White Bluffs spokesman. [volume] (White Bluffs, Wash.) 1907-1938, 1931-11-19

lance at the soldiers throat and the
two went down, grotesque figure of
writing arms and legs.
Now l saw the dark Manuel, pistol
is his hand and his mouth open in an
eXpectant grin. Before he could raise
the weapon / closed his mouth with
driving fist, behind which had put all
the power Of my muscles.
With the sailors pressing around
us I turned to find Francisco. There
was no enmity in his eyes, and he
made no move to attack me. "Fran-
CISCO" l said in one Of those sudden,
unaccountable bushes that every bat
tie, large or small, will develop, "you
have committed grave blunder."
Trembling hands caught my arm
and whirled me around. The Senorita
Lamartina raised on tiptoe, and her
pale face was less than eight inches
from my eyes.
"Your-Your Majesty" I faltered.
Mother of Cd" she whispered,
''the moon-wraith -
A western sun filled the upper half
of my tiny cubicle with a lurid glow,
still, oppressive heat-presaging
storm-bore upon me; bonds that cut
me cruelty held my arms and legs and
black thoughts of injustice filled my
brain.
I had fought to save him-and her
and I had come to this prison cell.
Was this the Spaniard's idea Of graft
tude; could there be in the heart of
Adolfo de Fuentes so perverted
sense Of right and wrong, in his plan
of life so poor a picture Of sportsman
ship? All, l was to learn many things
about the Spaniards @
I wondered what had become of
Manuel; l wondered what they had
done to Francisco and Santini, for
remembered that Spanish justice was
swift.
But one ray of light showed in the
| gloom of my despair. Riding upon
! that fervent whisper of the ''moon-
wraith!' had come, so believed, a
| definite note Of JOY
heard the grating Of key in the
| paddock, and the rattle Of chain.
| The door opened and two armed sail
ors came In They loosed my bonds
and stood up, moving my arms and
legs SO that the numbness passed
| away. The sailors eased out in single
| file and stationed themselves in the
I channel, guns ready for any attempt
| that might make to escape.
| I stood wondering, eyes upon the I'M
even floor, until the consciousness of
presence came to me. was afraid to
raise my eyes until heard her voice
| and there has never been another
| voice like hers, never another face so
exquisite, nor a form SO graciously
| fashioned.
"Will the Senior Moon-wraith-?"
| Now a palsy seized me. / was
afraid-afraid that was dreaming.
heard her light step as she crossed
the narrow way, and felt the touch
of tentative hand upon my arm.
raised my eyes and drank deep Of the
beauty of her face.
"Senorita," 1 said, "ah, Senorita,
you have come thus to my poor
prison"
She turned her head and glanced
over her shoulder, where in the
gloom of the channel, dim outlines of
the sailor guards were visible. "Mon-
sieur, you know the French?"
Perfectly" said; lit is my mother
tongue"
"Your mother tongue? 1 thought
you were Americana"
Eyes though my mother is French"
Standing close to me she raised her
face toward the glow Of the tiny port
hole. "Will you tell me, Monsieur,
who you are?"
anything to hold her here, to give me
further time to fill my eyes with her
loneliness and my soul with the joy
Of her presence. "My name is Loren"
"Loren," she repeated, accenting-
as she should have done-the last
syllable, "Loren-what?"
Loren Garde, the good Morse name
that my father, youth just out of his
teens, brought to New Orleans after
his campaign under the brilliant Gen.
Nathaniel Greene. With faith in him
self and the new nation to which he
had offered valiant service, he has
managed by hard work and careful
I saving and investment to gather vast
acreage of Mississippi valley lands"
IF your father is wealthy, then why
in the name of all the saints, Mon.
sieur-did you thus throw away your
life by serving that arch-rebel and
conspirator, Simon Bolivar?"
Now a bit Of Francisco's patriotism
touched me, so that l refrained, for
the moment, from telling her that l
: had spurned the offer of the revolu.
tionists. 1.-THE rebel of today, Your
Majesty, may be tomorrow's liberator.
Do you not know that, already, they
are calling this Bolivar the Washing
ton of South American"
(To BE cONTINUED)