The rock for the
building of the quinta had been quarried here, and in the center
of the resulting depression, grass-grown and flowering now, was
the well itself. Its waters seeped from subterranean caverns and
filtered, pure and cool, through the porous country rock.
Plantain, palm, orange, and tamarind trees bordered the hollow;
over the rocky walls ran a riot of vines and ferns and ornamental
plants. It was Sebastian's task to keep this place green, and
thither he took his way, from force of habit.
Through the twilight came Pancho Cueto, the manager, a youngish
man, with a narrow face and bold, close-set eyes. Spying
Sebastian, he began:
"So Don Esteban has an heir at last?"
The slave rubbed his eyes with the heel of his huge yellow palm
and answered, respectfully:
"Yes, Don Pancho. Two little angels, a boy and a girl." His gray
brows drew together in a painful frown. "Dona Rosa was a saint. No
doubt there is great rejoicing in heaven at her coming. Eh? What
do you think?"
"Um-m! Possibly. Don Esteban will miss her for a time and then, I
dare say, he will remarry." At the negro's exclamation Cueto
cried: "So! And why not? Everybody knows how rich he is. From
Oriente to Pinar del Rio the women have heard about his treasure."
"What treasure?" asked Sebastian, after an instant's pause.
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