One evening Carlos, after a silence of distress, had said, “There’s nothing else for it. When the crisis comes, you must carry her off from this unhappiness and misery that hangs over her head. You must take her out of Cuba; there is no safety for her here.” This took my breath away. “But where are we to go, Carlos?” I asked, bending over him. “To--to England,” he whispered. He was utterly worn out that evening by all the perplexities of his death-bed. He made a great effort and murmured a few words more--about the Spanish ambassador in London being a near relation of the Riegos; then he gave it up and lay still under my amazed eyes. The nun was approaching, alarmed, from the shadows. Father Antonio, gazing sadly upon his beloved penitent, signed me to withdraw. Castro had not gone away yet; he greeted me in low tones outside the big door. “Señor,” he went on, “I make my report usually to his Señoria Don Carlos; only I have not been admitted to-day into his rooms at all. But what I have to say is for your ear, also. There has arrived a friar from a Havana convent amongst the _Lugarenos_ of the bay. I have known him come like this before.” I remembered that in the morning, while dressing, I had glanced out of the narrow outside window of my room, and had seen a brown, mounted figure passing on the sands. Its sandalled feet dangled against the flanks of a powerful mule. Castro shook his head. “Malediction on his green eyes! He baptizes the offspring of this vermin sometimes, and sits for hours in the shade before the door of Domingo’s posada telling his beads as piously as a devil that had turned monk for the greater undoing of us Christians. These women crowd there to kiss his oily paw. What else they------ _Basta!_ Only I wanted to tell you, Señor, that this evening (I just come from taking a _pasear_ that way) there is much talk in the villages of an evil-intentioned heretic that has introduced himself into this our town; of an _Inglez_ hungry for men to hang--of you, in short.” The moon, far advanced in its first quarter, threw an ashen, bluish light upon one-half of the courtyard; and the straight shadow upon the other seemed to lie at the foot of the columns, black as a broad stroke of Indian ink. “And what do you think of it, Castro?” I asked. “I think that Domingo has his orders. Manuel has made a song already. And do you know its burden, Señor? Killing is its burden. I would the devil had all these _Improvisadores_. They gape round him while he twangs and screeches, the wind-bag! And he knows what words to sing to them, too. He has talent. _Maladetta!_” “Well, and what do you advise?” “I advise the senor to keep, now, within the Casa. No songs can give that vermin the audacity to seek the senor here. The gate remains barred; the firearms are always loaded; and Cesar is a sagacious African. But methinks this moon would fall out of the heaven first before they would dare.... Keep to the Casa, I say--I, Tomas Castro.”