had not expected to see was the hand extended with the piece of silver.
There was more than mere politeness in his smile. It was evident he
meant well. None the less, I was of the West, where, in common opinion,
Spaniards are rated with the "varmints." I took the coin and dropped it
into the mire. He stared at me, astonished.

"Your pardon, senor," I said, "I am not a _Spanish_ gentleman."

The shot hit, as I could see by the quick change in the nature of his
smile.

"It is I who should ask pardon," he replied with the haughtiness of your
true Spanish hidalgo. "Yet the senor will admit that his appearance--to
a foreigner--"

"Few riders wear frills on the long road from Pittsburgh," I replied.

He bowed grandly and withdrew his head into the coach's dark interior. I
was about to turn around, when I heard a liquid murmuring of Spanish in
a lady's voice, followed by a protest from the don: "_Nada_, Alisanda!
There is no need. He is but an Anglo-American."

The voice riveted my gaze to the coach window in eager anticipation. Nor
was I disappointed. In a moment the cherry-wood of the opening framed a
face which caused me to snatch the coonskin cap from my wigless yellow
curls.

After four years of social life among the Spanish and French of St.
Louis and New Orleans, I had thought myself well versed in all the
possibilities of Latin beauty. The Senorita Alisanda was to all those
creole belles as a queen to kitchen maids. Eyes of velvety black, full
of pride and fire and languor; silky hair, not of the hard, glossy hue
of the raven's wing, but soft and warming to chestnut where the sun
shone through a straying lock; face oval and of that clear, warm pallor
unknown to women of Northern blood; a straight nose with well-opened,
sensitive nostrils; a scarlet-lipped mouth, whose kiss would have
thrilled a dying man. But he is a fool who seeks to set down beauty in a
catalogue. It was not at her eyes or hair or face that I gazed; it was
at her, at the radiant spirit which shone out through that lovely mask
of flesh.

She met my gaze with a directness which showed English training, as did
also the slightness of her accent. Her manner was most gracious, without
a trace of condescension, yet with an underlying note of haughtiness,
forgotten in the liquid melody of her voice.

"Senor, I trust that you will pardon the error of my kinsman,--my
uncle,--and that you will accept our thanks for the service."

"I am repaid,--a