of dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common to
their race. The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinks
stopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation.

On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its
peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel
Mazaro and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the
dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant
countenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a proper
precaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English. His voice
was barely audible.

"---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore.' Senor,
you shouth 'ave see' him laugh!"

M. D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young
man's arm.

"Manuel Mazaro," he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"--

The Cuban interrupted.

"If is no' t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?--a' r-r-right-a!"

"No," said the tender old man, "no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor
will shood you."

Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention.

"---- sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a Senor D'Hemecourt, I fin'-a