He studied the book Mayne gave him and then pondered.  Olsen had, no doubt, forged the order and Kit imagined he would have some trouble to get payment for the goods.  The manufacturers might be persuaded to take back the rest of the cargo at something less than its proper price, but Kit thought the value of the munitions supplied to Alvarez would be lost.  The new president would certainly try to disown the debt.  Kit, however, had known that Adam’s staunchness might cost him much, and something might, perhaps, be saved.  He had had enough of the country, and as soon as he could straighten out the tangle in which the revolution had involved Adam’s business he was going back to Ashness.

“Heave your anchor when you’re ready,” he said to Mayne.  “We’ll call at Havana and then steam for New Orleans.”

At high-water he stood on the bridge, watching the mangroves fade into the mist.  Ahead, the sun was rising out of a smooth sea, the air was fresh, and Kit’s heart was lighter.  He had done with plots and intrigue and was going back to Ashness and the quiet hills.  At the same time, he felt a tender melancholy as he thought about the little church at Salinas and the marble cross in the sandy yard.  Then he lifted his head and the melancholy vanished as he looked across the sparkling water.  The clang of engines rose and fell with a measured beat and there was a noisy splashing at the bows.  Bright streaks of foam eddied about the Rio Negro’s side, and a long smoke cloud trailed astern as she steamed to the North.

PART III—­KIT’S RETURN

CHAPTER I

KIT’S WELCOME

Kit was comfortably tired when he sat down by the beck at the head of the dale.  He had been at Ashness for a week, and finding much to be done had occupied himself with characteristic energy.  It was a relief to feel that the heat of the tropics had not relaxed his muscles as much as he had thought, and that the languidness he had sometimes fought against was vanishing before the bracing winds that swept his native hills.  The ache in his arms had come from using the draining spade and his knees were stiff after a long walk through the heather to examine the Herdwick sheep.  His vigor was coming back and he was conscious of a keen but tranquil satisfaction with the quiet dale.

Filling his pipe lazily, he looked about.  The sun was near the summit of the fells and the long slopes were turning gray in the shadow.  The yellow light touched the other side of the valley, and the narrow bottom, through which shining water ran, was a belt of cool dark-green.  A faint bleating of sheep came down the hill, and the beck splashed softly among the stones.

Kit found the quiet soothing.  He had had enough excitement and adventure, and had half-consciously recognized that the life he had led in the tropics was not for him.  On the whole, he thought he had made good.  One did one’s best at the work one found, but intrigue was not his proper job.  For all that, he did not mean to philosophize and had something to think about.