For two days Catalina disappeared. Mr. Moulton, distracted, appealed to the police. He knew that his wife had been severe, but the wicked words of her utterance were never repeated to him. But Mrs. Moulton, although spiritually debased, loved Catalina none the better for her condition, and protested that no one was so well able to take care of herself, even demanding that they move on and leave her in charge of the consul. To this Mr. Moulton would not hearken, and he and the equally disquieted Englishman patrolled the streets and haunted the headquarters of the police. The day of the fÊte dawned and nothing had been seen or heard of Catalina.

Over was alone when he saw her. The narrow streets were packed with people, and, turning aside to make way for a religious procession, he had become separated from the Moultons. He walked slowly, his head thrown back, gazing at the gay and beautiful sight above him. From every high window and balcony costly brocades and tapestries, embroidered shawls and Oriental carpets depended. The brown old houses, craggy as their high perch itself, warmed into life with the flaunting color. In the balconies were aristocratic men and women, the latter wearing the mantilla, held high with a comb, caught back with a rose. It was an enchanting sight; and above all was the dazzling blue and gold of the sky. Through the chatter of the good-natured crowd wandered the strains of solemn music, and his was the only alien face.

He was staring upward at a little balcony from which hung a magnificent blue silk shawl, embroidered and fringed with white, and admiring the mantillas and roses, the languid fans and fine eyes above it, when Catalina came through the window behind and looked down upon him. She, too, wore a mantilla, the white mantilla of Spanish lace he had watched her buy in Barcelona. A red rose held it above her left ear, and in her hand she carried her fan. She had also assumed the lofty dignity of the Spanish woman of high degree, and she had never looked so beautiful. For a moment she returned his gaze stolidly, and he fancied she meant to cut him; then she bowed, said something to one of her companions, pointed to the stern, brass-bound door below, and disappeared.

A moment later the door opened and he was shown into the patio, a shadowy retreat from the glare and noise of the street, full of palms and pomegranates, roses and lilies, with a cool fountain playing, and many ancient chairs of iron and wood.

Catalina was standing by the fountain looking as Spanish as if these old walls had encircled her cradle. She shook hands with him cordially.

“I have had a bad time,” she said, “and hated you, as well as the Moultons, but it was unreasonable and I am over it. You were as nice and kind as possible, and I shall always remember it. Don’t ask me what that dreadful woman said. I shall forget it, but I shall never speak to any of them again, and I should be glad if you would tell them so, and that I shall remain here until they leave.”

His mind grasped at once the substance of Mrs. Moulton’s diatribe; he had given the subject no thought before. He turned hot and then cold, and involuntarily took a step nearer to the girl, with a fierce instinct of protection. Catalina may have understood, for a spot of color appeared on her high cheek-bones, but she continued, calmly:

“Of course you want to know where I have been and what I am doing in this house. When I left the hotel I went directly to the archbishop and told him as much as was necessary, using as passport a circular letter the fathers of the mission of Santa Barbara had given me. He brought me here at once. The SeÑora VillÉna has this beautiful house, but is poor—and so kind. I have enjoyed the change, I can tell you.”

“You certainly are more in your element. I am glad it has turned out so well. I have been very uneasy.”

“Have you? Did you think I had thrown myself into the Tagus, or was wandering about roofless with my big grip in my hand?”

“It was my knowledge of your good sense, familiarity with the language, and winning manner—when you choose to exert it—that permitted me to go to bed at night. Nevertheless, you are not the woman to travel alone in Spain. What are your plans?”

“What are the Moultons’ plans?”

“They have had enough of Spain—of travel, for that matter—and they are still in dread of Jesus Maria. They will go from here to Barcelona, take a boat for Genoa, and remain there until their steamer arrives. They say that Italy will feel like home after Spain.”

“Then I shall go from here to Granada. Perhaps I can persuade some one to chaperon me, but if not I shall go alone. Nothing shall cheat me out of Granada.”

“If you find no one else I shall go with you.”

The red spots spread down to her throat, but she lifted her head higher. “No,” she said, “I suppose it does not look right.”

