Frequenters of the Cafe des Refugies also would appear.

A small gate in the close garden-fence let them into a room behind the cafe proper, and by and by the apartment would be full of dark-visaged men conversing in the low, courteous tone common to their race.

The shutters of doors and windows were closed and the chinks stopped with cotton; some people are so jealous of observation.
On a certain night after one of these meetings had dispersed in its peculiar way, the members retiring two by two at intervals, Manuel Mazaro and M.D'Hemecourt were left alone, sitting close together in the dimly lighted room, the former speaking, the other, with no pleasant countenance, attending.

It seemed to the young Cuban a proper precaution--he was made of precautions--to speak in English.

His voice was barely audible.
"-- -- sayce to me, 'Manuel, she t-theeng I want-n to marry hore.' Senor, you shouth 'ave see' him laugh!" M.D'Hemecourt lifted up his head, and laid his hand upon the young man's arm.
"Manuel Mazaro," he began, "iv dad w'ad you say is nod"-- The Cuban interrupted.
"If is no' t-thrue you will keel Manuel Mazaro ?--a' r-r-right-a!" "No," said the tender old man, "no, bud h-I am positeef dad de Madjor will shood you." Mazaro nodded, and lifted one finger for attention.
"-- -- sayce to me, 'Manuel, you goin' tell-a Senor D'Hemecourt, I fin'-a you some nigh' an' cut-a you' heart ou'.