"Dthose air yust the zame mountains I look on from my home in Peru; it ees von chain from Tierra del Fuego to Mexico," and a look of welcome comes into the handsome face. "It ees four years since I zee dthose Cordilleras. I am glad I am near dthem vonce more. Ah!" he exclaims, as we break through the close circle of the mountains, and, coming out on a wide plateau, a shining sheet of water bursts on our delighted vision. "Lake Amatitlan!"

The world up here is wild and silent; one feels a breathless sense of discovery and is vaguely glad there is no trace of man. No canoe rises the waves save the grey feather-boat of the wild duck, and the majestic circling hawk is the only fisherman.

"It was like this when Cortes saw it!" I say.

"It was like this when God made it!" says Mrs. Steele, under her breath.

The train stops by the lake and we gather wild Lantana and many a new flower during the few minutes' stay. I rush into a thicket after a red lily, and come out a mass of thorns and Spanish needles. When the train starts Mrs. Steele is tired, and goes inside to rest, but the Baron and I still stay on the platform. He sits on the top step and laboriously picks the needles off my dress.

"You zee dthat smoke, Blanca? Dthat ees a volcano."

"Oh, how delightful! but there's no fire!"

"No, not at present!"

"It's very disappointing," I say, "and the geography pictures are all wrong. They show a great burst of smoke and flame, and huge rocks shooting up out of the crater. I supposed a volcano was a sort of perpetual 'Fourth of July.'"

"Fourdth of Yuly! how mean you?"

"Oh, fireworks and explosions! but that little white funnel of steam—well, it's a disappointment!"

"You vill zee dthree volcano near Guatemala; dthey air dthe 'spirits' of dthe place—call in Eenglish 'Air,' 'Fire' and 'Vater.' Zee on dthis leedle coin dthey haf all dthree mountains on dthe back."

"Why, what's the matter with your hands?" I say, taking the coin.

"All dthose burrs on your dress make bleed," he says, looking a bit ruefully at his finger-tips, sore and red, and one stained a little where some obstinate briar or needle has drawn the blood.

"Oh! what a shame!" I take the shapely hand in mine and look compassionately at the hurt fingers.

"I feel it not, Blanca, vhen you hold it so!"

I drop the hand, instinctively steeling myself against all show of sympathy with this boyish sentimentalism.

"It should teach you a lesson. You take too much care of your hands; they are whiter and softer than most women's—such hands are good for nothing."

"I vill show you you can be meestake." His face is quite changed, and there's something dimly threatening in the deep eyes.

"When will you show me?" I say, affecting a carelessness I do not quite feel.

"Perhaps in Guatemala." I leave that side of the platform and lean out over the other. "Come back, Blanca; it ees not zafe!"

His tone is entirely too dictatorial. I close my hand firmly round the iron rail and lean out further still. At that instant, as ill-luck would have it, the train encounters some obstruction on the track, something is struck, and there is a jolt and concussion. Before I have time to recover myself I feel my hand wrested from the iron, and a powerful arm is closed around me, but instead of being drawn back, I am held out in the very position I myself had taken. Bewildered and frightened, I give one scream "on account" and turn my head with an endeavour to grasp the horrible situation. The Peruvian is holding to the rail with one hand and has me grasped under one arm as an inconsiderate child holds a kitten.

"Let me go!"

"I ask you before dthat you lean not out—but if you vill, I must zee dthat you fall not."

"I tell you I'll come back, let me go!" and I glance out shudderingly. We have passed over the obstruction, whatever it was, and are running along the side of a steep descent.

"I am sorry you dthink my hands zo weak, for if dthey fail ve bodth go down."

"Oh, please, please!" I gasp.

"Now ve come to a baranca. I am curious to zee vill you like a 'baranca.'"

The wretch speaks as calmly as if we sat in a Pullman car. Through all my fright and indignation I wonder what on earth's a "baranca"—and forget to scream.

"Now, Senorita, if I hold you not zo far out as you like, tell me."

I look down, and under my very eyes the solid ground ends, my horrified vision drops hundreds of feet to the bottom of a mighty gash in Cordilleras' flank, and for one sick instant I shut my eyes.

"How like you a baranca?"

