To think that it all happened within a rifle shot of the greatest city in America, in the very outskirts of New York—this was strange. A romance of old Spain, tingling with the memory of times when men fought single-handed for the toss of a rose or the gleam from under the black lashes of a senorita, or bled and died for the sake of a yellow silken scarf! That such a thing should have happened as it did seems preposterous, and yet, on second thought, it occurred so naturally that at the time there was no idea of its being in the least out of place in this prosaic New World. It was like a dream of the past—and yet it was no dream.

It was our Saturday half-holiday and Henderson and I were driving the stagnation of a week's confinement out of our lungs by a long walk into the country. We were just starting back in the approaching dusk when a round stone that I happened to step on turned under my foot. I tried to grin, and hobbled along for a moment; then I sat down at the side of the road.

"It's my ankle. I don't believe I can make it, Fred."

"Make a try at it, old man. It's only a short mile to the railroad station and there won't be any footing it from there. Perhaps walking will ease it up."

I got up, but after a few steps sat down again.

"I'm awfully sorry, Fritz, but I simply can't do it. The thing hurts like all time."

He stood still and looked about him. The road followed the curve of a hill, at the foot of which flowed a tiny brook. Ahead, it passed through a little colony of houses, perhaps twenty in all. The hamlet had an air about it that marked it from numerous others we had walked through that afternoon. The cottages appeared brighter and there were gardens among them that seemed unlike the others we had passed. No hotel or public house of any kind was to be seen.

"I wonder what this place is," said Henderson. "It doesn't look especially alluring."

I looked up from the task of rubbing my ankle.

"No," I commented, "it doesn't seem alluring, and I suppose ninety-nine hundredths of the people that pass through here look at it the same way. But to you, Fred, I'm pretty sure it would be rather attractive, and I know that it would be to me with this beastly foot."

"What! Stay here all night? I guess not."

"If you only knew what it was," I ventured.

"Probably another of Washington's headquarters, or the site of the
Battle of—."

"Wait a minute before you explode, and give me a chance. This is the
Spanish colony."

"What?"

"The Spanish colony."

"What Spanish colony?"

"Of all things, do you mean to tell me that you never heard of it?"

"I do."

"Well," I said, "it's wonderful how much New Yorkers don't know about themselves. This place was settled a long time ago by the few Spaniards there were in this part of the country, and they've stuck together ever since. I don't believe there are a hundred people in the city that know about the place. Maybe it's on account of the war, when these people had to keep pretty quiet, but whatever it is, they are here. I've been through here before and I've often wished that I could have stopped off. Now the Lord seems to have taken matters into His own hands."

If there was anything Henderson enjoyed it was tales and relics of the old Romance lands, and I knew it. Then there was my ankle, which was throbbing painfully.

"If your old foot really is as bad as you say," said Henderson, "why, we can put up here over night. To-morrow is Sunday, you know, and we don't have to be back."

He spoke condescendingly, but I knew that if I suggested that after all we might get back he would almost get down on his knees and plead with me. So I spared him the trouble. We started again toward the little hamlet. Henderson wanted to stop at the first house we came to, but I pulled him on.

"Let's tackle that larger white one ahead there to the right," I suggested. "It looks to be the best of the lot—and besides, the last time I was through here I noticed a mighty pretty girl standing in the doorway—one of those black-eyed story-book senoritas you so dote on."

"I'm surprised at a man of your age and dignity noticing senoritas," he laughed. Nevertheless he turned into the little garden and raised the iron knocker.

The door was opened almost instantly by a short, rather stoutish man, well past the prime of life. There was nothing in his dress to mark him from the average middle-class New Yorker, but his face was swarthy and the hair that was not grey was glistening black. We explained our desires.

"I am afraid you can find no accommodations," he said, with but the slightest trace of an accent.

Henderson said something to him in Spanish, and as he did so the man stared a moment, smiled, showing all his teeth, and then answered in the same tongue with a flood of words that I could barely understand. Then he took our hats and bowed the way into a little parlor.

