for half a century had been American filibusters, and wo unto the unfortunate Yankee who fell into their hands.

At his hotel Fernando wrote a letter to his wife, in which he stated that he was going into the interior to some coffee-plantations, and might not write again for some weeks. But he did not make any allusion to the dangers which he knew he was to meet. Having given the letter to the landlord to send back by the next steamer, he proceeded to take from his luggage such papers and valuables as he might need. On looking them over, he came upon one which caused surprise and annoyance.

"Why did I bring this?" he asked himself. "I, who pride myself on keen business sagacity, have been grossly negligent. However, as I brought it, I must now take care of it"; and he placed it in the red leather pocket-book in the inside pocket of his coat.

Having carefully made his arrangements, he left the hotel, never to return, and near the appointed hour went toward the great old Cathedral to meet his unknown guide.

2

CHAPTER II.

WITH DON MANUEL.

FERNANDO STEVENS loitered in the vicinity of the ancient Cathedral until the clock struck two, and then he saw a woman, closely veiled, suddenly leave the door and start down the street. He followed her, after assuring himself there was none other. She kept about twenty paces ahead, and, having gone two blocks toward the palace, turned westward, keeping in the deepest shadows of the darkest and most unfrequented streets. He followed the dark figure, keeping it continually in sight, stopping when it stopped, moving when it went, and turning when it turned.

Often the strange guide would dart into some dark corner and remain invisible for several seconds at a time, during which he would remain in the vicinity, concealed as best he could, until his guide again quit the hiding-place.

Once a Spanish police hailed him with:

Quien es vd?" ("Who are you?")

For a moment Fernando was at a loss to account

for his presence; but he managed to give an answer which threw the stupid fellow off his guard, and when his guide again left her hiding-place, he followed her. There was no moon, but it was one of those bewitching nights which can be found nowhere save in Cuba. The stars shone with tropical brilliance from a fairer sky than Italy can boast.

At last the city was left behind, and they emerged on a country road. They had no trouble in passing the old block-house, for at that hour the sentry was asleep. His mysterious guide, to whom he had not yet spoken, halted near a volante, which seemed to be waiting for some one.

"You are safe from annoyance now, señor," said a soft, low voice, the sweetness of which revealed the identity of the speaker.

"Señora Doña Izadora Manuel!" he gasped. "Si, señor.

This volante will take you a part of the way. At a certain place you will find a guide with horses. Tell Don Manuel it is very lonesome in the city, and as soon as I shall have accomplished the work set for me to do I will join him."

"Señora, is not this service rendered with great danger to yourself?'

'Si, señor. But we take no heed of danger in Cuba. We must run great risks for our country; and if we do succumb to danger, we die for liberty."

In the dim starlight he could see the pretty face

of the patriot glow with as great fervor as ever enthused a Revolutionary mother. He grasped her hand, and, in a voice that was husky, whispered:

"Heaven grant that suffering Cuba may yet taste the sweet, health-restoring cup of freedom!"

"Time flies, señor, and you must be far away before the sun peeps over the eastern hills," she returned, pointing as she spoke to the volante.

The American bowed, and softly murmuring, "Buenos noches!" leaped into the volante. The negro driver, with his steeple-crowned, broad-rimmed hat, who had been dozing in the saddle, plunged his huge spurs into the flanks of his mule, and set off at a rattling pace down a road that was so dim he could scarce see a rod in the darkness.

Fernando drew his scarf about his shoulders, and, settling back in the vehicle, tried to catch a little sleep; but any one who knows Cuban roads will real

ize how impossible

that would be. Af

ter the first few miles the road seemed destructive to any vehicle less strong than a bullock cart, and by ten o'clock it had become utterly im

passable for the volante. Here he was met by a negro with a pair of saddle-horses, and, quitting the volante, he sprang into the saddle and rode on beside his guide.

It was late one afternoon when they came to the great rural home of Don Manuel, the coffee-grower. "There is nothing in the Western hemisphere accessible to an American traveler more truly interesting than the surroundings of and daily life in one of these quaint old Cuban plantation homes. The estate of Don Manuel was in the very heart of the Cuban coffee-lands, and had been entailed from father to son for nearly a quarter of a thousand years; so the charm of age rested upon it. Framed in an evernew setting of ravishing tropical verdure, it was like coming upon some rare old canvas of the masters, glorified by contrast with modern environments. The great laurels above the noble old casa de vivienda, the coco-trees piercing the blue Cuban sky with their sword-like, pinnate leaves, the royal palms, a hundred feet to their plumy brancheswere all old when Columbus wrote of this island in his journal: 'It excels all other countries as far as the day surpasses the night in brightness and splendor.'

"Away out along the old road was a wall of stone and cement, eight feet high, with a peaked top. For a mile in from the estancia, or farm, this gray,