The women of the camp, delighted at an opportunity of serving Norine, had transformed Esteban’s poor quarters into a tiny bower of wild blossoms and green leaves; they likewise gathered flowers for the two brides-to-be, then joined with nimble fingers in adorning their costumes.  When the girls came down the street, hand in hand, they received an ovation from men and women alike.  Norine was pleased; she smiled and blushed and ran the gantlet bravely enough.  But Rosa, sadly overwrought by the day’s excitement, was upon the verge of a collapse.  Nevertheless she was happy; her eyes were shining, her face was transfigured, her hand, when she took O’Reilly’s, was cold and tremulous, but it warmed and grew steady under his grasp.

Many people—­all Cubitas, in fact—­had assembled to witness the romantic double wedding, but few actually succeeded, for Esteban’s hut was too small to accommodate more than the highest officials of the Provisional Government, so the others were forced to wait outside in the gathering dusk.  And those Ministers, those secretaries of departments, those generals and colonels, what a motley crowd they formed!  There was scarcely a whole garment among them.  They were sunburnt, wind-browned, earnest men, the old ones grayed and grizzled from worry, the younger ones wasted from hardships in the field.  But out of their rags and poverty shone a stately courtesy and consideration.  They were gentlemen, men of culture and refinement, the best and oldest blood of Cuba.  Both Norine and Johnnie had learned their gratitude, and the story of the Varona twins was typical of the island, nowadays, so they unbent and there were warm congratulaitons, well-turned Latin pleasantries, elaborate compliments upon the beauty of the brides.

Then, afterward, there was a surprise—­a genuine surprise—­in the form of a banquet at the big mess shelter, with an orchestra concealed behind a screen of fresh-cut palm-leaves stuck into the soft earth.  This was the men’s part of the celebration, the official compliment to Cuba’s guest.  It was a poorly furnished banquet, with a service of tin and granite ware and chipped china, and there was little to eat, but the true spirit of festivity was present.  The Lone Star emblem of the new Republic was draped with the Stars and Stripes, and there were many speeches.

Norine’s protests at leaving Esteban went unheeded, and Leslie Branch escorted her in place of the bridegroom, who lay blissfully dreaming in his hammock.  Her amazement passed all bounds when, from the hidden recess behind the palm-leaves, came not the music of mandolins and guitars, but the strains of a balanced orchestra under the leadership of Cuba’s most eminent bandmaster.  Whence the players had come, where they had found their instruments, was a mystery, but they played well, divinely, so it seemed to the music-hungry diners.  Such a banquet as that was!  Some one had contributed a demijohn of wine, and there was coffee, too, at the last, made from the berries of some jungle plant.  The chef, once famous at the Inglaterra, was forced to appear and take homage for this final triumph.