On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro and M. D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, attending. It seemed to the young Cuban a proper precaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English. His voice was barely audible. M. D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm. "Manuel Mazaro," he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"-- The Cuban interrupted. "If is no' t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro?--a' r-r-right-a!" "No," said the tender old man, "no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you." Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention. While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban was emphatically nodding approval. "My fren'," said M. D'Hemecourt, rising and speaking with labored control, "I muz tell you good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry gred deal. I s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a hole man; bud I will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God! not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Café des Exilés." Mazaro smiled and nodded. His host opened the door into the garden, and, as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was his face and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling the air with an almost insupportable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment, as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and looked up to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face of the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silently followed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate, looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street. As M. D'Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. She spoke hurriedly in French. "Papa, papa, it is not true." "No, my child," he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it is all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? The night is nearly gone." He laid his hand upon her cheek. "Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell you something of this kind, and I listened." The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress. "Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story is all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to tell it?" He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait which she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and discerning; yet now she stood confounded. "Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and not die." "Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!" The old man groaned. "Papa, papa," she cried again, "I felt it; I know not how; something told me." "Alas!" exclaimed the old man, "if it was your conscience!" "No, no, no, papa," cried Pauline, "but I was afraid of Manuel Mazaro, and I think he hates him--and I think he will hurt him in any way he can--and I _know_ he will even try to kill him. Oh! my God!" She struck her hands together above her head, and burst into a flood of tears. Her father looked upon her with such sad sternness as his tender nature was capable of. He laid hold of one of her arms to draw a hand from the face whither both hands had gone. "You know something else," he said; "you know that the Major loves you, or you think so: is it not true?" She dropped both hands, and, lifting her streaming eyes that had nothing to hide straight to his, suddenly said: "I would give worlds to think so!" and sunk upon the floor. He was melted and convinced in one instant. "Oh, my child, my child," he cried, trying to lift her. "Oh, my poor little Pauline, your papa is not angry. Rise, my little one; so; kiss me; Heaven bless thee. Pauline, treasure, what shall I do with thee? Where shall I hide thee?" "You have my counsel already, papa." "Yes, my child, and you were right. The Café des Exilés never should have been opened. It is no place for you; no place at all." "Let us leave it," said Pauline. "Ah! Pauline, I would close it to-morrow if I could, but now it is too late; I cannot." "Why?" asked Pauline, pleadingly. She had cast an arm about his neck. Her tears sparkled with a smile. "My daughter, I cannot tell you; you must go now to bed; good-night--or good-morning; God keep you!" "Well, then, papa," she said, "have no fear; you need not hide me; I have my prayer-book, and my altar, and my garden, and my window; my garden is my fenced city, and my window my watch-tower; do you see?" "Ah! Pauline," responded the father, "but I have been letting the enemy in and out at pleasure." "Good-night," she answered, and kissed him three times on either cheek; "the blessed Virgin will take care of us; good-night; _he_ never said those things; not he; good-night." The next evening Galahad Shaughnessy and Manuel Mazaro met at that "very different" place, the Café des Réfugiés. There was much free talk going on about Texan annexation, about chances of war with Mexico, about San Domingan affairs, about Cuba and many et-ceteras. Galahad was in his usual gay mood. He strode about among a mixed company of Louisianais, Cubans, and Américains, keeping them in a great laugh with his account of one of Ole Bull's concerts, and how he had there extorted an invitation from M. and Mme. Devoti to attend one of their famous children's fancy dress balls. "Halloo!" said he as Mazaro approached, "heer's the etheerial Angelica herself. Look-ut heer, sissy, why