“May I have the honor?”

She said nothing, but inclined her head.  Then they waltzed off.  Henderson stood at the side watching the whirling crowd.  The vivid reds and yellows and greens of the costumes blended harmoniously in a swirl of color that seemed a part of the music, the laughter, and the splendor of the night.  Just then the couple passed, the man talking intently, the girl with her head bowed, saying nothing.  As the dance ended, Henderson was about to go up and accost an attractive looking shepherdess, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  He turned around, surprised.  It was the tall officer whom Adelita had called Carlos.

“Stranger,” he said in English, “why have you made my Adela, Senorita de Marcelo, try to hide from me?  Do you think, although she has not spoken, that I could fail to know her?  Do you think I would not recognize her even if she came in a black cowl and robe?  Who are you that have dared speak to her as you have?  I have watched her—­and you.  Hear me, interloper, I will not have you dance with her or speak to her again.  The rest of the house is yours—­and welcome.”  He was answered in Spanish.

“With my compliments, mind your own business.  When I need advice I shall come to you, and not before.  Who are you—­and pray, who am I?”

“I—­I am Senor Carlos Gerardo,” he answered in the native tongue.  “How do I know you?  Bah!  I know every man in the room.  You heard what I said about Adelita.  Now remember.”

Henderson turned on his heel and walked directly over to where the girl stood, talking with the shepherdess.  Adelita looked down as he came up and tapped the floor nervously with the toe of a red slipper.  Her face was flushed.

“May I have this dance?” he asked.

“Surely.”

They swung off to the tune of a catchy American popular air.  Few of the dances had been Spanish.  He waited, and at last she broke the silence.

“Carlos danced with me and tried to get me to speak, but I would not.  Nevertheless he knows me, and is angry—­very angry.  But it will do him good.  He—­he said he was going to speak to you.”

“He did,” put in Henderson dryly.  “Is it the custom here to allow no other man to dance with one’s friends?”

“No,” she said, “it is not.  But he—­Carlos is very jealous.”

After the dance the officer came up to Henderson again.

“You heard me,” he muttered.  “I cannot bear with this.”

Again Henderson turned on his heel and again he asked her for the next dance.  She had it with the sailor, but promised him the one after.

It was warm inside, so after their waltz Fred and the girl went out on a little balcony which hung low over the brook.  The moon was high in the heavens, and shone softly through the whispering leaves.  From up the valley a gentle breeze brought the heavy scent of the roses.

“It is so hot inside,” the girl said, her voice so low that it seemed part of the night, “and out here it is so cool and—­and wonderful.”  Again she came close.  “For to-night you are my cavalier, and I am your lady.  Oh, if to-night could but be every night.  You are so big and kind and—­different.”