Is it the wind jeering after me as I drop down, down, down? With a supreme effort I turn to see if that face is behind me, and behold! the Peruvian calmly meets my eyes with actually a smile on his lips. He is still holding me jauntily over the platform steps, and it was only my giddy fancy that fell so far.

We have passed the gorge, and, looking back, I see the "narrow-gauge" track lying across the chasm like a herring-bone over a hole.

"Ve haf more barancas if you like dthem."

"Oh, Guillermo," I say, "please let me go in!"

"Not for my sake! I can hold you here von hour vidth dthese 'gude-for-nodthing' hands."

"Oh, I don't doubt it; you're the strongest man I ever knew, but I don't like barancas. Please, please, Guillermo!"

He draws me back on the platform, and without asking my pardon or looking the least bit penitent, he opens the door for me to go inside.

Mrs. Steele looks away from her window as we take our former seats.

"How deliciously cool it's grown," she says. "What makes you so white, Blanche?"

"Vas it not for dthat she ees call Blanca?"

"What is it, child? Are you faint?"

"Yes, a little," I answer, wondering whether I had better tell how that Peruvian monster has been behaving.

"That's strange! It's quite unlike you to be faint. Baron, will you mix a little of this brandy with some water? That will make her feel better."

Again he takes out his traveller's cup of silver. Calling the negro conductor, he tells him to bring some "agua."

"He's afraid to leave us," I think indignantly; "he doesn't want me to tell Mrs. Steele."

"Did you notice that great cleft in the mountain we went over?" asks the latter, fanning me gently.

"Yes, dthat ees call 'baranca.' Senorita seem not to like it."

"Neither would Mrs. Steele if she had——"

"She nefer vould! Madame Steele ees a too vise voman. Vhat you dthink, Madame? Senorita inseest to lean out far ofer dthose steps; I beg her not, but——" he ends with a modest gesture of incompetence.

"And you," I begin, with a sudden determination to unmask his villainy, "you rushed over and——"

"And hold you zo dthat you fall not. Madame Steele, desairve I not dthanks?"

"Ah! yes, Baron. You are certainly very kind and watchful; but, Blanche, if you don't care for yourself, you ought to consider other people. It's a terrible responsibility to travel with such a foolhardy person. I can't say I'm sorry if you've been a little frightened. Take the brandy, dear."

My good friend is never severe long. The Baron holds the silver cup to my lips, and I shut out the sight of him—with closed eyes I drink the mixture obediently.

I lean my head against the window, and the voices of my friend and the Baron grow less and less distinct. The next thing I know Mrs. Steele is saying, "Is that Guatemala?" I rouse myself and look out. A white city on a wide plateau. Is this the "Paris of Central America," with its 70,000 inhabitants? Mrs. Steele is met in the depot by some friends, Californians, who live here part of the year. We promise to dine with them, and the Baron comes back from his search for a carriage, saying one will be here presently.

"Vhile Madame Steele talks vidth her friends, vill you come zee dthe Trocadero, vhere dthey haf bull-fights?"

"No, thank you."

"Oh, I dthought you vould like."

"Where is it?"

"Yust ofer dthere, dthree steps—dthat round house."

"I'd better see it perhaps while I have time," I think, and I walk towards the circular building indicated. Baron de Bach keeps at my side. He tries the door—shakes it—but it is evidently locked; he leans down and looks through the keyhole.

"Oh, you can zee qvite vell dthrough here."

I put my eye to the little opening and can dimly descry an open arena with seats in tiers opposite.

"Dthey zay dthey haf a bull-fight Dthursday"—the Baron is reading the Spanish bill posted at the door. "Ve had better stay and let you zee."

"There's the carriage!" I exclaim, and we hurry back, take leave of Mrs. Steele's friends and drive over roughly cobbled streets to the Gran Hotel. Our rooms are secured to us in three languages by the Baron; he scolds the proprietor for delays in German, conciliates the wife in French, and gives orders to the servant of this polyglot establishment in Spanish. Finally we are stowed in rooms opening on the wide veranda that encloses the patio. A hasty toilet and we meet the Baron in the vestibule downstairs. We wander about the crooked streets from shop to shop, getting at a jeweller's some ancient coins, unalloyed gold and silver rudely stamped and cut out in irregular shapes, the only currency when Central America was a Spanish province. We are longest in the great market, buying curious pottery from the Indians—calabash cups, brilliant serapes of native weaving and lovely silk rebosas. We order a variety of fans—one kind is of braided palm with clumsy handle ending in a rude brush. An Indian girl shows me how the fan is used to make the fire burn more brightly, and the brush to sweep the hearth. From market into the main Plaza, and then to the cool shelter of the Cathedral, brings our short afternoon to an end; we must hurry back to our dinner appointment. The Baron grumbles vigorously when he discovers he was included in the invitation, and that Mrs. Steele promised to bring him.

