“Why did you make me meet him? He may be a judge of your Marine Court, but he’s nothing but a scoundrelly bog-trotter.” Carlos said a little haughtily, “You must not denounce him. You should not leave this place if I feared you would try thus to bring dishonour on this gray head, and involve this young girl in a public scandal.” His manner became soft. “For the honour of the house you shall say nothing. And you shall come with us. I need you.” I was full of mistrust now. If he did countenance this unlawful enterprise, whose headquarters were in Rio Medio, he was not the man for me. Though it was big enough to be made, by the papers at home, of political importance, it was, after all, neither more nor less than piracy. The idea of my turning a sort of Irish traitor was so extravagantly outrageous that now I could smile at the imbecility of that fellow O’Brien. As to turning into a sea-thief for lucre--my blood boiled. No. There was something else there. Something deep; something dangerous; some intrigue, that I could not conceive even the first notion of. But that Carlos wanted anxiously to make use of me for some purpose was clear. I was mystified to the point of forgetting how heavily I was compromised even in Jamaica, though it was worth remembering, because at that time an indictment for rebellion--under the Black Act--was no joking matter. I might be sent home under arrest; and even then, there was my affair with the runners. “It is coming to pay a visit,” he was saying persuasively, “while your affair here blows over, my Juan--and--and--making my last hours easy, perhaps.” I looked at him; he was worn to a shadow--a shadow with dark wistful eyes. “I don’t understand you,” I faltered. The old man stirred, opened his lids, and put a gold vinaigrette to his nostrils. “Of course I shall not denounce O’Brien,” I said. “I, too, respect the honour of your house.” “You are even better than I thought you. And if I entreat you, for the love of your mother--of your sister? Juan, it is not for myself, it is------” The young girl was pouring some drops from a green phial into a silver goblet; she passed close to us, and handed it to her father, who had leant a little forward in his chair. Every movement of hers affected me with an intimate joy; it was as if I had been waiting to see just that carriage of the neck, just that proud glance from the eyes, just that droop of eyelashes upon the cheeks, for years and years. “No, I shall hold my tongue, and that’s enough,” I said. At that moment the old Don sat up and cleared his throat. Carlos sprang towards him with an infinite grace of tender obsequiousness. He mentioned my name and the relationship, then rehearsed the innumerable titles of his uncle, ending “and patron of the Bishopric of Pinar del Rio.”