“Yes, I purposely drew attention to us in Charleston, while our ship was loading.  She’s ready and waiting for us now; and by daylight we ought to be safely out to sea.  Meanwhile the Dauntless has weighed anchor and is steaming north, followed, I hope, by all the revenue cutters hereabouts.”

It was the darkest time of the night when the special train came to a stop at a bridge spanning one of the deep Southern rivers.  In the stream below, dimly outlined in the gloom, lay the Fair Play, a small tramp steamer; her crew were up and awake.  The new arrivals were hurried aboard, and within a half-hour she was feeling her way seaward.

With daylight, caution gave way to haste, and the rusty little tramp began to drive forward for all she was worth.  She cleared the three-mile limit safely and then turned south.  Not a craft was in sight; not a smudge of smoke discolored the sky-line.

It had been a trying night for the filibusters, and when the low coast-line was dropped astern they began to think of sleep.  Breakfast of a sort was served on deck, after which those favored ones who had berths sought them, while their less fortunate companions stretched out wherever they could find a place.

Johnnie O’Reilly was not one of those who slept; he was too much elated.  Already he could see the hills of Cuba dozing behind their purple veils; in fancy he felt the fierce white heat from close-walled streets, and scented the odors of “mangly” swamps.  He heard the ceaseless sighing of royal palms.  How he had hungered for it all; how he had raged at his delays!  Cuba’s spell was upon him; he knew now that he loved the island, and that he would never feel at rest on other soil.

It had seemed so small a matter to return; it had seemed so easy to seek out Rosa and to save her!  Yet the days had grown into weeks; the weeks had aged into months.  Well, he had done his best; he had never rested from the moment of Rosa’s first appeal.  Her enemies had foiled him once, but there would be no turning back this time—­rather a firing-squad or a dungeon in Cabanas than that.

O’Reilly had taken his bitter medicine as becomes a man—­he had maintained a calm, if not a cheerful, front; but now that every throb of the propeller bore him closer to his heart’s desire he felt a growing jubilation, a mounting restlessness that was hard to master.  His pulse was pounding; his breath swelled in his lungs.  Sleep?  That was for those who merely risked their lives for Cuba.  Hunger?  No food could satisfy a starving soul.  Rest?  He would never rest until he held Rosa Varona in his arms.  This rusty, sluggish tub was standing still!

Into the midst of his preoccupation Norine Evans forced herself, announcing, breathlessly: 

“Oh, but I’m excited!  They’re hoisting a cannon out of the hold and putting it together, so that we can fight if we have to.”

“Now don’t you wish you’d stayed at home?” O’Reilly smiled at her.