon his heart. He pitied both the suffering women very much and wished to help them both if so be he could find the proper way to do the task in.

He pondered deeply on the various situations he'd surprised in carrying out the project of the woman he had met, that night; she had not told him of her plans in their entirety, and, so, it seemed, the very plans she doted on the most had very far miscarried and the work, so far as she had been concerned, had not only been as futile as any work could ever be, but, also, it had brought to her a new and horrible calamity besides the failure of her plans and loss of him she evidently deeply loved as tender women love but only once in all their human lives, perhaps, for Victorio Colenzo had been a man to claim the love of tender women ... he was very tall and very handsome, too; his deep, dark eyes were very full of loving expression and his strong arms, folded close about a tender woman's yielding form, would lift her spirit up and make her almost wild with joy and gladness.

And, as it looked now, those strong arms had been folded, not only round his own wife's tender form, but, also, about, at least, one other woman's, too. Good Father Felix reflected on the fraility of man and pondered deeply on the tenderness of women, but he did not, even then, reach the very root of the whole matter, for he, being what he was, would not be very likely ever to know the heights and depths, as well, of human love, for he had always been a religious devotee in spite of his great strength of limb ... he'd only used his bodily powers to forward the work to which his whole life was devoted utterly, and, so, good Father Felix could not fully understand a man such as Victorio Colenzo must have been to leave the record that he'd left behind him when he died, there, in the entrance to that dark and gloomy prison, just as he had been about to come again, a free man, into the glorious light of day.

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