"Really, he hasn't seemed like himself all this afternoon," says Mrs. Steele, when we are once more in our rooms, which conveniently adjoin.

"No, he can be conspicuously disagreeable when he likes." I have in mind the "baranca" episode.

"What do you suppose makes him so absent-minded and constrained, Blanche?"

"Simple perversity, very likely." I stand in the communicating doorway, brushing a jacket. I am conscious that Mrs. Steele pauses in her toilet and looks keenly in my direction.

"I still like the Baron extremely, but I'm glad to see you are not so unsophisticated or so unpractical as to be captivated by a pair of fine eyes and a melodious voice. I was once uncomplimentary enough to be afraid of the effect of such close intercourse for both of you. You two are cut out to make each other happy for a few weeks, and miserable for a lifetime. You should both be thankful that your acquaintance is to be counted by pleasant days and ended before the regretful years begin."

"Really, I don't know what put all that in your head!"

"Observation, my dear! In spite of the velvet cloak of courtesy, our Peruvian is a born tyrant, and you—forgive me—but you know you're the very child of caprice. I am most thankful, however, that you are not impressionable. Otherwise this experience might leave a bitter taste in your mouth."

"You seem content with my escape. You don't feel any concern that the Baron may lack the valuable qualities you think are my safeguard? Suppose, just for argument's sake, he should say I had——?"

"Broken his heart? Ah, my dear, he has probably said that to a dozen. It's a tough article, the masculine heart, and the kind of women who strain it most are——"

"Bewildering beauties, such as you were at twenty! And I may rest in my defects with an easy conscience. Thank you!"

"That was not what I was going to say."

In my heart I knew it was what she was thinking.



CHAPTER VII



THE INCA EYE

Mr. and Mrs. Dalton give us a beautiful Spanish-French dinner in a private room of the Gran Hotel where they live. Mrs. Dalton is palpably delighted with the Baron de Bach. He is unusually reserved, but gravity sits well on him, and, as I see him crossing swords with this clever woman of the world, I find my admiration growing. He seems not to see me all through dinner, and, like the stupid young person I am, I fall to regretting that by the side of our brilliant, travelled hostess I must seem provincial and dull. I am not sorry when, shortly after dinner, Mrs. Steele, regretting we have to leave so early the following day, remembers a friend she must see that night, and we take our leave.

"Senorita look fery tire—she better stay in dthe hotel. I vill escort you, Madame, vidth plaisir."

We stop a moment on the stairs.

"Oh, no! I especially want Blanche to see the interior of a handsome native house. You're not too tired, are you, dear?"

"No," I say, "I'll go."

"She vould zay dthat if she die. You stay here, Senorita; Madame Steele be not long."

The idea flits across my mind he has some reason of his own for not wanting me to go; but I've no notion of being left alone.

"No, I'll go with you, Mrs. Steele."

"After I escort Madame, I go to dthe photographic gallery; I buy you all dthose pictures ve haf not time to get dthis afternoon. I send dthem to your room; you vill not be lonely."

"Oh, why can't we all go to the gallery? I do so want a collection of views. I want nothing else so much!" I plead.

It ends by our driving to Casa 47, in a wide street opposite the public gardens. The Baron dismisses the coachman, telling him to come back in a couple of hours, and I drop the iron knocker on the massive door. A native servant draws the bolts, and our interpreter asks for "Senora Baldwin." We follow the picturesque little maid through a tiled vestibule into a starlight patio. The usual ground veranda encloses this fragrant court, the various rooms opening on it.

We are ushered into one brilliantly lit and luxuriously furnished, and the hostess and her sister make us welcome. The French consul is there with his secretary, and the conversation is mostly in their tongue. Mrs. Baldwin shows us an album of enchanting views of Guatemala and the abandoned city of Antigua, so beautifully situated and so earthquake-cursed.

