“And you,” he said, with the romance of it mounting to his head, “you are more than different.  If to-night only was every night.  For to-night you are my lady.”

A shadow darkened the doorway behind them and a long arm shot out for Henderson’s neck.  Surprised, he turned blindly.  It was Don Carlos.  Quick as a flash Fred hit him full between the eyes, and with the other arm tried to loosen the hold on his throat.  There was no sound; the girl stood breathless.  Again he struck and the hand at his throat tore away.  There was a flash of steel in the hand of the Spaniard—­but the blow never fell.  The girl stood between them, her arms spread apart, her eyes flashing.

“Carlos,” she said slowly, “if you ever strike a blow like that, be eternally cursed by me.  You fool!  Know you not that I was playing with you?  How I hate you!  Go!” She stamped her foot.  “Go, I say.”

He turned with bent head, and without a word passed into the building.  As he disappeared, the girl sank back, her face white, almost greyish, against the red of her dress.

“Hold me, senor,” she said weakly.  “I am not well.  Could—­would you take me home—­to my father?”

Without a word Henderson picked her up bodily and stepped off the little low balcony into the grass.  Not until they reached the arbor did she speak.

“Thank you.  I think I can walk now.”

He set her down and she smoothed her rumpled skirts.  Then they proceeded together slowly.  Silently they followed the path which a few hours before they had so gaily trod, and silently they ascended the hill.

The old man and I had not yet gone to bed when they entered the house.  She came in laughing.

“Is it not early, my angel?” he asked.  “It is but little past midnight.”  She smiled.

“Yes, padre, it is early—­but I—­I thought I would return.”

Late that night, as Henderson and I lay in bed—­he telling me the story of the evening—­we could hear the girl in the next room, sobbing, sobbing as if her heart would break.  It made Henderson uneasy.

“I’d like to do something,” he said.  “The scoundrel!  He ought to be whipped.”

I grunted and tried to get to sleep, but it was useless.  Fred was tossing restlessly, and the girl in the other room was still sobbing, sobbing.  Suddenly there sounded a whistle, low but clear.  The sobbing ceased.  The whistle sounded again.  We heard a quiet step and the noise of an opening window.

“O Carlos mio,” she breathed in the mother tongue, “I knew you would come.”

“Adela mia,” he called softly, “my angel, I hoped you would be here and—­and you are.”

“You have been so long,” she sighed.

“Henderson,” I said, “if you have any decency, go to sleep.”

We rolled over and closed our eyes, while unknown to us the breeze wafted up the heavy night odor of the roses and the yellow moon slowly moved toward the western heavens.