"Will the senor with the injured foot recline upon the sofa? I will bring in hot water to bathe it. We have a large room upstairs with a bed for two, where the senores may pass the night." He took out a large gold watch. "It is now quarter before six. Dinner will be served at half after the hour. Till then the senores may rest. I will bring the hot water to your chamber."

Promptly at six-thirty Henderson and I descended the stairs. The rest and a bath had done us both good, and even my ankle, though badly swollen, had ceased to give much pain. From the house and from our host we had gathered much of interest. His family had come over some seventy-five years ago and had moved directly to the little house, which the widower Senor Lucas de Marcelo and his daughter Adelita still possessed. Don Lucas himself was a jeweller, going in to the city every day. We found him waiting for us at the foot of the stairs.

"In but a moment dinner will be prepared," he said. "If the senores will pardon me, I must go out to the kitchen. To-night is the big dance, the mascarade, for which Adelita must dress." He raised his voice. "Adela! Hasten, little one."

"I am coming," called a clear girlish voice.

Henderson and I waited in the little parlor. Back in the house we could hear our host moving about among the pots and pans. Then from the top of the stairs there sounded a soft voice:

"Padre—father!"

Don Lucas dropped his work and stepped into the parlor.

There was a swish, a click of high heels on the stairs, a flash of red, with a momentary glimpse of white, and the girl stood before us. The father spoke:

"Senores, my daughter."

She bent low and then arose, smiling as her father had smiled, showing the white of her teeth. She was dressed all in red, from the roses in her black hair to her tiny, outrageously high-heeled Spanish slippers. The hair was parted in the middle and drawn back, giving an almost child-like expression to the handsome face with its snapping black eyes and full red lips. Under the dark wave behind each ear she had effectively pinned a cluster of rose-buds. Over her gleaming shoulders she had thrown a scarf of the thinnest red silk, and a similar scarf, fringed with black lace, was drawn about her hips and knotted at the left side. The heavily ruffled skirts fell within a few inches of the floor, but as she turned they swung higher, showing her slippers and a bit of red silk-covered ankle. In her hand she dangled a tiny black mask. Her father looked at her proudly.

"It is the dancing costume of the Old Country," he explained. "It is in honor of the mascarade to-night."

We passed into the little dining-room. Just before we sat down
Henderson managed to whisper to me:

"Whew! I guess you're right about the good-looking girl."

All through the meal he watched her covertly, and the moment he took his eyes from her face I noticed that she would glance over at him. Then the second he turned her way her eyes would drop and a dull red would suffuse her face and neck. Whether Henderson noticed it or not I do not know, but I did. When the coffee was brought in by Adelita our host opened a box of mellow cigars, and we passed out into the parlor. In the doorway the girl stopped her father and excitedly whispered in his ear.

"Please," she pleaded, "you know you are old and do not like to stay so late, and he is young and big and could take as good care of me as you. Please, padre."

"Would it be right?" he queried. Then he thought a moment. "Perhaps—"

"Bueno," she cried. "Good. Ask him, padre, please, please."

The old man smiled. Then he came over to where Fred and I were standing.

"Did you hear the girl," he asked, "the little scamp? She thinks I am too old to take her to the ball—and too uninteresting. She wishes to know if the senores would care to go with her in my place. It would perhaps be interesting to you."

I guessed what she really wanted, so I spoke:

"You go, Fritz. I'd like to, only my foot's too bad."

"I won't go without you," he said.

Here I took him aside and told him what I had seen at the table.

"Now," I said, "if you don't go you're a fool. And personally I'd rather stay here anyhow and talk to the don."

"All right. I'll do it."

The girl was watching him, and as he spoke she smiled. Then she walked over to him, put both her hands in his, looked up into his face and laughed aloud, a cheery, rippling laugh.

"For to-night," she said, "you shall be my cavalier, mi caballero."
Then I heard him whisper in Spanish:

"I will. And you shall be my lady."

After half an hour of bustling and sewing and rummaging in trunks, there appeared on the stairs some six feet of Spanish cavalier. I held him off at arm's length.

