“She died without speaking.”

“Then it rests between you and me?”

“It does, unless you have babbled.”

“Master!” Sebastian drew himself up and there was real dignity in his black face.

“Understand, my whole fortune is there—­everything, even to the deeds of patent for the plantations.  If I thought there was danger of your betraying me I would have your tongue pulled out and your eyes torn from their sockets.”

The black man spoke with a simplicity that carried conviction.  “You have seen me tested.  You know I am faithful.  But, master, this secret is a great burden for my old shoulders, and I have been thinking—­Times are unsettled, Don Esteban, and death comes without warning.  You are known to be the richest man in this province and these government officials are robbers.  Suppose—­I should be left alone?  What then?”

The planter considered for a moment.  “They are my countrymen, but a curse on them,” he said, finally.  “Well, when my children are old enough to hold their tongues they will have to be told.  If I’m gone, you shall be the one to tell them.  Now leave me; this is no time to speak of such things.”

Sebastian went as noiselessly as he had come.  On his way back to his quarters he took the path to the well—­the place where most of his time was ordinarily spent.  Sebastian had dug this well, and with his own hands he had beautified its surroundings until they were the loveliest on the Varona grounds.  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.

Cueto’s dark eyes gleamed resentfully at this show of ignorance, but he laughed.