CHAPTER I.

THE YOUNG WAR CORRESPONDENT AND THE FAIR STRANGER—AN ACCIDENT INTRODUCES THE LITTLE CUBAN REBEL.

"Sweet land of Liberty, Farewell!"

On the upper deck of the fast coastwise steamer Columbian, bound for Santiago de Cuba, sat a young man of not more than twenty-three years of age, tall, well-formed, and with a face as striking as it was handsome.

The noble steamer was just passing out of sight of Sandy Hook and many of the passengers, Americans and Spaniards, with a sprinkling of Englishmen and creoles, were leaning on the rails, anxious to catch a parting glimpse of terra firma. Not a few eyes were moist, the eyes of those who did not expect to soon return, perhaps not forever.

The young man, who had made himself thoroughly comfortable in a steamer chair, divided his time in studying a number of documents he held in his hand, and in surveying his fellow passengers critically. His eyes, a deep brown, were thoughtful in the extreme, and at once gave forth the correct impression that he was a close student of human nature, as well as a keen observer of all that was transpiring about him.

As the last glimpse of the distant sand-banks faded from view in the bluish mist, one after another of those by the rails turned to the decks, to find their seats, or to seek the seclusion of the cabins and state-rooms.

It was not long ere the young man's attention was attracted to a young lady, small and slender, who came close to him with graceful steps, and sank into a seat opposite to his own. The face of the fair stranger was dark, with ruddy cheeks, each with the daintiest of dimples, while another dimple was hidden in the roundest of chins. The low forehead, with its heavy and deep eyelashes, was surmounted by an abundance of dark and wavy tresses, which clustered about the most beautiful of well-rounded shoulders, and fell over a bosom that rose and fell at every breath like the swells of the ocean.

"By Jupiter!" murmured the young man, and that exclamation, simple as it was, meant a good deal.

Howard Sherwood, newspaper correspondent of the New York United Press, was not in the habit of expressing any feeling or sentiment concerning the looks of the opposite sex. "A strict young man of business," was what his friends called him, "and he doesn't care a rap for the girls," they would add.

Howard Sherwood had taken one long look at the beautiful girl before him, and now he dropped his eyes to the document in his hand. Unconscious of his presence, the fair stranger opened a book and began to read.

It was not long before the young newspaper correspondent again raised his eyes, somewhat slyly and shyly. But, instead of that fascinating face, he saw only the back of the book.

"Songs of Vassar!" he muttered, as he read the title of the book. "By Jove! can she be a college-bred miss—an American? I thought she must surely be a Spaniard or a Cuban. But perhaps she was sent to the United States by her parents to be educated, and is now going home on account of the war. Heavens! what a form and what features! more perfect than the studies of Spanish beauties by the old masters. I wish she would look up again."

Hardly had the last thought come to his lips than the song-book dropped into the fair stranger's lap, and she did look up, humming the last bar of one of the favorite melodies. Her eyes met those of Howard Sherwood fully, the song stopped, the heavy eyelashes shrouded those beautiful orbs, and the young man murmured a sigh that came straight from his heart. In confusion, he once more turned his eyes upon his papers, and soon after both were reading again.

But not for long. The private dispatches which Howard Sherwood carried became meaningless to him, and it was in vain that he tried to get to the close of the letter of instructions which had been thrust into his hands at the last moment. That fair face was in his mind's eye, and disturbed him as he had never been disturbed before. At last, totally unaccustomed to such sensations, he arose to his feet, thrust his papers away, and began to pace the deck.

"I never saw such a girl before," so ran his thoughts. "Beautiful doesn't express it—she's simply the embodiment of loveliness. What a form, and what a charming face, and such wavy, glossy hair! If Byron were alive, he'd follow her around daily, and write a three-volume poem about her! Pshaw! Howard Sherwood, you must be losing your head—you who have run the entire gauntlet of society in a dozen big cities! Remember, old boy, you are poor now, and must work for a living. Thank your stars you've struck luck as a newspaper correspondent, and leave womankind alone. There will be plenty of things to think about when you reach Cuba and start on your hazardous mission of outwitting the vigilance of the Spanish authorities, and sending in truthful reports of the war."

