“I confess he’s a fine singer. Had I never seen him to talk with him, I should enjoy his singing; but now the very sound of his voice gives me a little shivery feeling, and I want to stop my ears.” “Why, I never dreamed you were such a prejudiced person, Elsie! You always see the good in everybody.” “That’s right, and, therefore, something tells me that when I see the bad in a person that person must be very, very bad. Inza, I can’t help it, but in spite of the polish of Porfias del Norte, in spite of his politeness, his education, his entertaining manners, I feel that he is a snake, and a poisonous snake at that.” “Of course, you may be right, Elsie,” said Inza; “but I have never regarded you as an acute student of human nature.” “Nor do I profess to be, but still Profias del Norte——” “I beg your pardon,” said a smooth, musical voice that made both girls start. “Are you speaking of me, ladies? I hope I don’t intrude.” A slender, graceful man stepped forward with a soft footfall. He was dressed in light flannels and bowed politely, with his hat in one hand and a guitar in the other, as the two girls partly rose from their chairs. “I beg you not to be disturbed, ladies,” he said. “I was seeking a spot on deck where I might smoke and drum a little on my guitar when I happened to pass you. I fancy _I_ heard my name spoken.” “Yes,” said Inza at once, “we were speaking of you Señor del Norte. I don’t know just how it happened—perhaps it was caused by the moonlight, by the almost tropical calm and beauty of this night.” “Ah!” he said. “It is a beautiful night—a glorious night! Never have I dreamed that so far up here in the North they could have such nights. I am a child of the South, and to me the North has ever seemed cold, and sterile, and barren, and devoid of all that’s beautiful and attractive. I love beautiful things. I love the flowers, the birds, the open air, the sunshine, almost everything but darkness. Somehow I don’t like darkness. It oppresses me! It crowds me! In the moonlight I am happy, but let the moon go behind a cloud and I am heavy-hearted. At night I sleep always with a light within reach of my hand. Strange, isn’t it?” “Strange!” exclaimed Elsie. “Yes, it is. I have known children and women who always slept with a light burning, but it’s a rare thing for a man. Isn’t it possible, señor, that you have a reason for being afraid of the darkness?” “Possibly I have,” he admitted at once. “My father was murdered at midnight on a very dark night. My mother heard the blows and tried to aid him. She sprang to his assistance and grappled with his assailants. They beat her down. She was stricken unconscious to the floor. When she recovered she struck a light, and it fell on the dead body of my father, who had been stabbed nineteen distinct times. My mother never forgot it. She told me of it scores of times. No wonder I hate the darkness!” He gave a heavy sigh and then suddenly exclaimed: