But, oh, what a sudden and terrible change came over that lovely face in an instant, turning all its radiance to gloom, as the twilight suddenly settles over a landscape but a moment since flooded with the golden glory of sunset! It all came in an instant as she looked up into the face above her--the face of a handsome man, pale and wan with the prison pallor, and lighted by dark eyes gleaming out of hollow orbits--yet the face of an utter stranger, whose expression was one of keen surprise mixed with irrepressible admiration. Viola comprehended that there had been some mistake, and made an effort to pull herself together, drawing back, and exclaiming, coldly: “I--I--really, there must be some mistake! I expected to see Rolfe Maxwell.” The stranger answered, respectfully: “There is no mistake, Miss----. Pardon me, I do not know your name. I was sent for to come to this hotel to meet some American friends who longed to see me.” “I sent the message; but you are not the Rolfe Maxwell I wished to see. Can there be two of the same name?” faltered Viola, with blanching cheeks. “Not that I am aware of, Miss----” he began; and she supplied the name: “Mrs. Maxwell.” “Ah, Mrs. Maxwell!” He started, and added: “Perhaps a relative of the man you are seeking!” “His wife--or widow!” groaned Viola, staggering to a chair and sinking into it, her lovely face convulsed with despair, as she thought: “Oh, what if there has been some terrible mistake after all, and he, my love, is indeed dead, while I have come this wretched journey all in vain!” The greatest enemy she had in the wide world might have pitied her drooping so forlornly in her chair like a lovely flower snapped suddenly from its brittle stem. The heart of the stranger yearned over her with manly sympathy, and he said, gently: “I was released but a few days ago from Morro Castle, where I have been imprisoned almost a year by the Spanish on false charges, and threatened with death on my trial, which, fortunately for me, never took place, my release being peremptorily demanded by the new administration of the United States. Is this the Rolfe Maxwell you wished to find?” “Yes, oh, yes, but I tell you there is a strange mistake--a mystery about this matter. I came here hoping to find my husband, Rolfe Maxwell, a war correspondent, who was reported shot long months ago. After mourning him as dead, a paragraph recently appeared in a newspaper stating that he still lived, a prisoner in Morro Castle. On my father investigating the rumor, he learned that the editors of this powerful paper had already interested the Government at Washington in securing his release. We came here, papa and I, to meet him and take him home with us,” explained Viola, eagerly, in the faint hope of having him throw some light on the mystery. She was right, for after a moment’s hesitancy, the spurious Rolfe Maxwell answered: