She was standing alone by the rail at the edge of the veranda when she heard a soft step and felt a presence at her side. “You seem enchanted, señorita,” said Del Norte, in a low tone. “I do not wonder. Yet, do you know, for all the beauties I see spread out before me there is something in the scene that reminds me of death.” “Death?” She shrank away involuntarily, looking at him with startled eyes. “Yes,” he said, “that is what I meant to say. After climbing the path I made a little exploration. I found certain precipices over which it would be almost certain death for one to fall. I keep thinking of these precipices. Strange I cannot forget them.” “But we see none of them from here, so why should the scene remind you of death?” “You see none of them distinctly, but there’s one down yonder, señorita. You might walk out to the verge of it without going so very far. But it was not of these things I meant to speak when I said the scene reminded me of death. I was thinking what it must look like in the bleak winter. I was thinking how repellant this must be when buried deep under snow and ice. And I thank my fate that I was not born to such a land. I thank my fate that I am a child of the sweet land of Mexico, where flowers bloom and birds sing the whole year round. I say I thank my fate that this fortune was mine, but even as I say it I curse my fate that a great misfortune is also mine.” “A misfortune, señor?” “Yes, the greatest that may be known to a man with a poet’s soul like mine. The greatest that may come to him whose heart burns always with living fire as my heart burns within me.” “How strangely you talk!” “I suppose it does seem strange to you, Señorita Inza.” “I don’t think I understand you.” “Possibly not. Still, I fancied I had said enough so you couldn’t fail to understand me. Last night as we sat on the deck of the _Sachem_, with the placid harbor spread around us and the mellow moonlight turning its waves to silver, I couldn’t choke back the things which came to my lips. Perhaps I was rash. Perhaps I was foolish. I couldn’t help it. You must know, señorita—you must know how I love you!” “Stop!” she commanded, in a low, intense tone. “Let me give you a warning now. I had no chance last night, for Frank came.” In Spanish Del Norte muttered something that was strangely like a curse. “Yes, he came,” said the man. “I have not forgotten; nor have I forgotten, señorita, that you did not tell him just what had happened. You did not tell him I kissed your hand. That made me think that perhaps my case was not hopeless. That made me think perhaps you looked with a little favor upon me.” “You quite mistook the reason why I did not tell him,” she declared, still repressing her voice. “I did not dare.” “Did not dare?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I know him.” “And you mean by that—just what, señorita?”