"More than ever," says Mrs. Steele, "I regret we did not omit something else, and take time to get photographs."

"It's not too late," our hostess says.

"Oh, no," the Baron interposes. "I go now to get dthem. I vas dthinking if Madame vould like Senorita to choose them."

"No; Blanche does seem a little tired. I couldn't let her go. I think we must trust your taste, Baron; I can hardly spare the time and strength for any more exploring tonight."

"No, indeed, you mustn't go," says Mrs. Baldwin. "I've some wonderful antiquities from a buried Aztec city to show you. When you finish those views"—she glances at me—"you'll find us in the next room. I won't say good-bye to you, Baron; of course, you'll be back. Come, Mrs. Steele"—and they go into an adjoining room.

"If you air not too tire, Senorita, you better come to dthe gallery and choose dthe pictures. Dthe Consul say it ees near here."

"Oh, really? Yes, I'll go; I know just the ones Mrs. Steele wants. You will tell her where we've gone, won't you?—we won't be long," I say to Mrs. Baldwin's young sister, who is chattering French to the consul.

"Yes," she answers. "It's my opinion you won't find the gallery open so late as this; but, of course, you can try."

"Oh, I hope it won't be shut. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

The small servant nodding on the veranda takes us past the palm-shaded patio, and through the dark vestibule.

"Gracias!" I say to the dusky little servitor as the huge door opens.

"Si! Si! Dthousand thanks," mutters the Baron as the bolts fall behind us, and we are out in the moonlit street. He draws my hand through his arm.

"What makes your heart beat so?" I say.

"Come on the right side;" he changes me quickly to the other arm, and I laugh at my acuteness, little dreaming what the Baron's well-disguised excitement foreboded. We turn down a narrow, ill-lighted street.

"What a lovely night! It makes one feel strangely, doesn't it, to be out after dark in a foreign city that no one you know has ever visited, and that seemed in geography days as far off as the moon?" I get no answer to my small observations, and we walk on. "The gallery isn't as near as I thought."

"It ees not far, Blanca; you air fery lofely in dthe moonlight."

"I'm glad to know what is required to make me lovely."

"You air alvays 'wonderschoen' to me—but you look too clevair zometimes in dthe day. In dthis moonlight you look so gentle—like a leedle child. Blanca, zay again you loaf me."

He holds my hand close and bends down until I feel his hot breath on my cheek.

"I can't say again what I never said once."

I begin to walk faster.

"Ve air not abord du San Miguel; no von see, no von hear. I know in my heart you loaf me; tell me so vonce! Blanca!" The music and entreaty in the deep voice thrill me strangely. "Oh, Blanca darling, keess me!" My puny resistance is nothing to those athlete's arms; he holds me close one instant and I, breathless, struggle to free my hands, and push his hot cheek away from mine.

"How dare you; you are no gentleman!"

"No, I am a loaver, Blanca, not von cold Nordthern zhentleman, who haf so leedle heart it can be hush, and zo dthin, poor blood it nefer rush fire at a voman's touch. Blanca, I haf been still for days, vaiting for dthis hour. I loaf you, darling, till all my life is nodthing but von longing—I loaf you till I haf no conscience, no religion but my loaf. No, you shall not spik now! Blanca, you must marry me, here in Guatemala. You and I go not back to San Miguel unless you air my vife."

"Baron!"

"Hush! Spik not so loud, and if you vill not make me mad call me not Baron."

An awful sense of loneliness chokes me. The streets of that buried Aztec city are not more silent than this one in Guatemala.

"Guillermo, listen! I have no friend here but you; you must take me back to Mrs. Steele. Come!"

"How vell you know men! But not me, Blanca—not a Peruvian. I know it ees better for you, as vell as for myself, dthat you marry me. You haf nefer been so gentle and so gude as since I hold you near dthat baranca. But you did not like it! You loaf me, but you air like a vild deer; you air so easy startle, and so hard to hold. But I vill be zo gude to Blanca, I vill make her glad I vas so strong not to let her haf her own way. If you keess me and zay before God you marry me, I take you back to Casa 47—if not, Madame Steele go alone to San Miguel."



