I see you stare at these words. I hear you say, "That Rosa has
gone mad, like her wicked stepmother!" Indeed, sometimes I think I
have. But, no. I write facts. It is a relief to put them down,
even though you never read them. Good Asensio will take this
letter on his horse to the Insurrecto camp, many miles away, and
there give it to Colonel Lopez, our only friend, who promises that
in some mysterious way it will escape the eyes of our enemies and
reach your country. Yes, we have enemies! We, who have harmed no
one. Wait until I tell you.

But if this letter reaches you--and I send it with a prayer--what
then? I dare not think too long of that, for the hearts of men are
not like the hearts of women. What will you say when you learn
that the Rosa Varona whom you favored with your admiration is not
the Rosa of to-day? I hear you murmur, "The girl forgets herself!"
But, oh, the standards of yesterday are gone and my reserve is
gone, too! I am a hunted creature.

O'Reilly felt a great pain in his breast at the thought that Rosa
had for an instant doubted him. But she did not really doubt;
those misgivings were but momentary; the abandon of her appeal
showed that in her heart of hearts she knew his love to be
unshakable.

She had compelled herself to start with the death of Dona Isabel
and to give him a succinct account of all that had followed.
O'Reilly read the story, fascinated. Here, amid these
surroundings, with the rattle of typewriters and the tinkle of
telephone-bells in his ears, it all seemed wholly improbable,
fancifully unreal--like the workings of some turgid melodrama.