LOOKING back upon it now I can scarcely believe it ever happened, and find it difficult to convince myself that I actually passed through such amazing and almost incredible experiences. Yet I have but to look at my left arm and see the scars that cover it in order to bring it all vividly back. And there is the tattooed symbol upon my chest. And if I needed further confirmation of the actuality of it all, there is Itza. Surely she is very real, and should occasion arise she could confirm the greater portion of the story. Even as I am writing, I have but to glance up from my table to see her, seated in the hammock swung on the porch, her dark head bent over some delicate bit of handiwork, her rounded cheek and the curve of her neck glowing like old gold in the diffused light--even in her conventional surroundings--as exotic as an orchid flower. But I find I am digressing--as I invariably do when I see or think of Itza. It all began in a most ordinary way at Vigo. I was returning to England from an expedition to South America, and as my ship was to remain several hours at Vigo, I decided to stretch my sea-weary legs by a stroll through the quaint Spanish port and, incidentally, have a look at some of the second-hand shops where, on more than one occasion, I had picked up some very interesting old books and other curios. Crossing the quay, and with a few sharp words in their own tongue quickly silencing the importunities of the piratical-looking boatmen, the bandit-like taxi drivers, the loathsome beggars and the swarm of would-be guides, I ascended the steep Calle San Sebastian, reached the Avenida Principal with its rush of traffic, its swarms of fashionably-attired women and men, its smart shops and its honking automobiles, and turning to the right, entered a narrow, dark alley. A moment later I passed under a mediæval archway and found myself in the Plazuela de Tres Santos. Within five hundred feet of where I stood was the hustling, noisy, modern avenue, but it might have been five hundred miles distant. When I passed under the old arch, I stepped into old Spain. About the tiny flagged plaza, scarcely larger than a courtyard, were ancient, sagging, time-aged houses with outjutting balconies, iron-grilled windows and shady, mysterious patios. Olive-skinned señoritas lounged on the balcony rails gazing half-curiously, half-coquettishly at the stranger who had entered the plazuela; older women in their bright rebosas and flaring, gaudy skirts sat on stools outside their doorways, stringing onions, weaving on crude hand-looms or gossiping with their neighbors; swarthy, fiercely-mustached men besashed, and wearing berets, lounged about or played idly upon guitars; and everywhere swarmed children as happy, as dirty and nearly as naked as the pigs and puppies that were equally as numerous.