"Baron de Bach, you're talking crazy nonsense. You don't frighten me, but you do disgust me. You think to get some Peruvian amusement out of frightening a woman; well, you had better go to a bull-fight. I detest you! Let me go or I'll cry out!"

He puts one hand over my mouth and holds me as in a vise.

"Dthank you, Blanca! You gif me courage. I haf tell you how a Peruvian loaf; I vill tell you how he plan. In dthe bay off Panama ees my yacht. I vill keep you in Guatemala vhile I send for her, and dthen ve go to Peru, to Ceylon—anyvhere you like but America. I write Madame Steele you air my vife, and she vill soon zee ve air not to be find; she vill go back to New York. It ees no use dthat you cry out, no von hear, or if von do, you spik no Spanish, and I haf my pistol if any interfere. I tell you so much dthat you make no meestake. Ve air not far from dthe house of two old friends of me. Dthey vill take care off you, till my yacht come; you need not fear me, Senorita." He loosens his grasp for an instant, and the dark street seems to whirl. I would have fallen if he had not caught me. I hear, as one dreaming, the caressing words of Spanish—I scarcely feel the hot kisses.

"I'm all alone," I think, looking down the silent street to a far-off lamp, and then up to the brilliant sky, but even that seems strange, for instead of my old friends in heaven, the Southern Cross shines cold and far above me.

"Guillermo," I say, steadying myself against his arm, "you would make a terrible mistake. You don't understand Northern women. You say you love me, and in the next breath you plan to ruin my whole life. I would make you more misery than ever a man endured, and I should hate you bitterly and without end."

"It ees no use dthat you zay such dthings."

"Guillermo, don't let your love be such a curse to me."

"A curse——"

"Yes. If any other man had roughly treated me, had abused my confidence, and, finding me defenceless, had forgotten what all brave men owe to women—what would you do to such a man?"

The Peruvian puts his hand before his eyes.

"I listen not to anydthing you zay."

"Yes, you will. You know you would half kill the man who would strike a woman. Some half-mad man has done worse than strike me, Guillermo, and his name is Guillermo de Bach. You are so strong, and you say you love me; will you take my part against this man?"

The moon comes out of a cloud, and shows me a white face above my own, drawn tense with emotion. "It ees all settle, Blanca; I go not back."

"Oh, God! what shall I do! What kind of man are you? You complain that my countrymen are cold and deliberate; do you know why we love them? They know how to keep faith, but you not twenty-four hours."

"Vhat mean you?" His voice is husky and sounds strange.

"You promised in the San Miguel this morning, if we trusted you enough to come with you to Guatemala, you would see that the San Miguel did not sail without us. Guillermo!"—with an inspiration I draw the white face down to mine—"forgive me for doubting you; you will keep your word," and I kiss him between the pain-contracted brows.

"Oh, Blanca, Blanca, you vill kill me!"

Is it a tear that drops on my face? I put my arm in his and draw him up the dark street, whispering some incoherent prayer.

"Blanca, I cannot! I am not a man dthat I gif you up!"

We have turned into the broad avenue and an occasional pedestrian passes by. The Baron seems to see nothing.

"You are not a man when you break your word. Come, Guillermo!"

We are back at last before the great door; I lift a hand trembling with excitement to raise the iron knocker. The Baron stops me.

"I am von fool, Blanca! Like your countrymen, I let you rule. But vhen you forget all else off me, remembair you haf find von Peruvian who loaf you so he let you ruin hees life—you vill nefer see anodther such Peruvian madman. If I haf trouble you, I haf not spare myself, keess me gude-night, Blanca ... and good-bye."

A moment later the great knocker had fallen.

Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Baldwin are waiting for us in the star-lit patio. My friend is evidently displeased at my having gone out without consulting her. I feel with sharp self-condemnation that in agreeing to go I was not only rash, but seemed even worse; it looked as if I had courted a tete-a-tete alone at night with the Baron. Ah, why can't we see things in the present as we shall be obliged to see them when the time is past and the mistake beyond recall!

"Well, I suppose you've ordered an album full of views," says Mrs. Baldwin, pleasantly trying to cover up the awkwardness of our return.

"No," I answer, taken unawares, for by this time I have quite forgotten the object of my errand. "We found the gallery farther away than I expected, and——"

"Vhen ve get dthere it vas close," says the Baron in a calm, well-controlled voice. The carriage is announced, and we bid Mrs. Baldwin good-bye. The drive home is very quiet, and we say good-night to the Baron in the vestibule.