As Howard Sherwood strode along as far as the limit of the upper deck would permit, his attention was attracted to the work of several sailors who were working in the masts, repairing several yard arms which had been damaged by coming in contact with a tall derrick when the steamer was leaving the pier. The sailors were rather careless in their work, one letting a heavy piece of rope fall directly upon the young man's shoulders.

"Hi, there! be careful!" he called out. And the sailor who had caused the mishap shouted back an apology.

"I wish I knew her name!" thought Howard, coming back again to the subject of the fair stranger. "I wonder if it's written on that book? I'll walk up behind her and see, just for—for fun."

He turned and approached from behind several chairs, some empty and others occupied. But just as he came within range the book was thrown down.

"Look out, below there!"

It was the warning cry of the officer who was superintending the repairs above. Howard Sherwood sprang back and looked up. The end of one of the yard arms had become loose, and was falling directly toward the spot where the fair young stranger was sitting.

"Back!" cried Howard, as he leaped forward.

The fair young creature was dazed, and hardly moved. As the heavy yard arm came down, Howard swung it aside, and it fell with a crash to the deck. It had missed those beautiful raven tresses by only a few inches.

"Oh, señor!" came from the lips of the girl, as she tried to catch her breath. Then she gave Howard a look of unutterable gratitude. "You saved my life!" she added, in unmistakable Spanish accents.

"Oh, I did not do much," was the young war correspondent's reply. "But I am glad you were not injured. That was very careless of you," he shouted to the sailors, and the officer berated the men soundly. The yard was immediately raised, and that was the last of any accidents with them.

"I—I did not see the yard arm," went on the fair creature, giving Howard another grateful look. "You are strong, to throw it aside."

"I was an active member of an athletic club for several years," smiled Howard, his eyes now bent full upon that fascinating face. "Allow me to introduce myself—Howard Sherwood, correspondent——" He stopped short. "I am a New York newspaper man."

"Oh, indeed!" She added a few words in Spanish which he did not catch. "You are going down to Cuba to report the war?" she asked, with interest.

"Partly for that purpose," he replied, slowly. "I have another object—to look up some property in which my family has an interest.

"I see you are from Vassar," he went on, after a slight pause, and pointed to the song-book.

"Yes, I have been at Vassar for two years. But now papa has written for me to come home—the war has upset everything, you see."

"I trust it will not affect you," he smiled.

"It affects papa, and that affects me."

"And may I ask what side you are on?"

"Oh, I—I—can't really say until I see what is being done. Papa, I know, sides with the royalists, but up at the college I read so much about Cuban liberty, I am rather in favor of it, señor. On account of my views, some of the girls call me Estella, the little Cuban rebel!" and she burst into a bewitching laugh.

"Estella! That is a pretty name," he murmured. "May I ask the rest of it?"

"Estella Inez Corona," she replied, demurely.

"I trust we shall become good friends while on this steamer, Miss Corona," he said, as he extended his hand, which she took readily and warmly pressed. He soon learned that even college life at Vassar had not modified her natural Spanish impulsiveness and warmth of heart.

"A girl worth the winning," he thought, as he regretfully released her hand.

CHAPTER II.

"WITH THE SWEET MUST COME THE BITTER—AND, OH! SO BITTER AT TIMES!"

As Howard Sherwood had intimated, he was poor, having nothing but his pencil and note-book to depend upon for a living. Reared in the lap of luxury, he had been suddenly thrown upon his own resources, with only his brains and a college education to back him.

When a boy his parents had perished in a railroad disaster in New Hampshire and he had been turned over to the care of his uncle, Robert Sherwood, a wealthy bachelor, residing on Fifth avenue, New York City. Robert Sherwood had given great care to Howard's early education, and had insisted that the youth go to Yale, while he had suddenly taken a notion to go to Cuba, where he had invested heavily in sugar and tobacco plantations.

On the very day that Howard graduated from the well-known seat of learning a letter was received from Robert Sherwood, stating that he had been prostrated with a low fever, the result of exposure in the swamps with which Cuba abounds. He was coming home under the care of a physician, and he asked that Howard be on hand to take up the business left in Cuba unfinished, as soon as he should be able to transfer the same.

Howard was on hand, but instead of meeting his beloved uncle, he met only the physician, who told him that his uncle was dead, having died on the steamer when only one day out of Havana. The body had been buried at sea.

