“I’m sure you are everything you say you are, Jacket, and more, too, but you can’t go!”

With that Jacket flung off the embrace and, stalking away, seated himself.  He took a half-smoked cigar from the pocket of his shirt and lit it, scowling the while at his friend.  More than once during the evening O’Reilly detected his sullen, angry eyes upon him.

General Betancourt and several members of his staff were up early the following morning to bid their visitor good-by.  In spite of their efforts to make the parting cheerful it was plain that they had little hope of ever again seeing this foolhardy American.

Johnnie’s spirits were not in the least affected by this ill-concealed pessimism, for, as he told himself, he had money in his pockets and Matanzas was not many miles away.  But when he came to part from Jacket he experienced a genuine disappointment.  The boy, strangely enough, was almost indifferent to his leaving; he merely extended a limp and dirty hand, and replied to O’Reilly’s parting words with a careless “Adios!”

In hurt surprise the former inquired, “Don’t we part good friends?”

“Sure!” Jacket shrugged, then turned away.

Jacket was a likable youngster; his devotion was thoroughly unselfish; it had not been easy to wound him.  With keener regrets than he cared to acknowledge O’Reilly set out upon his journey, following the guide whom General Betancourt had provided.

It was a lovely morning, sufficiently warm to promise a hot midday; the air was moist and fresh from a recent shower.  This being the rainy season, the trails were soft, and where the rich red Cuban soil was exposed the travelers sank into it as into wet putty.

Crossing a rocky ridge, O’Reilly and his guide at last emerged upon an open slope, knee-high in grass and grown up to bottle-palms, those queer, distorted trees whose trunks are swollen into the likeness of earthen water-jars.  Scattered here and there over the meadows were the dead or fallen trunks of another variety, the cabbage-palm, the green heart of which had long formed a staple article of diet for the Insurrectos.  Spanish axes had been at work here and not a single tree remained alive.  The green floor of the valley farther down was dotted with the other, the royal kind, that monarch of tropic vegetation which lends to the Cuban landscape its peculiar and distinctive beauty.

“Yonder is the camino,” said the countryman, pointing into the valley; “it will lead you to the main road; and there”—­he turned to the northward—­“is Matanzas.  Go with God, and don’t drink the well water, which is polluted from the rains.”  With a smile and a wave of the hand the man turned back and plunged into the jungle.

As O’Reilly descended the slope he realized keenly that he was alone and in hostile territory.  The hills and the woods from Pinar del Rio to Oriente were Cuban, or, at most, they were disputed ground.  But here in the plains and valleys near the cities Spain was supreme.  From this moment on O’Reilly knew he must rely entirely upon himself.  The success of his enterprise—­his very life—­hinged upon his caution, his powers of dissimulation, his ability to pass as a harmless, helpless pacifico.  It gave him an unaccustomed thrill, by no means pleasant.