"Muy poco, señor," (Very little, sir), returned Howard, frankly. "An Americano, then, I presume," went on the gentleman. "Yes, and fresh from the States," and Howard smiled. "You have done me a great service, señor--I shall not forget it. I should have come out better prepared for such ruffians. Dios! but this war is responsible for many things!" "That's true. Can I be of further assistance to you, sir?" "I fancy not, though I am out on a strange mission to-night. May I ask your name, señor?" Howard told him. The Spanish gentleman was about to give his own in return, when, with a wild shout, half a dozen Cuban rebels appeared on the scene, closely followed by a detachment of Spanish soldiers. A dozen shots were exchanged, and in the tumult and excitement the young war correspondent and the man he had so gallantly helped became separated, and for the time being Howard was not aware of his identity. Had it been disclosed, Howard would have been much astonished. The struggle of the handful of insurgents against so many soldiers made Howard forget for the moment the trying scenes through which he had passed, and by a sudden impulse he followed the leader of the rebels, when the man, a big, burly creole, was forced to retreat. At a distance of half a dozen city blocks the big fellow turned into a dark lane and came to a halt, his bloody machete, or war-knife, held high in the air, ready to strike dead the first to follow. "Quien va?" he shouted, asking to what party Howard belonged. "Cuba!" was the young war correspondent's ready answer. Had he said Spain, the bloody machete would have split his skull in twain. "What want?" growled the creole. "No cheat!" "I am honest with you," said Howard. "I want you to do me a favor, for which I shall pay you well." "What I do for you?" "Take me to your nearest leader." "So you can spy? No, not for all the gold in Cuba!" replied the creole, loyally. "I do not want to spy. I am an American newspaper man, and I want reliable news. We cannot get it from the Spaniards, you know." The creole swore a savage oath. "That is right, señor--they tell all lies of us. Come with me, but remember, if you tell me a lie you die!" He caught hold of Howard's arm, and led the way back into the darkness, around half a dozen squalid streets, and into a building which had once been used as a tobacco storehouse. Here they were stopped by a sentinel, but the creole gave the proper password, and in another moment Howard found himself in the presence of three well-dressed and intelligent-looking Cuban tradespeople. At the same time the door he had entered was closed and locked behind him.