Mrs. Steele oddly enough asks me no questions, and I know her disapproval must be strong. I think little about that, however—I am going over and over that sharp conflict in the dim, deserted street. Did it really happen or did I dream it! This is the nineteenth century and I am a plain American girl to whom nothing remarkable ever happened before, and yet it was true! How was I to blame for it—what will the Baron do—how long will he remember? My last waking sensation is a weary surprise to find my pillow wet with tears.

Mrs. Steele rouses me the next morning, holding an open letter in her hand:

"Blanche! Blanche! Wake up! We've overslept and lost our train. Here's a note the Baron's just sent up. The servant has neglected to call him as well, and he thinks we could not by any exertion catch the train we intended. He has ascertained that a 'special' leaving Guatemala two hours after regular train time will reach San Jose an hour at least before the steamer can possibly sail. He has engaged this 'special' and will see us safely on board at ten o'clock. He begs I will excuse his absence at breakfast, as he has already been served, and remains with assurances of his profound regard, my obedient servant, Federico Guillermo de Bach! So there's no time to be lost!"

My friend returns to her room to dress; I sit bolt upright in bed staring straight before me at the great shaft of yellow sunlight that lies across the floor. "You and I go not back to San Miguel unless you air my vife." Was it a curious dream or had he said those words?

"Are you hurrying, Blanche?" calls Mrs. Steele. "It won't do to miss our last train unless you've decided you would like to stay in Guatemala."

I fly out of bed and begin to rush into my clothes. Mrs. Steele's voice has a touch of sarcasm in it that reminds me she may still be dissatisfied and suspicious about last night. "She mustn't think there's been any scene," I admonish myself; "she would say it was entirely my fault, and she will lose all confidence in me. No! Mrs. Steele must never know!"

As we enter the breakfast room an officious waiter bows and scrapes, and seats us at a table giving full view of the sunny patio. We have a quiet breakfast, boasting neither special cheer nor appetite, and it is soon finished. We are beginning to wonder how we shall manage to find our train if the Baron does not come for us, when the doorway is darkened and a shadow falls across the table.

Without looking up, I am sure it is he.

"Gude-morning, Madame Steele. Gude-morning, Senorita. I hope you haf slept well?"

"Good-morning," I say, observing how white and heavy-eyed he looks in the sunlight.

"Yes, thank you, we've slept well," says Mrs. Steele, "too well, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no, belief me, dthis extra train ees better."

"You look ill, Baron; how did you sleep?"

"Dthank you, I sleep not at all till yust dthe time to rise—dtherefore am I late. If your dthings air ready ve vill start at once." He sends a servant upstairs after our various purchases and wraps, etc., and we find them all stowed in the carriage waiting at the entrance, when we come down a few minutes later. The Baron stands by the landau, waiting to help us in. On our drive to the station he points out this and that bit of interest, quite in his usual way.

"You zee dthat, Madame?" He points to a circular roof supported on stone pillars sheltering water-tanks and primitive laundry essentials "Dthat ees a 'pila,' a place vhere dthe vomans vash dthe garments." It is surrounded by buxom young girls with dripping linen in their hands which they seemed to be beating on stone slabs. "Dthat tree dthat grow beside ees palma cristi."

"Why, it's only what we call the castor-bean, only this is larger," I venture to say.

"Of course, my dear! 'A palma cristi by the pila' is the Baron's way of saying a castor-oil bean by the wash-house."

My laugh is a little forced, I'm afraid, and the Baron seems not to have heard.

"What is growing inside that fence?" I ask, with a stern determination to keep up appearances.

"A kind off cactus," says the Baron, "vhat cochineal bugs lif on—dthey—how you say it?—'raise' much cochineal bugs in Guatemala."

* * * * *

The three volcanoes loom up mightily. The smoke is denser and darker to-day, the "spirits" of Air, Fire and Water look down with menacing aspect on the white city in the plain.

"You must notice after you leaf Acajulta dthe volcano 'Yzalco'; it ees acteef, as you say; it ees all fire by dthe dark of dthe night. And in dthose bay off La Libertad and Puenta Arenas you must look at dthose devil-feesh—ach schrecklich; dthey haf terrible great vings vhat dthey wrap around vhat dthey eat."

