“Quien quiere agua? Quien quiere agua?”

The shrill cries of the water-carriers smote upon grateful ears as the dusty, sun-baked train paused at Fuente, a little station on the zigzag between Valencia and Albacete. They were young, misshapen girls, the hip that supported the gourd at least three inches higher than the other, with a corresponding elevation of shoulder. All along the train, hands were waving encouragingly, accompanied by cries of “Aqui! Aqui!” and the glasses were rapidly filled and emptied. But few ran over to the cantina where the wine of the country was sold; and the amount of water that is dispensed at every station in Spain should encourage those whose war-cry is temperance and who are prone to believe that the southern races are lost. But water is precious in Spain, and must be paid for. At every station old women are waiting with buckets to catch the discharge from the engine—not, it is to be hoped, for traffic.

Even the Moultons, who had exhausted Captain Over’s aluminum bottle and had prejudices against uncertified water, passed out their own cups and drank thirstily. No one was in his best temper. Valencia is a dirty, noisy, ill-mannered city, and after two sleepless nights they had been forced to rise early or remain another day. Moreover, the handsome peasant had followed them with a melodious persistence that was causing Mr. Moulton serious uneasiness. It was impossible to appeal to the Guardia Civile, for the man did nothing that was not within his rights; for the matter of that the stranger in Spain is practically without rights. The man—his name, it was now known, was Jesus Maria—a name common enough in a land without humor—never even offered them the usual courtesies of travel. Nevertheless, he managed to make his presence felt in a hundred ways independently of his voice and guitar, as well as the subtle intimation that for the stern frown on Mr. Moulton’s brow he cared nothing.

“I don’t wish any trouble, of course,” Mr. Moulton had said to Over that morning, “but I am seriously considering the plan of continuing the journey to Granada in a first-class carriage. Lydia has already begun to suffer from the annoyance, and it is abominable that a refined, carefully brought up girl should be subjected to such an experience. The marquis was bad enough—but this! Even when her back is to him I am sure she feels his rude stare. I can assure you, Over, a pretty daughter is a great responsibility; but although I have had to dispose—diplomatically, of course—of several undesirable suitors, I never even anticipated anything like this. It is preposterous.”

“The first-class idea is not bad; it would emphasize the difference between them; it is rather a puzzle to him, I fancy—he is a Spaniard, remember—that we travel in his own way and yet regard him from a superior plane.”

Captain Over, as he stood with Catalina at a booth on the platform buying substantial tortillas made of eggs, meat, and potatoes, repeated the conversation. “He thinks they have never communicated in any way,” he added. “What is the best thing to do? I don’t fancy telling tales, but it seems to me Mr. Moulton should be warned.”

“Oh, Lydia can take care of herself,” said Catalina, carelessly. “She is a little flirt and quite intoxicated with what she calls an intrigue. It is the first time she has ever done any thinking for herself—you can see what Cousin Lyman is; he’d feed us if we’d let him. If we were Moultons, we’d be taking a little fling ourselves. Here she comes.”

Lydia found a place beside them in the crowd that was clamoring for the old woman’s hot tortillas.

“Mother says there is not enough bread,” she said. “Jane is afraid of the beggars and father has disappeared, or I suppose I should not have got this far alone. Talk about the freedom of the American girl! I’d like to write a book to tell the world how many different kinds of Americans there are.”

“You can’t deny that you are a spoiled child, though,” said Over, banteringly, and then he scowled. The young peasant had joined the group and was quietly demanding a tortilla. He no longer wore his peasant blouse, but the gala costume he had bought or borrowed in Tarragona. He was a superb figure of a man, and every woman on the platform stared at him. He looked haughtily aloof, even from Lydia, but Over saw her hand seek her little waist-bag and suspected that a note passed.

“He certainly is a man,” he said to Catalina, as they walked back to the train; “looks more of a gentleman, for that matter, than a good many we dine with. Still, it can’t go on; so set your wits to work, and we’ll get rid of him between us.”

But for Jesus Maria the afternoon would have been delightful. They were ascending, and the air was cooler; the great plain of La Mancha was studded with windmills, and its horizon gave up the welcome and lofty ridges of the Sierra de Alcatraz. But the cavalier—when not smoking the eternal cigarito—strummed his guitar and sang all the love-songs he knew. Mr. Moulton coughed and frowned and ordered Lydia to turn her back; but open remonstrance might have meant the flashing of knives, certainly the vociferating protest of female voices, for the car was crowded and the peasants were delighted with the concert. At Chinchilla, however, there was a diversion, and love moved rearward.

A man leaped into the train. He wore a belt of three tiers, and each tier was stuck full of knives. Mrs. Moulton screamed; but he was immediately surrounded by the peasants, who snatched at the knives and bargained shamelessly. In a moment he thrust them aside, and, making his way to the strangers, protested that he had reserved his best for them, and flourished in their faces some of the finest specimens of Albacete—long, curved blades of steel and long, curved handles of ebony or ivory inlaid with bits of colored glass and copper. Catalina and Captain Over bought several at a third of the price demanded. The Catalan had followed the huckster, and under Mr. Moulton’s very nose he bought the longest and most deadly of the collection. After several playful thrusts at the vender, and severing a lock of his hair, he thrust it conspicuously into his sash, and with a lightning glance at poor Mr. Moulton returned to his seat. Here it was evident that he related deeds of prowess; once more he flourished the knife, and his audience uttered high staccato notes of approval.