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back from water, and lighting a cigarillo to match the thin blue spiral of smoke that rose from their fire, he watched them absently. It was not from a sense of inferiority that he sat apart, any more than it was vulgar curiosity that made him watch, but just tact and interest in humanity.

Now they were talking together like good comrades . . . they would not tire easily of each other, these two. Yet there was no rest in Don Antonio’s face . . . a lover of women, that. No harm . . . and they were both young, all joy to them! Mad, no doubt, to pitch a tent here when they might easily have slept in Cordova by riding harder that day, but—let them take their pleasure as they would. That kept the heart sweet. The wide country and the night air would do them no hurt, and if the sun by day burnt Doña Pamela’s cheeks to a brighter pink, it only made her more beautiful. . . .

She was very lovely now, hatless and with loosened hair, as she propped her chin in her hands and gazed at Tony across the little fire.

“Has it been a good day, Princess?”

“If there never was another good day in my life, this would be enough to make it count as a happy one.”

She smiled, but her voice shook a little with the strength of her feeling.

“So you’re happy? . . . I am glad.”

“Oh, Tony, what a queer thing to say! Just as if you weren’t—and as if you didn’t know I was!”

He caught at one of her hands, the other still pillowed her flushed cheek.

“I didn’t mean anything—it’s all rather dream-like still—and I can’t quite understand the wonderfulness of your being happy through me. I haven’t got used to it yet. I don’t think I want to get used to it either, we’ve got a long time.”

“Yes, darling. An awfully long time. Oh, Tony, do