ible sand-hills! We labored in them like a snail. They
seemed to hang on the wheels, and to heap themselves in front of us;
but the increasing light came on wings and what exact moment in all
this long, gray and golden approach of the sun was to be considered
dawn? At last we were over the hilltop, and floundering down the other
side, the trees and gardens of houses overlooking the water front upon
my left-hand, upon the other, sand and sea. Straight below, running
out from the shore, was the little disused wharf. One or two Italian
fishing-boats rocked in its shadow, but no vessel was in sight.

Could it be that I was too late? I thought, in an agony of
uncertainty, as the carriage drew up at the pier. Thrusting my head
and as much of my body as possible out of the carriage window I looked
out the gray, winding channel toward the Heads. Not a sail in sight!
This was encouraging, for I knew, that even starting with the grayest
light, there would not have been time for the vessel to have vanished
out at sea. Through the other window Chestnut Street Hill, a great
rounding mass, rose bluffly out of the water, shouldering the city out
of sight. Near its base tall eucalyptus trees swayed against the blue
bay; and through their shifting leaves and branches I was able to make
out the masts and sails of the lugger lying close under the hill. It
was so well hidden that had I not been expecting to see it, I must
certainly have passed it over altogether, taking the masts for tree
boles, and the furled canvas for the light acacia bark.

I drew my cloak closer around my shoulders, pulled up the carriage
blinds on each side, allowing only a crack wide enough for me to look
through, and settled myself to the hard task of waiting, of being at
once patient and vigilant. There was not an instant when I dared relax
my watch, first at this window, now at that, for who could tell by
which way the Spanish Woman would approach--through the sand-hills,
driven up in her carriage, or, what was more probable, on foot over the
tree-guarded slopes of the hill. The blink of an eyelash might lose
her!

The dull gray light that had chilled shore and sea began to take on a
warmer glint. I knew the east was growing rosy. And still she did not
come. The fishing-boats began to go out, and at my back I heard the
first murmur of the city stirring out of sleep. Two of the fishermen,
Italians, stood on the wharf and stared at my carriage cu