The young man's grief was intense, for his uncle had been his last remaining relative. In his sorrow he scarcely asked about the business his uncle had mentioned in the letter, and he did not think of the matter until stern necessity made him throw aside his sorrow and grapple with the question of how to get along in the world.

Then it was that he made the discovery that his uncle's financial affairs were hopelessly involved. Every dollar the bachelor had possessed had been invested in Cuba, and just how matters stood it was impossible to ascertain. Howard engaged an American lawyer in Santiago, named Thomas Herringford, but so far had received no encouragement. Over a hundred thousand dollars had been invested by Robert Sherwood in Cuban lands, and Howard was his sole heir, yet it was doubtful if the young man would realize a single dollar out of the vast estate.

Time dragged by, and Howard found he must do something for a living. To one not accustomed to work this was no easy matter, but Howard was not the one to shrink from a responsibility. He could write fluently, and liked newspaper work, and it was not long before he attached himself to one of the large press associations of New York which furnish the news to several hundred newspapers throughout the land.

Several especially good bits of reporting soon placed Howard at the head of the staff, and when the regular correspondent for the association was recalled from Cuba, for inefficiency and unreliability, Howard was immediately chosen to fill the vacant place at a salary of a hundred dollars per month, and all expenses paid. A fairly good salary in itself, yet it was but a small amount to one who had heretofore spent money with a lavish hand.

Howard had great hopes of his trip to Cuba. Immediately on landing at Santiago he expected to call on Thomas Herringford, and obtain the full particulars of how his uncle's estate had been lost. He felt that at least something should be saved from the general wreck. Howard had been thinking of all these things, when chance, and the accident, threw him into the company of Estella Corona, and for the time being the vision of loveliness drove aught else from his mind. Never had he been smitten before, and now the keen shaft of Love sank deep into his heart. As he released her hand, his very soul seemed to go with it.

Whether Estella felt something of what was passing in his mind, or whether it was his ardent gaze, bent full upon her, it would be difficult to say, but she blushed deeply, her dark face all aflame, making her look a hundred times more bewitching than ever. Then, as she turned her head for an instant, a look of pain and misery crossed her features. Evidently her girlish heart, full of careless joy to the outside world, carried some burden of secret sorrow.

"And so you have been two years at Vassar," he went on. "And how do you like it in the States?"

"Very much, indeed, señor," she replied. "Much better than among the creoles and blacks of my own country."

"May I ask if you live at Santiago?"

"We live at Marambo, papa and I. We have a large sugar plantation, and live there all alone, with the servants and the plantation help."

"It must be lonely for you," he said, sympathetically.

"It is—at times. But then, we have company, coming and going—old army friends of my father."

"Then he is an army officer?"

"He used to be a general in the Spanish Army, ten years ago. He is retired."

"Ah, I see. No wonder, then, he sides with the royalty. I am afraid you will have a hard time to uphold your rebellious ideas in his presence."

"Maybe, but—" she paused, and her eyes shone like twin stars. "Cuba should be free. It is not for Spain to grind down those faithful ones! Spain would take the last piaster from them! Those miserable soldiers"—her cheeks grew red again—"they rob the natives! Oh, señor, you do not know what the people suffer in our isle!"

"I know something of it; I have studied the situation," replied Howard. But he was not thinking just then of the people—only of how amazingly pretty Estella looked. "It seems to me you hate the Spanish soldiery," he added.

"I do—some of them!" On the adjective she put an emphasis that did not escape him. "They are cowardly—and worse! They should be sent from the island, bag and baggage, as you Americans say it."

He laughed outright. "Your college chums were right when they called you Estella, the little Cuban rebel." His voice sank lower. "And may I call you Estella, too?"

His eyes sought hers, and for an instant they seemed to gaze into each other's very soul. Then the long eyelashes dropped.

"If you wish, Mr. Sherwood, but——"

"Thank you, Estella; and why not call me Howard? We are going to be the best of friends, are we not? You are the first Cuban lady I have met."

"Indeed? Then I suppose I will have to call you Howard. It would be quite proper in Cuba; but you Americans——"

"We are going to Cuba, and must do as the Cubans do," he interrupted, merrily. "So it is Howard, remember. Hark! there is the supper gong. May I have the pleasure?" He extended his arm, which she took. "We must get seats together, and during the trip you will, perhaps, tell me all about the country—and yourself. Then I will not feel so much a stranger when I land."

