“There!  You acknowledge that I handicap you.  Except for me you would be making a glorious name for yourself.”

“Nothing of the sort.  More probably I’d be getting myself killed.  No!  It’s better this way.  We must be brave and patient and—­think of what is waiting for us at the bottom of that well.”

It was indeed a great piece of luck which had enabled Esteban Varona to buy a half-dozen Mausers from a Spanish soldier.  Through Asensio’s acquaintance he had profited by the dishonesty of an enemy, and, although it had taken all his money to effect the purchase, Esteban considered the sacrifice well worth while.  The fire of patriotism burned fiercely in him, as did his hatred of Pancho Cueto, and the four trusty young negroes to whom he had given rifles made, with Asensio and himself, an armed party large enough to be reckoned with.  These blacks were excitable fellows, and wretched marksmen, but, on the other hand, each and every one had been raised with a machete at his hip and knew how to use it.  After a few preliminary forays under Esteban’s leadership they had absorbed a bit of discipline and were beginning to feel a military ardor.

In the Cuban field forces there were many negroes, and many of their fellow-patriots fought better, or endured the hardships of guerrilla warfare more cheerfully, than they.  Gen. Antonio Maceo was of mixed blood, and yet his leadership was characterized not only by rare judgment and ability, but also by an exalted abandon of personal bravery.  His several brothers rendered Cuba services scarcely less distinguished, and they were but of a few of many dark-skinned heroes.  This struggle for independence was no patrician’s war; the best stock of the island fought side by side with field-hands.

At dawn of the morning following his talk with Rosa, when the members of his command assembled, Esteban was up and ready.  He had made his preparations to destroy Pancho Cueto’s fields, and since the road over the hills to La Joya was long he had summoned them early.

“Be careful!” Rosa implored him.  “I shall die of suspense.”

“It is for you to be careful,” he laughed.  “Keep a good watch, and conceal yourself at the first alarm.  However, I think we have taught these bandits a lesson.  As for Cueto, he would run to the jungle if he saw us.  He has the heart of a mouse.”  He kissed his sister affectionately and then rode off at the head of his tattered band.

Rosa waved him a last farewell as he disappeared into the woods, then, to occupy herself, she helped Evangelina with what little housework there was to do, later going with her to the garden patch where the viandas grew.

Evangelina’s early devotion to her mistress had not diminished with time; if anything, it had deepened.  When emancipation came she would have returned to the service of her beloved twins had it not been for Dona Isabel’s refusal to accept her.  As it was, she and Asensio had married, and by means of Rosa’s surreptitious help they had managed to buy this little piece of land.  Rosa had practised self-denial to make the purchase possible, and her self-sacrifice had borne fruit:  that act of childish beneficence had created a refuge for Esteban and herself and had ripened the negro woman’s affection into idolatry.