"A week later Maceo, his brother Jose, Flor Crombet, Cabreco, and sixteen other veterans sailed from Costa Rica for San Domingo. From this point, a week or so later, they slipped away for Cuba. They landed on the morning of March 30 at a point near Baracoa, where many times in years gone by Maceo had seen the flash of _machete_ and bayonet. True to the traditions of the place, hardly had he touched his foot on Cuban soil before Spanish rifles were cracking and bullets were singing all about him. The force of Spaniards numbered about fifty. Maceo had with him only nineteen men in addition to his brother Jose, Crombet, and Cabreco. There was a running fight along the road in the direction of an old log house, where the Cubans finally took refuge. In this skirmish Crombet was killed. In the log house, surrounded by Spaniards, the Cubans fought for days. In the meantime word had been sent out that Antonio Maceo had been captured immediately upon landing on the island, and that Flor Crombet had been killed. This was Maceo's first death during the present war. On the night of the third day Maceo called the men together and told them that their only hope was in making a rush for the woods. The door had hardly been opened before the Spaniards discovered the movement. Then ensued a fierce running fight, in which several of the Cubans were killed, and Maceo received a bullet through his hat. Separating from the rest of his companions, Maceo wandered through the pathless forest for two weeks alone, living on plantains, guavas, and other fruits. One day he stumbled upon the band of insurgents led by Rabi. He was taken to the hut occupied by the leader. "'Who are you?' he was asked. "'One who will fight to the death for Cuba Libre,' was the reply. "'Your name?' "'Antonio Maceo.' "At first Rabi was incredulous. When he finally recognized in the haggard and hungry man the dashing leader of the ten years' war the joy of the insurgent was boundless. In a few days all his old-time vigor returned. He was more of a leader than ever. His ten years of exile had only served to make him more cautious and calculating. He knew that he was a better soldier than when he was banished. In a fortnight he made his way to Guantanamo, to the spot where he had disbanded his men years before. The big tree was still standing, taller and grayer with age, rotted in spots, but quite as sturdy as ever. Under this tree he had sheathed his sword. Under its branches he once more drew it from its scabbard against the Spanish oppressor. In a few weeks he had recruited almost a thousand men. Starting out with this nucleus of a future army, he swept everything before him." MARRIED LIFE--ITS JOYS AND SORROWS. BY BISHOP ARNETT.