They arrived at Albacete before nightfall. It was too small a place for the omnibus, but several enterprising boys appropriated the hand-luggage and, without awaiting instructions, made for the one hotel of the Alto. This proved to be so far superior to the hotel of the small American town that it appeared palatial to the weary travellers. It stood, large and white and cool, on the Alameda, whose double row of plane-trees formed an avenue down the middle of the long, wide street. It is true the beds were not made, water appeared to be as precious as at the stations, and the servants as weak of head as of ambulatory muscle; but the rooms were large and lofty and clean, and the supper was eatable. Mrs. Moulton and Jane, after a brief ramble, sought what to both was become the end and aim of all travelling—bed and quiet; and Mr. Moulton, leaving the other two girls in charge of Over, soon followed their example.

“I saw that scoundrel leave the train,” he murmured, as he left Over at the foot of the staircase, “but he has gone off to the diversions of the new town, no doubt, and will be occupied for a few hours at least.”

The girls had wandered to the doorway and were looking out into the dark Alameda. Over exchanged a glance with Catalina and drew Lydia’s hand through his arm.

“Miss Shore is tired,” he said, “but I am sure you will enjoy another stroll. At all events don’t leave me to moon by myself.” And Lydia, flattered by the unusual attention, surrendered with her charming animation of word and feature.

They walked beside the Alameda down to the quaint old plaza, surrounded by white houses of varied architecture, deserted and dimly lit with the infrequent lamp. When Englishmen are diplomatic they are the most subtle and sinuous of mankind, but when they are not they are the bluntest. Over said nothing whatever until he had enjoyed the half of his pipe, and then he remarked, “I say, you must drop that man—send him about his business without any more loss of time.”

Lydia, who had been prattling amiably, stiffened and attempted to withdraw her arm.

“What are my affairs to you?” she asked, haughtily.

“For this trip I am your big brother. I should not merit the friendship of your father if I did not make this affair my own. Brothers are always privileged to be rude, you know: you are not only playing a silly game, but a dangerous one. That man will try to kidnap you—he is only one degree removed from a bandit.” Lydia’s eyes flashed, and he hastened to rectify a possible misstep. “How would you like to live in the side of a hill with your lord—to escape taxes—and cook his frijoles three hundred and sixty-five days of the year? If he didn’t beat you, he certainly would not serenade you; and even in a country where water is more plentiful than in Spain—suppose you induced him to emigrate—it is doubtful if he would ever take a bath—”

“You are a brute!”

“Merely practical. He would insist upon having his beans flavored with garlic, and he doubtless smokes all night as well as all day. He may be a good enough sort in the main, but there is no hope here for a man to rise above his station in life. If there were a revolution he would probably be in the thick of it and get himself killed; and if he followed you to America—failing to kidnap you—he would probably open a cigar-shop on the Bowery.”

He had expected tears, but Lydia drew herself up and said, coldly: “I don’t think I am in danger of being kidnapped. Strange as it may appear, I feel quite well able to take care of myself, and if with you on one side and father on the other I can’t vary the monotony of life with a little flirtation—well, if you were a girl, surrounded by goody-goody people as I have always been, you might be tempted a little way by something that had the glamour of romance.”

“Girls must find life rather a bore,” said Over, sympathetically. “And I only wish your hero were worthy of you, but, take my word for it, his romantic picturesqueness is only skin—clothes deep. No man is romantic, if it comes to that. I met a long-haired poet once, and when we got him in the smoking-room he was the prosiest of the lot.”

“There is no such thing as romance, then?” asked Lydia, with a sigh.

“Not when you are ‘up against it,’ to use a bit of your own slang.”

As the radiating streets were dark they paced slowly about the plaza. For a time Lydia was silent, and Over drew thoughtfully at his pipe. Finally he asked, curiously:

“Do you women really get any satisfaction out of that sort of thing—talking with your eyes and exchanging an occasional note? I mean, of course, unless you have a definite idea that it is going to lead to something?”

