The trace of a smile hovered about the officer's expression of regret. "A personable clip of hell," was his opinion of the strayed maid. "Do you remember the major who composed music?" he addressed La Clavel. "Well, he was always a little touched in the brain, and he caught this negro hysteria, he became a brujos. He'd come home in the morning with his body marked in yellow chalk, and wrung out like a boatman's sponge; and he let drop a fact or two about your Jobaba screaming to an African drum rubbed with the fingers. In that state, he said, a great deal that was curious and valuable could be dragged from her. We encouraged his madness, at the Cabanas, for what it brought us. But it was unfortunate for him--he ties bright rags about his ankles and mumbles, when he thinks he is alone." Charles Abbott's mind, sifting all that the other said, was abnormally active, sharp. Something, he couldn't quite grasp what, was acutely, threateningly, wrong. He had a sense of impending danger, a premonition of dashing sound, of discord. And, whatever developed, he must meet it, subdue and conquer it. Ceaza y Santacilla, he saw, was not visibly armed; but, probably, he would carry a small pistol. The one his father had given him was in Charles' pocket. The difficulty was that, in the event of a disturbance, no matter what the outcome here might happen to be, the dancer and he would bear the weight of any Spanish fury. And it was no part of his intention to be cut in half by bullets behind a fortress wall. He could only delay, discover as soon as possible what was behind Santacilla's deceiving patience and good humor. Upon that he would have to act without hesitation and with no chance of failure. The regiment should, the dancer complained, send her maid back to her. Manners were very much corrupted beyond the western ocean--in Sevilla the servant would have been dispatched in a bullock cart deep in roses. That, he answered, reminded him of another procession, a different cart; but it was more French than Castilian--the tumbril. He was seated against a wall at a right angle from the door, and Charles left the vicinity of the window, lounging across the room. La Clavel said, "I know you so well, Ceaza, what is it; what is it you are saying and saying without speaking of? Your mind is like a locked metal box that shows only the flashes on the surface. But you must open it for us. It seems as though you were threatening me, and that, you best should realize, is useless." His flickering eyes rested first on her and then upon Charles Abbott. "You will never get to South America now," he asserted; "for you are a conspirator against your King. Since you have shown such a love of Cuban soil you are to become a part of it forever." * * * * *