Dazzling sunshine flooded the belt of sand where the shadows of dusty palmettos quivered beyond the Moorish arch; the old presidio smelt like a brick-kiln and the heat outside was nearly intolerable.  In the middle of the dirty patio a fountain splashed in a broken marble basin, and it was dim, and by contrast cool, under the arcade where Kit sat among the crumbling pillars.  The presidio was a relic of Spanish dominion and its founders had built it well, copying, with such materials as they could get, stately models the Moors had left in the distant Peninsula.  A part had fallen and blocks of sun-baked mud lay about in piles, but the long, white front, with its battlemented top and narrow, barred windows stood firm.  In spite of the ruinous patio, the presidio was the finest building in the town.

The others, so far as Kit could see, were squares of mud, for the most part whitewashed, although some were colored pink and cream.  The glare they reflected was dazzling, but a row of limp palmettos ran between them and the space in front of the presidio, and here and there Kit noted rounded masses of vivid green.  Except for the splash of the fountain, all was very quiet, and although the shadows had lengthened it looked as if the half-breed citizens were still enjoying their afternoon sleep.  Now and then a barefooted sentry noiselessly passed the arch.  He wore a dirty white uniform and ragged palm-leaf hat, but carried a good modern rifle, and Kit knew where the latter had come from.  The country was rich with coffee, rubber, sugar, and dyewoods.  Its inhabitants, however, for the most part, preferred political intrigue to cultivation; its government was corrupt, and prosperity had vanished with the Spaniards’ firm rule.

A table carrying some very small glasses and coffee-cups stood in the arcade.  Don Hernando Alvarez occupied the other side, and Kit imagined it was not by accident he sat with his back to a whitewashed pillar, since he was in the shadow and as he wore white clothes could not be seen a short distance off.  Don Hernando’s hair was coarse and his skin dark.  His face was well molded, although the cheek-bones were prominent; his black eyes were keen and his thin lips firm.  He wore a plain red sash, with no other touch of color except a bit of riband on his breast.  It was obvious that he was not a Peninsular, as pure-blooded Spaniards call themselves, but he looked like a man who must be reckoned on.  Just then his dark face was moody.

“You have come in good time,” he said to Adam Askew, in Castilian.  “I think the curtain will soon go up for the last act of the drama, but the plot is obscure and I do not know the end.”

“I imagine the action will be rapid,” Adam replied.  “Unless you have changed much, you are cut out for your part.”

“Ah,” said Alvarez, “one gets cautious as one gets old.  One loses the young man’s quick, sure touch.”

“That is so, to some extent,” Adam agreed, and indicated Kit.  “It explains why I have a partner; my brother’s son.  Still, perhaps one sees farther when one is old.”