you will vow that it is the happiest valley men's eyes have ever
looked upon.

Standing there beside the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate, you
will see beyond the cleft through which the river emerges another
hill, La Cumbre, from which the view is almost as wonderful, and
your driver may tell you about the splendid homes that used to
grace its slopes in the golden days when Cuba had an aristocracy.
They were classic Roman villas, such as once lined the Via Appia--
little palaces, with mosaics and marbles and precious woods
imported from Europe, and furnished with the rarest treasures--for
in those days the Cuban planters were rich and spent their money
lavishly. Melancholy reminders of this splendor exist even now in
the shape of a crumbled ruin here and there, a lichened pillar, an
occasional porcelain urn in its place atop a vine-grown bit of
wall. Your cochero may point out a certain grove of orange-trees,
now little more than a rank tangle, and tell you about the quinta
of Don Esteban Varona, and its hidden treasure; about little
Esteban and Rosa, the twins; and about Sebastian, the giant slave,
who died in fury, taking with him the secret of the well.

The Spanish Main is rich in tales of treasure-trove, for when the
Antilles were most affluent they were least secure, and men were
put to strange shifts to protect their fortunes. Certain hoards,
like jewels of tragic history, in time assumed a sort of evil
personality, not infrequently exercising a dire influence over the
lives of those who chanced to fall under their spells. It was as
if the money were accursed, for certainly the seekers often came
to evil. Of such a character was the Varona treasure. Don Esteban
himself was neither better nor worse than other men of his time,