He cursed Mrs. Moulton for shattering the serene innocence of the girl; nevertheless, something even more captivating had replaced it. “I shall go,” he repeated, “unless I can persuade you to return to America with your relatives. Then my mind will be at rest. But as long as you are alone in Spain I shall do my best to protect you. If you forbid me to travel with you, well and good. I shall merely follow—that is to say, be your companion on the trains. In the towns we need not meet unless you wish it. You can always put yourself under the protection of the woman of the house and employ a duenna. But do adopt me as a brother and dismiss all nonsensical ideas from your mind.”

For the first time her eyes fell before his. She turned away abruptly. “You are very good,” she said. “Come up-stairs and meet the seÑora and her daughter. They are charming people.”

A few moments later, as they were standing on the balcony, she said to him: “They are taking me to the bull-fight this afternoon. Shall you go?”

“Possibly. But I am surprised that you wish to go. It is a beastly exhibition and no place for you.”

“I am going,” she said, imperturbably. “It is a part of Spain, and I should as soon think of missing a religious festival like this. Besides, I have seen bull-fights in southern California. You may as well come with us. Of course, Cousin Lyman is not going.”

“Probably not. Very well, I will go with you, if your friends will have me. I must lunch at the hotel with the Moultons and set their minds at rest; but it is an hour until then. Would you care to walk about the streets and see the crowd?”

The SeÑora VillÉna was very large and the day was warm, but she amiably consented to walk as far as the cathedral in the wake of her guest.

“I have not been out alone since I came to her,” said Catalina, with a sigh, as she walked beside Over up the street. “At Granada I know of a pension, and liberty will be sweet again.”

Over’s eyes twinkled as he looked at the face between the soft edges of the mantilla.

“Your new rÔle is vastly becoming. I had no idea that two days of Old-World discipline could effect such a change. You look as if you had always walked with a duenna at your heels.”

“So I have, nearly always. I never was on the street alone in my life until my mother died. You think me improved?” she added, quickly.

“I did not say that.”

“I have always thought your bluntness the best thing about you—I like the short skirt and covert coat best,” she said, defiantly.

“They do very well to disguise you on the train; but if I never saw you again I should prefer to remember you as you are now—or as you were that night in Tarragona. You hardly deserve your beauty, you know.”

And then, in a new spirit of coquetry, born perhaps of the mantilla, into whose silken mesh many a dream no doubt had flowed, she lifted her chin, dropped her eyelashes for a second, flashed him a swift personal glance. Before he could adjust himself to the new phase, however, she had dismissed it and remarked that she hoped not to meet the Moultons; and, unaccountably perturbed, he replied that they were sure to be fatigued and resting for luncheon.

It would have been easy to avoid them in the dense crowd packed into the plaza before the cathedral, waiting for the procession to pass. Over and Catalina paused a few moments to look at the superb gobelins with which the faÇade of the cathedral was hung, and then ran the gamut of the beggars and entered the cloister.

“I shall go into the Chapel of the Incarnacion and pray,” said the SeÑora VillÉna, “and meet you here in half an hour—no?”

The Cathedral of Toledo is one of the world’s treasures, and all the world should see it; but for those who would or must read the sights of Europe a hundred descriptions of this vast, complex dream in early Gothic and late Renaissance and baroque have been written; and the best is forgotten at the end of an hour’s visit.

It was almost deserted, and Over and Catalina walked slowly towards the Capilla Mayor, through the rich brown silence of the nave, whispering occasionally, but overpowered by the forest of shafts uplifting an immensity of vaulting before which the eye reeled. The centuries of carving, as various as the peoples that had come and gone, crystallizing even the broken voice of the Moor, melted into a harmony comparable only, said Catalina, to the wonders of a Californian mountain-forest—of redwood and pine, madroÑo and oak, and giant ferns as delicate as the lace of her mantilla. There were high vaultings, too, where the sun never ripened the moss on the earth, and endless cryptograms wrought before the hand of man had taken the message of the gods.

