But there
is much of it, more than even I know or can tell you. Well, my
father lately has been acting very queerly. There is a group who
meet frequently at the home of a Senora Mendez--an insurrecto
group, of course. I do not go, for they are all much older people
than I. I know the senora well, but I prefer a different kind of
person. My friends are younger and perhaps more radical, more in
earnest about the future of Vespuccia.
"For some weeks it has seemed to me that this Senora Mendez has
had too much influence over my father. He does not seem like the
same man he used to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do not
frequent the house of the senora have remarked it. He seems
moody, works by starts, then will neglect his work entirely.
Often I see him with his eyes closed, apparently sitting quietly,
oblivious to the progress of the cause--the only cause now which
can restore us our estate.
"The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms--the Secret
Service captured them on the way from the warehouse on South
Street to the steamer which was to take them to New Orleans. Only
once before had it happened, when my father did not understand
all the things to conceal. Then he was frantic for a week. But
this time he seems not to care. Ah, senores," she said, dropping
her voice, "I fear there was some treachery there.
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