"I know you
now, but--I never expected we would meet."
"Esteban Varona told you about me, did he not?"
The colonel inclined his head.
"I'm here at last, after the devil's own time. I've been trying
every way to get through. The Spaniards stopped me at Puerto
Principe--they sent me back home, you know. I've been half crazy.
I--You--" O'Reilly swallowed hard. "You know where Esteban is?
Tell me-"
"Have you heard nothing?"
"Nothing whatever. That is, nothing since Rosa, his sister--You
understand, she and I are--engaged-"
"Yes, yes; Esteban told me all about you."
Something in the Cuban's gravity of manner gave O'Reilly warning.
A sudden fear assailed him. His voice shook as he asked:
"What is it? My God! Not bad news?"
There was no need for the officer to answer. In his averted gaze
O'Reilly read confirmation of his sickest apprehensions. The men
faced each other for a long moment, while the color slowly drove
out of the American's cheeks, leaving him pallid, stricken. He wet
his lips to speak, but his voice was no more than a dry, throaty
rustle.
"Tell me! Which one?" he whispered.
"Both!"
O'Reilly recoiled; a spasm distorted his chalky face. He began to
shake weakly, and his fingers plucked aimlessly at each other.
Lopez took him by the arm. "Try to control yourself," said he.
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