said it, Ruis smiled too.

"How do you know my name?" he inquired.

"We--my mother and I--we are your neighbors."

"Ah, Dona Fausta, in that case, I pray you make my duty to the lady your
mother, and beg of her a permission that I may do so myself."

Again she smiled. "To-morrow," she lisped, and whipped her horse.

Ruis raised his hat as before, and bowed.

"God be with you, Dona Fausta."

"And with you, Don Ruis."

The next morning he was on the red road again, but no maiden in
distress was discoverable that day. The sun chased him home, and as he
lounged through high noon in the cool of the veranda, he marvelled at
his earlier boredom. Later on he sent for one of the overseers and
questioned him minutely. Whatever information he may have gleaned, it
was presumably satisfactory. He watched the sun expire in throes of
crimson and gamboge, and night unloose her leash of stars. Then he took
horse again, and, aided by information received, in ten minutes he was
at Dona Fausta's door. It was a shabby door, he noticed, the portal of a
still shabbier abode, and even in the starlight he divined that if ever
wealth had passed that way, it had long since taken flight. The noise of
hoofs brought the girl to the porch.

"At your feet, Dona Fausta," he said, and raised his hat. "I am come to
offer my homage to the lady your mother, and to you, if I may."

"Who is it?" called a voice from within; and then, for ampler
satisfaction of the inquiry, a lean old woman, gray of hair, unkempt,
wrinkled, and bent, appeared in the doorway and fastened on Ruis two
glittering, inquisitorial eyes.

"The son of Don Jayme," the girl answered; "he wishes you well." With a
perfectly perceptible shrug the woman turned and disappeared.

"She has suffered much," the girl explained. "Don Ruis, you are
welcome."

Ruis dismounted and gave the horse a lash with his whip. "It will be
pleasant to walk back," he said, as the horse started. "Mariquita can
find her way home unguided." He smiled; he was pleased with himself: and
the girl smiled too. "Tell me," he added, "do you live here always?"

"Always, Don Ruis."

"Ah, you should come to Spain. You would love Madrid, and more than
Madrid would you love Grenada and Seville. Santiago is a little, a very
little, like Seville. You go there often, do you not?"

"But seldom, Don Ruis."

"To the fiestas, surely."

"To go to the fiestas one needs a brave gown, and I have none."

"I," said Ru