"I will tell you all you care to listen to," she smiled. Then of a sudden she grew grave, and said no more until they were seated in the dining-saloon.

When supper was over, and they had come on deck again, the red sun had gone down in the direction of the land, and out of the rim of the eastern sea the pale new moon was rising, a thin crescent emerging from a bath of glittering silver. Estella clasped her hands together as she gazed on the scene.

"How beautiful!" she murmured, in Spanish. "Excuse me, but you do not understand, Mr.—Howard!"

"I do, but not very well. I much prefer to hear you talk in English—your accent is so soft and sweet, Estella. When you speak I listen like one in a happy dream." He drew closer to her, and his hand rested upon her shapely waist. "Yes, it is a beautiful scene," he went on. "Would that all the scenes in life were as beautiful."

She started, and a slight shiver shook her form.

"Yes, yes; would that all were as beautiful," she cried. "But it seems it cannot be. With the sweet must come the bitter—and, oh, so bitter at times!"

He looked down at her gravely. He felt that she was speaking, not lightly, but in all sincerity, and a pang shot through his heart for whatever she might have suffered.

"I wish you a future without one atom of bitterness!" he cried, as he pressed her closer. "You deserve nothing but sweetness, I am sure—your innocent face proves it."

"You are kind," she murmured, and did not attempt to release herself from him. "But you do not know—you do not understand——" She abruptly paused. "What am I saying? It is nothing to you. Let us enjoy the scene. See how the moon is rising?"

"As it rises, so does my interest in you rise, Estella."

"Ah, señor, perhaps; but the moon sets, too."

"But not my interest!" he cried, with a burst of passion which surprised even himself. "The first sight of your fair face drew me to you, every glance kindled the fire within my heart——"

"Oh, Howard!" she gave him a single passionate glance.

"It is true, Estella. Never before have I been so fascinated by such a lovely face, and——"

The young war correspondent hesitated. There was a heavy step behind them, and a thick-set, rough-looking Spaniard, in the dress of a naval officer, came up and touched Estella on the shoulder.

"Good-evening, Miss Corona," he said, in his native tongue. "I saw you at the supper table, and have been hunting for you ever since."

"Good-evening, Captain Barbados," returned Estella, stiffly. It was evident that she was equally annoyed by the interruption and the person causing it.

Captain Barbados looked sharply at Howard, and there was nothing to do but introduce the two.

"Going to Cuba to take part in the war?" asked the captain, addressing Howard, in very bad English.

"Mr. Sherwood is a war correspondent——" began Estella, and then, as Howard pressed her arm, she paused. "I mean—I mean——"

"A war correspondent, eh?" muttered Barbados, and his brow lowered. "I thought the United States had already sent enough of those cattle down upon us."

Howard's face flushed, and for the instant he was tempted to slap the Spaniard's face. Estella seemed to feel what was in his mind, for she caught his arm.

"Shame on you, Captain Barbados!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Sherwood is my friend! To address him in that fashion is—is ungentlemanly."

"Well, maybe." The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. "I was not speaking of Señor Sherwood as a man. It is the calling I detest. War correspondents? Bah! They are spies, sent on by Americans who would set Cuba free! I know them, and so does your worthy father, the general."

At the latter words Estella grew pale. Howard stepped forward.

"You are mistaken, sir," he said, as calmly as he could. "I am a simple correspondent, and I am also going to Cuba, to look up a certain property interest left me by my late uncle, Robert Sherwood."

"Ha!" the Spanish captain started back on hearing Robert Sherwood's name mentioned, but he instantly recovered. "Well, take my advice and keep your hands out of the struggle, or you may get burnt." He turned again to Estella. "Come with me," he went on, in Spanish. "Remember, your father wrote to me to care for you should you return on this steamer."

For a moment Estella stood irresolute, then, with a sweet good-night to Howard, she left his side and walked toward the cabin with the captain.

"How long have you known that man?" demanded Captain Barbados, as soon as they were out of hearing.

"Excuse me, but you have no right to question me, Captain Barbados," replied the girl, with spirit. "I will retire at once, and I trust that in the future you will offer no more insults to my friend."