“We like any little excitement,” said Lydia, dryly, “and the littlest is better than none. I suppose you are too masculine—too British—to understand that!”

“Well, yes, I am, rather. I fancy what is the matter with girls is that they don’t have to work as hard as boys—don’t have so many opportunities to work off steam. As for this Johnny, he must be a silly ass if he is content with singing and sighing and rigging himself out. If he isn’t—there lies the danger. He’ll rally his friends and carry you off. Nothing could be simpler.”

“I should be quite like Helen—or Mary, Queen of Scots!”

“Good Lord!”

She flushed under the lash of his voice, but in a moment raised her eyes softly to his. “You are so good,” she murmured. “Really like a brother, so I don’t mind telling you that I am fearfully interested—but not so much in the mere man as in the whole thing. It has all seemed so romantic, at least. I don’t believe an American girl ever had such an experience before. However, I will set your mind at rest—since you are so good as to take an interest in poor little me—I haven’t the slightest desire really to know the man. I should be disenchanted, of course, for I could not stand commonness in the most beautiful husk. But—there is something in one quite independent of all that—of one’s upbringing, one’s prejudices, of common-sense—can’t you understand?—the primeval attraction of man and woman. I have been quite aware that all this could come to nothing, but it has been something to have felt that way for once in a well-regulated lifetime; to have been primal for a fleeting moment is something, I can assure you.”

Over groped in the depths of his masculine understanding. “Well, I suppose so. But what of the man? It is a mere experience to you, but it may be a matter of life and death to a poor devil who is nine-tenths fire and sentiment.”

“He, too, has something to think about for the rest of his life.”

“And you fancy that will satisfy him?”

“It will have to.”

“You might have spared him.”

“There can be no romance without a hero.”

“Upon my word, you are the greater savage of the two!”

“I told you I enjoyed being a savage for once in my life.”

Over made no reply, and if Lydia’s glance had not dropped to the uneven pavement, she would have seen his eyes open wide with incredulous amazement and then flash with anger. As it was, she wondered why he hurried her back to the hotel and then practically ordered her up to her room. He stood on the lower step of the stair until he heard her greet Jane; then he left the hotel and walked rapidly down the street again. In a moment he met Catalina.

“Oh,” he said, with an awkward attempt at masculine indifference, although his eyes were blazing. “Are you out—alone—as late as this? Isn’t it rather risky?”

“I’ve been walking with Jesus Maria,” she replied, coolly. “What a baby you were to walk off through these lonely streets with Lydia! I supposed, of course, that you would talk to her in the hotel. Don’t you know that man would have been mad with jealousy if he had seen you? Then there would have been a fine rough-and-tumble if he hadn’t got a knife into your back first. He came along with that everlasting guitar under his arm just after you left, and I told him that Lydia was ill, and asked him to take a walk with me. We’d better give him the slip as soon as possible; he’s off his head about her.”

“What a little brick you are! What did he have to say?”

“I explained to him that he could never hope to marry Lydia, and elevated the family to the ancient aristocracy of America. It made no impression on him whatever. He expressed contempt for the entire race, barring Lydia, whom he takes to be an angel. I concluded that disloyalty was the better part, and told him that Lydia was nothing but a little American flirt trying to have a sensation. That made even less impression on him—he believes that she is ready to fly with him at a moment’s notice. I did more harm than good, and I shall speak to Cousin Lyman to-night.”

Over stared hard at her. “That was very brave of you. Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

“Not of greasers!” replied the Californian. “I’ve dealt with them all my life. I treated this one as an equal, and made him forget Lydia in talking about himself. He’s a revolutionist, hates the queen because she doesn’t go to bull-fights, despises the king, anathematizes all monarchies and aristocracies, and talks like a Fourth-of-July orator about the days when Spain will be a republic, and one of his own sort—possibly himself—will be president. I never heard so much brag in America. But he’s full of pluck. Now, you go and call Cousin Lyman out into the hall, and we’ll have a consultation.”