almost within his grasp.  He was tempted to abandon caution and make a dash for it, until he discovered that the city was well guarded.  One needed a pass to enter or to leave Puerto Principe, and, moreover, the city had no suburbs, no scattered residences outside its boundaries:  when one came to the end of a street one found oneself in an open field faced by a barbed-wire barrier, and on every road leading from the town stood a fortina, a little fort of brick or logs, in which were stationed Spanish soldiers.  The streets were alive with uniformed men, patrols were everywhere, and martial law prevailed.  For the first time O’Reilly began to perceive the strength of that mailed hand which held the island so tightly.  Judging from the preparations here, one must conclude that Spain had no intention of relinquishing her last New World possession.

After a stroll through the city, during which he carefully used his eyes, Johnnie asked himself how the ill-drilled, ill-equipped, loosely organized Insurrectos could hope to overthrow so solid a power as this, backed as it seemed to be by unlimited means and unlimited armies of trained troops.  It looked like a hopeless undertaking.  No seaport, no city, scarcely a hamlet, in fact, so far as O’Reilly knew, was held by the rebels; they lurked in the woods or rode the savannas in ragged bands, here to-day, there to-morrow.  To aid or comfort them was treason.  They appeared out of the jungles at unexpected moments; they faded like the mists of the dawn.  Theirs was an apparitional warfare, and even their biggest victories were signals for retreat.  How could they think to win?

It seemed impossible that such resistance as they offered could wear down and conquer the resources of Spain, yet the very numbers and alertness of the Spanish troops argued a somewhat formidable opposition.  Did it not also argue an all-pervading restlessness which might some day escape control?  O’Reilly, of course, had no part in this quarrel:  but it struck him as a wicked waste to destroy, to ravage, and to slay when settlement was so easy.  The motive behind this prodigal extravagance of blood and gold was nothing but foolish resistance of a principle.  A little yielding, a little diminution of harshness, a little compassion on the part of the mother country, and these men who were killing one another would embrace and proclaim their blood brotherhood.

Pondering such thoughts as these, O’Reilly returned to his hotel.  As he sat in the cafe, sipping an orangeade, he heard some one speaking in atrocious Spanish, and looked up to see that another American had entered.  The stranger was a tall, funereal young man, with pallid cheeks and hollow, burning eyes:  he was asking for ice-water, but what he said resembled anything except the language of the country.

“Hey, George!” he cried.  “Try gimme a vasso of agwa con yellow.”  He pronounced the words with elaborate pains.  “Make it a long one.”