"Ah! You know Cuba?" she said, indifferently interrogative.

"If I know Cuba?" he laughed, and spread out his hands in mute
appeal to the gods. "If I know Cuba! When Cuba is an independent
republic, Senorita--when the history of all this trouble comes to be
written, you will find two names mentioned in its pages. The one
name is Antonio. When you are an old woman, Senorita, you can tell
your children--or perhaps your grandchildren, if the good God is
kind to you--that you once knew Antonio, and took a cup of coffee
with him. But you must not say it now--never--never. And the other
name is Mateo. You can tell your children, Senorita, when your hair
is white, that you once spoke to a man who was a friend to this
Mateo."

He finished with his gay laugh, as if he were fully alive to his own
fine conceit, and begged indulgence.

"He has been here--sitting where you sit now," he continued, with
impressive gravity. "He came to me: 'Antonio,' he said, 'There are
five thousand men out there who want you.' 'Amigo,' replied I,
'there is one woman here who does the same'--and I bowed, and Mateo
went away without me. I thought he had gone back there to conduct
affairs--to fight in his careless way, with his tongue in his cheek,
as it were. He did all with his tongue in his cheek--that queer
Mateo. And then came a message from Barcelona, saying that he
wanted me. Name of a dog, I went--for his letter was unmistakable.
He had, it appeared, had an accident. I found him with his arm in a
sling. He had been cared for in the house of an Englishwoman--so
much he told--but I guessed more. This Englishwoman--well, he said