He told me that, when he reached Cuba, after parting with me on the _Thames_, his uncle, “in spite of certain influences,” had received him quite naturally as his heir, and the future head of the family. But Seraphina, whom by the laws of convenience he ought to have married, had quite calmly refused him. “I did not impress her; she is romantic. She wanted a very bold man, a Cid, something that it is not easy to have.” He paused again, and looked at me with some sort of challenge in his eyes. “She could have met no one better than you,” I said. He waved his hand a little. “Oh, for that-------” he said deprecatingly. “Besides, I am dying. I have never been well since I went into your cold sea, over there, after we left your sister. You remember how I coughed on board that miserable ship.” I did remember it very well. He went to the inner door, looked in, and then came back to me. “Seraphina needs a guide--a controller--someone very strong and gentle, and kind and brave. My uncle will never ask her to marry against her wish; he is too old and has too little will. And for any man who would marry her--except one--there would be great dangers, for her and for him. It would need a cool man, and a brave man, and a good one, too, to hazard, perhaps even life, for her sake. She will be very rich. All our lands, all our towns, all our gold.” There was a suggestion of fabulousness in his dreamy voice. “They shall never be mine,” he added. “_Vaya_.” He looked at me with his piercing eyes set to an expression that might have been gentle mockery. At any rate, it also contained intense scrutiny, and, perhaps, a little of appeal. I sighed myself. “There is a man called O’Brien in there,” he said. “He does us the honour to pretend to my cousin’s hand.” I felt singularly angry. “Well, he’s not a Spaniard,” I said. Carlos answered mockingly, “Oh, for Spaniard, no. He is a descendant of the Irish kings.” “He’s an adventurer,” I said. “You ought to be on your guard. You don’t know these bog-trotting fortune-hunters. They’re the laughter of Europe, kings and all.” Carlos smiled again. “He’s a very dangerous man for all that,” he said. “I should not advise any one to come to Rio Medio, my uncle’s town, without making a friend of the Señor O’Brien.” He went once more to the inner door, and, after a moment’s whispering with someone within, returned to me. “My uncle still sleeps,” he said. “I must keep you a little longer. Ah, yes, the Señor O’Brien. He shall marry my cousin, I think, when I am dead.” “You don’t know these fellows,” I said. “Oh, I know them very well,” Carlos smiled, “there are many of them at Havana. They came there after what they call the ’98, when there was great rebellion in Ireland, and many good Catholics were killed and ruined.” “Then he’s a rebel, and ought to be hung,” I said.