It was a warm day towards the end of May, about eighteen months after Montbarts' arrival at St. Kitts. Several persons, stern looking and rough mannered, almost armed to the teeth, were conversing together as they followed the path that led from the plain to the platform on which Montbarts' hatto stood. It was nearly ten o'clock at night, and the sky was transparent and clear. Thousands of stars sparkled in the heavens, the moon profusely shed her white light, and the atmosphere was so pellucid, that the smallest objects were visible at a long distance. There was not a breath in the air, or a rustle among the leaves; the sea, calm as a mirror, died away with a soft and mysterious murmur on the sandy beach; the fireflies buzzed noisily, and at times dashed against the pedestrians, who contented themselves with driving them away with their hands, without, on that account, interrupting a conversation which seemed greatly to interest them. These men were five in number, and all in the prime of life. Their features were energetically marked, and their faces revealed audacity and resolution carried to the highest pitch. Their slightly curved shoulders, and the way in which they straddled their legs in walking, while swaying their arms, would have caused them to be recognised as sailors at the first glance, had not their dress sufficiently proved the fact. They were talking in English. "Stuff!" one of them was saying at the moment when we join in their conversation; "We must see. All that glistens is not gold, as they say down there. Besides, I wish for nothing better than to be mistaken, after all." "No matter," another replied; "in accordance with your laudable custom, you begin by expressing a doubt." "Not at all," the first speaker sharply interposed; "a fear, at the most." "Well," a third said; "we shall soon know what we have to expect, for here we are halfway up the path, thank Heaven!" "That demon of a Montbarts," the first went on, "has famously chosen his position. His hatto is impregnable, on my word as a man." "Yes. I do not think that the _gavachos_[1] will ever venture to attempt an escalade. But, by the way," he added suddenly, and halted; "suppose we are taking a useless walk, and Montbarts is not at home?" "I will answer for your finding him at home, Red Stocking, so set your mind at rest." "How do you know?" asked the man addressed by this singular name. "My God! Don't you see his flag hoisted at the masthead?" "That is true. I had not noticed it." "But now you see it, I suppose?" "I should be blind if I didn't." "Well," one of the filibusters said, who had hitherto maintained silence; "all this does not tell us why the meeting is to be held. Do you know anything about it, brother?" "No more than you," Red Stocking replied. "It is probably some daring project which Montbarts is meditating, and wishes us to take a part in." "But you know that he has not only summoned us, but also the principal French filibusters?"