ar'n't ye in the maternal arms of the Café des Exilés?" Mazaro smiled amiably and sat down. A moment after, the Irishman, stepping away from his companions, stood before the young Cuban, and asked with a quiet business air: "D'ye want to see me, Mazaro?" The Cuban nodded, and they went aside. Mazaro, in a few quick words, looking at his pretty foot the while, told the other on no account to go near the Café des Exilés, as there were two men hanging about there, evidently watching for him, and-- Major Shaughnessy's habit of repeating part of his words arose from another, of interrupting any person who might be speaking. "They must know--I say they must know that whenever I'm nowhurs else I'm heer. What do they want?" Mazaro made a gesture, signifying caution and secrecy, and smiled, as if to say, "You ought to know." "Aha!" said the Irishman softly. "Why don't they come here?" "That's so," said the Irishman; "I say, that's so. If I don't feel very much like go-un, I'll not go; I say, I'll not go. We've no business to-night, eh Mazaro?" A second evening was much the same, Mazaro repeating his warning. But when, on the third evening, the Irishman again repeated his willingness to stay away from the Café des Exilés unless he should feel strongly impelled to go, it was with the mental reservation that he did feel very much in that humor, and, unknown to Mazaro, should thither repair, if only to see whether some of those deep old fellows were not contriving a practical joke. "Mazaro," said he, "I'm go-un around the caurnur a bit; I want ye to wait heer till I come back. I say I want ye to wait heer till I come back; I'll be gone about three-quarters of an hour." Mazaro assented. He saw with satisfaction the Irishman start in a direction opposite that in which lay the Café des Exilés, tarried fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, thinking he could step around to the Café des Exilés and return before the expiration of the allotted time, hurried out. Meanwhile that peaceful habitation sat in the moonlight with her children about her feet. The company outside the door was somewhat thinner than common. M. D'Hemecourt was not among them, but was sitting in the room behind the café. The long table which the burial society used at their meetings extended across the apartment, and a lamp had been placed upon it. M. D'Hemecourt sat by the lamp. Opposite him was a chair, which seemed awaiting an expected occupant. Beside the old man sat Pauline. They were talking in cautious undertones, and in French. "No," she seemed to insist; "we do not know that he refuses to come. We only know that Manuel says so." The father shook his head sadly. "When has he ever staid away three nights together before?" he asked. "No, my child; it is intentional. Manuel urges him to come, but he only sends poor excuses." "But," said the girl, shading her face from the lamp and speaking with some suddenness, "why have you not sent word to him by some other person?" M. D'Hemecourt looked up at his daughter a moment, and then smiled at his own simplicity. "Ah!" he said. "Certainly; and that is what I will--run away, Pauline. There is Manuel, now, ahead of time!" A step was heard inside the café. The maiden, though she knew the step was not Mazaro's, rose hastily, opened the nearest door, and disappeared. She had barely closed it behind her when Galahad Shaughnessy entered the apartment. M'Hemecourt rose up, both surprised and confused. "Good-evening, Munsher D'Himecourt," said the Irishman. "Munsher D'Himecourt, I know it's against rules--I say, I know it's against rules to come in here, but"--smiling,--"I want to have a private wurd with ye. I say, I want to have a private wurd with ye." In the closet of bottles the maiden smiled triumphantly. She also wiped the dew from her forehead, for the place was very close and warm. With her father was no triumph. In him sadness and doubt were so mingled with anger that he dared not lift his eyes, but gazed at the knot in the wood of the table, which looked like a caterpillar curled up. Mazaro, he concluded, had really asked the Major to come. "Mazaro tol' you?" he asked. "Yes," answered the Irishman. "Mazaro told me I was watched, and asked"-- "Didn't Mazaro tell ye why I didn't come?" asked the other, beginning to be puzzled at his host's meaning. "Yez," replied M. D'Hemecourt, "bud one brev zhenteman should not be afraid of"-- M. D'Hemecourt flushed in a way quite incomprehensible to the speaker, who nevertheless continued: "It was the charges," he said, with some slyness in his smile. "They _are_ heavy, as ye say, and that's the very reason--I say that's the very reason why I staid away, ye see, eh? I say that's the very reason I staid away." Then, indeed, there was a dew for the maiden to wipe from her brow, unconscious that every word that was being said bore a different significance in the mind of each of the three. The old man was agitated. "Bud, sir," he began, shaking his head and lifting his hand. "Madjor Shaughnessy!" cried M. D'Hemecourt, losing all self-control. "H-I am nod a cud-troad, Madjor Shaughnessy, h-an I 'ave a r-r-righd to wadge you." The Major rose from his chair. "What d'ye mean?" he asked vacantly, and then: "Look-ut here, Munsher D'Himecourt, one of uz is crazy. I say one"-- "No, sar-r-r!" cried the other, rising and clenching his trembling fist. "H-I am not crezzy. I 'ave de righd to wadge dad man wad mague rimark aboud me dotter." "I never did no such a thing."