Spain was old, tired, and bankrupt, with nothing to offer but a corrupt and neglectful governance. The new United States encroaching on their borders were even worse, just too common, venal, grasping, and backwoods crude! Without a powerful protector, they would be swamped in buckskin, awash in the vile juices of "chaw-baccy"! Non, only a rising of their own- and a remonstrance of their fait accompli to the Republican Directory in Paris could save them. Everyone was so sure of that, but so few really ever did anything about it, other than talk and talk in the cabarets! Only Hippolyte and Helio seemed capable of action, and he'd gladly become a part of their scheme. For the future, for…!

Bewitching Charite's costly Parisian scent lingered on Rubio's shirt collar, and he took a cautious sniff, even as he stood to watch the launch from the prize ship finally be rowed over to the schooner; feet wide-spread to balance, spring-kneed to ride the pitching of the deck as masterfully as he rode the most spirited stallion, with hands in the small of his back in unconscious imitation of their hired man, the daunting, dashing Capt. Lanxade. Chin up and alert, firm-jawed in spite of the swooping jerks and snubs, he would be dizzy and sick if he let himself. He would not be sick… he would be dashing.

Though Maman was delighted that her son had entree with a family as distinguished and rich as the de Guilleris, one even richer and of longer habitation than her own, though he was coyly urged to lay suit to one of the older sisters, Iphegenie or Marguerite… though he was sure that either would be a pleasingly suitable and presentable match, and either would be amenable, yet… there was Charite, that coquette!

Oh, if only he could tell her what agony, and what ecstacy, her too-brief caress and kiss could cause him! How like the Golden Fleece he thought her long chestnut hair, how lambent he deemed her turquoise eyes, how generous her lips and mouth, how bountiful her breasts!