“The wall was completed in 1842 at a cost of one hundred thousand dollars, having been built by the United States government,” continued the Professor. “And why, nobody knows,” added John, from behind. “To keep the town from washing away, I suppose,” said Sara. “Of course; but why should the United States government concern itself over the washing away of this ancient little village with its eighteen hundred inhabitants, when it leaves cities with their thousands unaided? The one dock has, as you see, fallen down; a coasting schooner once a month or so is all the commerce, and yet here is a wall nearly a mile in length, stretching across the whole eastern front of the town, as though vast wealth lay behind.” “The town may grow,” I said. “It will never be any thing more than a winter resort, Miss Martha.” “At any rate, the wall is charming to walk upon,” said Iris, dancing along on her high-heeled boots; “it must be lovely here by moonlight.” “It is,” replied the Captain, with a glance of his blue eyes. He was a marvel of beauty, this young soldier, with his tall, well-knit, graceful form, his wavy golden hair, and blonde mustache sweeping over a mouth of child-like sweetness. He had a cleft in his chin like the young Antinous that he was, while a bold profile and commanding air relieved the otherwise almost too great loveliness of a face which invariably attracted all eyes. Spoiled? Of course he was; what else could you expect? But he was kind-hearted by nature, and endowed with a vast fund of gallantry that carried him along gayly on the topmost wave. “There is a new moon this very night, I think,” observed Aunt Diana, suggestively, to Mokes. But Mokes “never could walk here after dark; dizzy, you know--might fall in.” “Oh, massive old ruin!” cried Iris, as we drew near the fort; “how grand and gray and dignified you look! Have you a name, venerable friend?” “This interesting relic of Spanish domination was called San Juan de Pinos--” began the governess, hastily finding the place in her guide-book. “Oh no, Miss Sharp,” interrupted Aunt Diana, who had noticed with disapprobation the clinging of the lisle-thread glove to the Professor’s lank but learned arm. “You are mistaken again; it is called Fort Marion.” “It used to be San Marco,” said John. “I vote for San Marco; Marion is commonplace,” decided Iris, sweeping away the other names with a wave of her dainty little glove. “A magnificent specimen of the defensive art of two centuries ago,” began the Professor, taking up a position on the water-battery, and beginning to point out with his cane. “It is built, you will observe, in a square or trapezium--” “Let us go up and have a dance on the top,” said Iris. [Illustration: OLD FORT SAN MARCO.]