"You speak almost as if you would not be there to point them out on the spot," says Mrs. Steele, smiling as we pass the Trocadero and draw up at the station.

"Qvite right! I am advise by a friend to stay and zee dthe Dthursday bull-fight—I dthink I must."

He helps us out of the carriage without noticing my unspoken amazement or Mrs. Steele's incredulous, "What nonsense."

"I vill put you in dthe train and then come back to zee your dthings come." He leads the way to the "special" standing with snorting engine on the furthest track. He seats us and is gone again. A servant brings in our effects and the Baron follows.

"Madame," he says, dropping into the seat behind Mrs. Steele, "I haf arrange to haf dthis man zee you to the ship—he spik leedle English and I am told gude off him as sairvant. I haf give him all direction—he vill take gude care off you and you vill reach San Miguel in gude time, as I promeese."

"But when are you coming?" I say.

"I come not back to San Miguel." He speaks to Mrs. Steele and does not meet my look. "I haf telegraph to Panama for my yacht. I vill vait here till she come."

"But I don't understand, Baron; this is very sudden, isn't it?" Mrs. Steele looks greatly astonished.

"Not so fery! Dthis train go soon; I must zay gude-bye. Here ees dthe leedle carve spoon from Escuintla you zay you like. I haf had much plaisir to know you, Madame. Gude-bye!" He holds out his shapely white hand and Mrs. Steele takes it warmly.

"Indeed, Baron, I'm quite breathless with surprise, and really very sorry to lose you. Blanche and I will miss you sorely. If you ever come to New York you know where to find me and a warm welcome. Our kindest thoughts will follow you. Thank you for the spoon, although at any other time I might hesitate to become the receiver of stolen goods. Good-bye!"

"Gude-bye, Madame—gude-bye, Senorita." He holds my hand the briefest moment, and I feel a big lump come in my throat at the sight of his face. My voice wavers a little as I say:

"I am so sorry to say good-bye to you."

"Dthank you, Senorita. I haf somedthing off yours I must not forget." He puts a hand in his breast pocket and brings out the gold-crested letter-book. He takes from it a tiny roll of cigarette paper. "Vidth all my boast I haf not succeed to 'keep my pearl'; it ees yours, Senorita."

"No, Baron——" I begin, with warm protest.

"If you vant me to haf it, Senorita, write me and I vill come from dthe end of dthe vorld to get it. But you vill not, zo put dthis Inca eye beside it. Dthey zay in my country it bring gude luck. But it look like dthat sun ve haf ofer our heads in Acapulco Bay, dthink you not zo, Madame?"

He shows her the curious jewel, like opaque amber sprinkled with gold dust.

"It is very curious and interesting," says Mrs. Steele.

"Indeed it is," I agree; "thank you very much." But I scarcely see the Inca eye; I am looking into his and trying to read his face.

"Zo, Senorita, dthough you go far nordthvard dthe Inca's eye from Peru ees still upon you; I haf send him to take care off ... dthe pearl. Gude-bye—Gude-bye, Madame!"

The tall figure turns away, and in a moment is gone.

"Why, Blanche, what is the matter?" Mrs. Steele's voice is sharp with concern. I try to smile and instinctively my hand goes to my tightened throat. "My poor child, do you care?"

"How absurd!" I say, with what scorn I can command. "Care about what, anyhow?"

"Senorita!" The handsome face of the Peruvian looks in at an open window near the far end of the car. A bell rings, the conductor shouts some warning in Spanish. In the din I run to the window and the Baron holds up a bunch of roses. "Dthink dthe best you can of me, Blanca; I vill loaf you all my life."

The look of suffering in the wonderful dark eyes brings the lump again to my throat. I take the roses and I know my eyes are misty.

"Thank you, Guillermo; it won't be hard to think good things of you...."

I feel a warning hand on my shoulder. It is Mrs. Steele, and the touch recalls all my resolutions.

"I shall always remember.... Good-bye!"

The train moves off, the Baron steps back with that same look in his face, and lifts his hat. His courtesy shows at the last some flaw, for, although Mrs. Steele is there, his lips and eyes say only:

"Gude-bye, Blanca!"

THE END