ON THE DECK OF THE "SANTA MARIA" The Spanish sentries on the Place d'Armes were calling the hour of midnight when the priest and I stole silently past amid the shadows of overhanging trees.

I find it impossible, even now, after the lapse of years, to dwell upon my parting with her who despatched me on so strange an errand.

My reluctant pen halts, while the tears, dimming my old eyes, bid me turn to other scenes.

However, under God, the venture of that night might terminate, I firmly believed I was gazing into her dear face for the last time; yet, honor sealed my lips, holding back unspoken those passionate utterances which burned upon my tongue.

I could merely clasp for one brief moment those hands she gave so unreservedly into my keeping, gaze into the unfathomed depths of her dark eyes, and murmur a few broken words of confidence and farewell.
Then, half blinded from emotion, I tore myself away from her beloved presence, and went forth into night and peril for her dear sake.
However my heart throbbed with hidden anguish as I stepped forth from that fateful house, the nature of the adventure upon which we were now fairly launched was sufficient to cool my brain, so that long before we skirted the guard-lines drawn around the camp of Spanish artillery, I had become once more the cool, resourceful adventurer, as befitted my nature and training.
"Sentries are stationed only along the open side of the square, I think ?" I whispered to my companion questioningly, striving vainly to penetrate the intense darkness in our front.
"True," he responded in so low a voice I could scarcely catch the words, a slight falter betraying that the strange conditions preyed upon his unaccustomed nerves.