Rainbows End | Page 2

the shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate, you will
see beyond the cleft through which the river emerges another hill, La
Cumbre, from which the view is almost as wonderful, and your driver
may tell you about the splendid homes that used to grace its slopes in
the golden days when Cuba had an aristocracy. They were classic
Roman villas, such as once lined the Via Appia-- little palaces, with
mosaics and marbles and precious woods imported from Europe, and
furnished with the rarest treasures--for in those days the Cuban planters
were rich and spent their money lavishly. Melancholy reminders of this
splendor exist even now in the shape of a crumbled ruin here and there,
a lichened pillar, an occasional porcelain urn in its place atop a
vine-grown bit of wall. Your cochero may point out a certain grove of
orange-trees, now little more than a rank tangle, and tell you about the
quinta of Don Esteban Varona, and its hidden treasure; about little
Esteban and Rosa, the twins; and about Sebastian, the giant slave, who
died in fury, taking with him the secret of the well.
The Spanish Main is rich in tales of treasure-trove, for when the
Antilles were most affluent they were least secure, and men were put to
strange shifts to protect their fortunes. Certain hoards, like jewels of
tragic history, in time assumed a sort of evil personality, not
infrequently exercising a dire influence over the lives of those who

chanced to fall under their spells. It was as if the money were accursed,
for certainly the seekers often came to evil. Of such a character was the
Varona treasure. Don Esteban himself was neither better nor worse than
other men of his time, and although part of the money he hid was
wrung from the toil of slaves and the traffic in their bodies, much of it
was clean enough, and in time the earth purified it all. Since his acts
made so deep an impress, and since the treasure he left played so big a
part in the destinies of those who came after him, it is well that some
account of these matters should be given.
The story, please remember, is an old one; it has been often told, and in
the telling and retelling it is but natural that a certain glamour, a certain
tropical extravagance, should attach to it, therefore you should make
allowance for some exaggeration, some accretions due to the lapse of
time. In the main, however, it is well authenticated and runs parallel to
fact.
Dona Rosa Varona lived barely long enough to learn that she had given
birth to twins. Don Esteban, whom people knew as a grim man, took
the blow of his sudden bereavement as became one of his strong fiber.
Leaving the priest upon his knees and the doctor busied with the babies,
he strode through the house and out into the sunset, followed by the
wails of the slave women. From the negro quarters came the sound of
other and even louder lamentations, for Dona Rosa had been well loved
and the news of her passing had spread quickly.
Don Esteban was at heart a selfish man, and now, therefore, he felt a
sullen, fierce resentment mingled with his grief. What trick was this?
he asked himself. What had he done to merit such misfortune? Had he
not made rich gifts to the Church? Had he not gone on foot to the
shrine of Our Lady of Montserrate with a splendid votive offering--a
pair of eardrops, a necklace, and a crucifix, all of diamonds that
quivered in the sunlight like drops of purest water? Had he not knelt
and prayed for his wife's safe delivery and then hung his gifts upon the
sacred image, as Loyola had hung up his weapons before that other
counterpart of Our Lady? Don Esteban scowled at the memory, for
those gems were of the finest, and certainly of a value sufficient to

recompense the Virgin for any ordinary miracle. They were worth five
thousand pesos at least, he told himself; they represented the price of
five slaves--five of his finest girls, schooled in housekeeping and of an
age suitable for breeding. An extravagance, truly! Don Esteban knew
the value of money as well as anybody, and he swore now that he
would give no more to the Church.
He looked up from his unhappy musings to find a gigantic, barefooted
negro standing before him. The slave was middle-aged; his kinky hair
was growing gray; but he was of superb proportions, and the muscles
which showed through the rents in his cotton garments were as smooth
and supple as those of a stripling. His black face was puckered with
grief, as he began:
"Master, is it true that