Over replied, promptly: “I don’t believe half you have told me about California. Next year I shall obtain leave of absence and visit it—that is, if you will be my cicerone.”

“Why not this year?”

“Shall I?”

“It is all the same to me, but I may not be there next year. I need Europe. Of course, I know that I am a sort of cowboy.”

“Ah!” He hardly knew whether to be gratified or not. “Don’t desert your ranch altogether—nor surrender all the individuality it has given you. If you should be the great lady in Europe and ranch-girl at home—what a fascinating combination!”

“Well, I can be anything I choose, and on five minutes’ notice, too.”

“I am sure of it—but which is the real you? I think I know—then I am all at sea.”

She gave him another swift, upward glance, but she replied, sedately: “The worst, of course. That is what people always decide when a person suddenly reveals himself in a bad light. Twenty other sides may have been exhibited, but it is the revelation of the worst that always inspires the phrase, ‘At last he has shown himself in his true colors.’”

“Then you are too philosophical to condemn Mrs. Moulton utterly?”

“She has taught me the extent of my philosophy, so I forgive her—and ignore her existence.”

He made no reply, for he saw the Moultons not three yards away. They were in the Capilla Mayor, their necks craned in a vain attempt to register a permanent impression of the gorgeous coloring, the phalanxes of saints, the riotous beauty of carving on wall and arch and tomb. While he hesitated, Mr. Moulton brought down his tired eyes and they rested on Catalina. He gave a sharp exclamation of pleasure and hurried forward, his hand out-stretched. Catalina had included him in her wrath, but she forgave him instantly, and simultaneously conceived a stroke of revenge. Mrs. Moulton and Jane retreated, but Lydia ran to Catalina and kissed her.

“Where have you been?” she cried. “We have been just wild. How perfectly sweet you look in that mantilla!”

Catalina explained, and Mr. Moulton drew a long sigh of relief. “I shall never worry about you again, my dear child. And now tell me what you wish to do. I trust you will become reconciled—”

“I shall remain in Spain perhaps for some months—I have cancelled my passage. But I shall like to see you again. Will you come to the Casa VillÉna immediately after luncheon? I have a little plan to propose to you.”

“Certainly I will—but is your decision irrevocable?”

“Quite. Perhaps I shouldn’t keep you now. And my duenna must be waiting for me.”

She nodded and turned away, but Lydia followed and took her arm.

“I can go back to the hotel with Captain Over,” she said to her father, and the two girls walked down the nave with heads together, oblivious of the half-amused, half-sulky man in their wake.

“Well, what of Jesus Maria?”

“I have given up all hope of ever seeing him again.”

“Hope? Do you want to?”

“I do and I don’t. Of course, it had to end sooner or later, but—well—I was fascinated! And there is so little to look back upon! However, it was great fun imagining what things might happen, and all the while to be quite safe under the paternal wing. I suppose if I had seen him alone I really wouldn’t have kissed him—I probably should have run away in disgust—but I enjoyed it all in imagination. Now, I shall be rather relieved when I am safely out of Spain, for I know that he was quite serious. When we were running away from Albacete and then from Alcazar, I felt as serious as he did—I was really romantic and love-lorn—but I took myself in hand when I arrived here, and now I am quite sensible again.”

“What a tangle! Is that the way people fall in love—and out again?” Catalina felt puzzled and depressed. Life suddenly seemed commonplace, love a sort of cap-and-bells, to be worn now and again when convenient.

“Well, I wish you good luck,” she said. “Write me when you are really engaged, and I’ll send you a lot of jewels from our California mines—tourmalines and chrysoprases and turquoises and garnets and beryls. I have jugs full of them.”

Lydia’s eyes expanded. “Jugs full! They cost frightfully in New York. Will you really send me some?”

“Dozens.”

“What a fairy princess you are! I am only beginning to appreciate you, and now you are throwing us over—for good and all!”

“Good-bye,” said Catalina, kissing her. “At two, Captain Over, and don’t forget to bring Cousin Lyman. And make no confidences,” she murmured.