"Well, old man, you look like a prince. You pretty near match the princess. But where did you get that rig?"

"Oh, the boots and the picture hat"—he nodded his head and the feather moved majestically—"they belong to old Marcelo. He used to wear 'em. They have had a masquerade ball here every year for the past fifty years, more or less—Don Lucas couldn't quite remember. These boots"—they were patent leather with yellow tops—"fit as if they belonged to me. This cape is an old one of the girl's turned inside out"—it was light yellow satin—"and the red sash is hers too. I tell you, this is the best fun I've had in years. And isn't the girl a queen though!"

"Well," I began—but here she came into the room.

"It is time," she said, "that we started, you and I." Her father descended the stairs. Adelita threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.

"Good-night, Padre—till later. Buenas noches. Good-night, senor." This to me.

"Buenas noches, Adela," murmured the old man. "Good-night, senor. Take good care of the daughter." The father and I passed into the parlor.

She took Henderson's hand and led him out of the door. They did not go out of the gate, but turned through the little garden, past the house, and followed a narrow path that ran down the hill. As the grass was high on either side he followed where she led, holding fast to the hand she stretched out to him. Suddenly as the path dipped down the hill she commenced to run. Henderson held back. She looked over her shoulder, laughing.

"Are you afraid to follow?" she asked in Spanish.

"No, little one, I am not," he answered in the same tongue, "but I am afraid that with those high heels you will wrench your ankle."

"Oho," she laughed, "I was born for this." But she stopped and walked slowly.

The moon was just rising, big and red, as if it were autumn instead of late spring. The girl drew in a deep breath.

"Look at that, Senor Federico mio, look at that." She still spoke in the Old World tongue.

Now they had reached the little brook that tumbled down through the rolling valley. The girl spoke again.

"Here the path is wider. You may walk beside me—if you like." She glanced up from under her black lashes. "The hall is but a short half mile down the stream here to the left." They proceeded, walking slowly, the brook purling and murmuring at their side. The girl drew in her breath again, deliberately and deep.

"Smell the roses. It is the long arbor of Don Benito, through which we must pass. Ah, it is wonderful."

The heavy musk of roses seemed literally to fill the bottom of the vale. With it was mingled the scent of the grass and of the field flowers. Over all hung the moon, yellow and near.

"It is wonderful," mused Henderson. She came close to him.

"Remember," she said, "to-night I am your lady, and you—you are my cavalier. Take care of the feather in your cavalier's hat, for here is the arbor." He bowed his head, and they passed beneath the sweet-scented array of blossoms and buds. Then, as they rounded a corner of the slope, there came to them from far down the valley the sound of music and the glint of lights through the uneasy leaves of the maples.

"Hear it," the girl cried, "hear it! They may be dancing. Let us hurry. 'Sh! Now we are getting too near. We must mask. Here, senor, help me with my mask and I will do the same for you. Thank you. Stoop lower, please. There, now it is right!" They proceeded. "I wonder what Carlos will say to this. He will be surprised when we unmask. Until then he will not know me—nor you either." She lowered her voice. "I told him that my costume was to be that of a shepherdess."

They were close to the hall now. A turn brought them to a wider path which led directly to the building. Up the steps and into the throng of masks they passed, the girl now holding tight to the man's arm. The orchestra was playing a waltz and the pair swung into the whirl, dancing fast and gracefully. The music stopped; a man in the costume of a Spanish sailor came up and asked for the next. The girl looked down, then glanced quickly up and pointed silently to the tall cavalier at her side. The sailor bowed and passed on. Then the music started again.

"I cannot speak, you see," the girl panted as they swept around a corner, "or they would know my voice. Of course—oh look, there is Carlos. He must be looking everywhere for me."

A tall man, clad in the helmet and boots of a Spanish military officer, stood in the center of the floor, intently watching each couple as it passed. Adelita he followed closely with his eyes, as if perplexed. Then he shook his head.

"He does not know me," she laughed.

But at the end of that dance he strode up to her and bowed.

"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."

"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.

Literary Monthly, 1906.