Rose Orchid | Page 2

and ability to enforce it, he was utterly unable to
breathe in any other atmosphere than that of his cabin. As his pony
carried him forward, past the wonderful blue limestone cliffs and
innumerable rushing streams of the southern slope of the Sierra de
Luquillo, his mind was thirty miles away, on the decks of the Helena.
It dwelt on a score of petty details: the independence of Ensign
Brownell, the return of Quartermaster Moran, the disgraceful condition

of the pay storeroom at the last Sunday inspection. He considered these
matters at some length; he liked their flavor; and he earnestly desired to
deal out justice--according to the code.
At Caguas, where he stopped for a cooling drink and a few minutes'
rest, he was advised to postpone the continuance of his journey.
"It is dangerous, se–or," said the proprietor of the little shop. "See!"
He pointed to the northeast, where, above the top of the dim, blue range,
a black cloud was proceeding slowly westward, like a giant treading
ponderously from peak to peak.
"Well, what of it?"
"It means a storm, se–or; you will be drenched. And the trail over the
mountains--at night--"
But the lieutenant-commander stopped him with a gesture, mounted his
pony, and departed.
He was very nearly in the center of the range, within two miles of the
village of Rio, when the storm finally broke. It began with a mild
drizzle; and the lieutenant-commander dismounted long enough to
unstrap the rubber poncho from his saddle and put it on.
He had not proceeded a hundred yards farther when the rain began to
descend in torrents. At the same moment the fastapproaching darkness
came like a blanket over the narrow trail; and the traveler found himself
fighting blindly against whirling sheets of water and the impenetrable
blackness of a tropical night.
He soon gave up the attempt to guide his pony; it required all his
strength, bending over close against the animal's neck, to maintain his
seat. The roar of the wind and the descendin' torrents seemed terrific;
he was incapable of thought or movement.
Something brushed violently against his body, and he felt the pony

sway and stumble; then a jar, a feeling as though he was being hurled
violently through space....
The lieutenant-commander sat up, glanced round, and cursec long and
variously. He wanted to know where in the name of th' Seven
Seas--Then he remembered.
He started to rise to his feet, and suddenly became conscious of a sharp,
stinging pain in his left arm; and, trying to raise it, found that it hung
helpless at his side. With another oath he stood up and stamped
vigorously to assure himself of the seaworthiness of his legs, and gave
an involuntarily grunt of pain as the shock communicated itself to the
broken arm.
The storm was past.
Overhead the stars gleamed with the soft brilliance of the South. About
and above him the thick foliage waved its broad fingers mysteriously in
the gentle breeze, and through a rift to the left could be seen the
uncertain white outline of a limestone cliff. Toward this the
lieutenant-commander made his way, thinking to find the trail. The
pony was not to be seen.
For perhaps half an hour he searched for the trail, stumbling over roots
and fallen branches, occasionally brought to an abrupt stop by a growth
of shrubbery and vines too dense to penetrate.
At every step a shiver of pain ran through his body from the injured
arm, and his head felt faint and dizzy.
Suddenly he found himself in an open clearing, at the farther end of
which he saw a light shining from the window of a cottage. He
staggered to it painfully and hammered on the door
The door opened; the floor seemed to rise to meet him; and once more
all was darkness.
When he awoke it was to a feeling of the most delicious warmth and

weariness. For some minutes after he became conscious he kept his
eyes closed, merely through the lack of desire to open them. Suddenly
he heard a voice at his elbow The words were Spanish.
"No, beloved, he is still asleep."
Another voice, a man's, came from across the room
"But are you sure?"
"But yes Really there is no cause for worry. Except for the arm, there is
no injury."
"All right. Come here, Rita."
The lieutenant-commander opened his eyes. It was broad daylight;
evidently he had remained unconscious, or had slept, for many hours.
He noted a small bamboo table placed close by the couch on which he
lay, an American wicker rocking chair, a homemade palm screen; then
his gaze wandered across the room, where stood the owners of the
voices.
The girl was directly in front of the man, disclosing to