Maccario, it seemed, understood what he was thinking, for his face was sympathetic as he glanced at his companion. “One would fancy that they were sorry to let you go,” he said. “It is a good life, a man’s life, the one you are leaving. Will you find better comrades in your smoky cities?” Appleby smiled a trifle wistfully, and did not answer for a moment. The vivid, untrammelled life appealed to him, and for a time he had found delight in it, but he was wise, and knew that once peace was established there would be no room in Cuba for the Sin Verguenza. They must once more become toilers, or descend to intrigue and conspiracy, and he knew the Castilian jealousy of the alien, and that past services are lightly remembered in the day of prosperity. He and his comrades had borne the stress and the strain, and it seemed wiser to leave them now before the distrust and dissension came. “None better to face peril or adversity with, but a change is coming, and one cannot always wear the bandolier,” he said. “If I go now they will only think well of me.” A little gleam of comprehension came into Maccario’s dark eyes. “Still,” he said slowly, “the Sin Verguenza will be remembered, and you with them.” Then a man leading two mules on which their baggage was strapped came up, and Maccario held out his hand. “Good‐bye,” said Appleby simply. “I shall hope for your prosperity.” He laid his foot in the stirrup, and Maccario swept off his hat. “While there is one of the Sin Verguenza left you will never be without a friend in Cuba,” he said. Appleby swung himself to the saddle, Harper mounted clumsily, and there was a beat of hoofs; but in a minute or two Appleby drew bridle, and twisted himself round in his saddle. With the two church towers rising high above it against the paling sky Santa Marta lay, still gleaming faintly white, upon the dusky plain behind him, and he fancied he could see Maccario standing motionless in the gap between the houses where the last fight had been. A cheerful hum of voices and a tinkle of guitars drifted out with a hot and musky smell from the close‐packed town, and he turned his eyes away and glanced at the tall black cross on a rise outside the walls. Anthony Palliser of Northrop slept beneath it among the Sin Verguenza. Then the crash of the sunset gun rose from the cuartel, and there was a roll of drums, the drums of the cazadores beaten by insurgent hands, and with a little sigh Appleby shook his bridle. He could picture his comrades laughing over their wine in the cafés, or mingling with the light‐hearted crowd in the plaza, but he would never meet their badinage or see them sweeping through the smoke and dust again. “It was pleasant while it lasted, and who knows what is in front of us now?” he said. Harper, lurching in his saddle, laughed a little. “Well,” he said, “one gets accustomed to changes in this country, and I can hear the sea.”