"Are all Cubans animated by your spirit?" asked Ridge, whose soul
revolted at this calm discussion of what seemed to him cold-blooded
murder.

"All who have suffered what I have are, or should be, filled with my
longing for vengeance," answered del Concha. "Listen. The ruined
plantation we have just left was my home. There I was born. There in
the care of a loving father and a devoted mother, in company with a
brother who was older than I, and a younger sister, I grew up. In
spite of cruel taxation, we were wealthy; in spite of unrighteous laws,
we were happy. Finally Spain's oppression of Cuba became unbearable,
and the war to throw it off was begun. My father refused to take part
in the rebellion, but my brother joined the insurgents and was killed
in battle. I took his place; and, because his sons aided the
insurrection, my noble father, still loyal to Spain, was seized by the
Spaniards and thrown into prison. Two days later, without trial or
previous warning, he was shot to death in the prison-yard.

"For giving bread to starving women and children whose husbands and
fathers fought in the Cuban army, my mother and sister were driven from
their home to the nearest city, where the former, always delicate,
died, literally of starvation, and from which my sister disappeared, so
that I do not know her fate. At that time, also, our house was
stripped by the soldiers of everything that could be carried away, and
then burned. It is for this record of crime that I determined to spare
no Spaniard who should come within my reach."

"I am afraid," said Ridge, slowly, with a clear vision of his own dear
home and its loved inmates in his mind, "that in your place I should