"Oh, no," the Baron interposes. "I go now to get dthem. I vas dthinking if Madame vould like Senorita to choose them." "No; Blanche does seem a little tired. I couldn't let her go. I think we must trust your taste, Baron; I can hardly spare the time and strength for any more exploring tonight." "No, indeed, you mustn't go," says Mrs. Baldwin. "I've some wonderful antiquities from a buried Aztec city to show you. When you finish those views"--she glances at me--"you'll find us in the next room. I won't say good-bye to you, Baron; of course, you'll be back. Come, Mrs. Steele"--and they go into an adjoining room. "If you air not too tire, Senorita, you better come to dthe gallery and choose dthe pictures. Dthe Consul say it ees near here." "Oh, really? Yes, I'll go; I know just the ones Mrs. Steele wants. You will tell her where we've gone, won't you?--we won't be long," I say to Mrs. Baldwin's young sister, who is chattering French to the consul. "Yes," she answers. "It's my opinion you won't find the gallery open so late as this; but, of course, you can try." "Oh, I hope it won't be shut. Good-bye." "Good-bye." The small servant nodding on the veranda takes us past the palm-shaded _patio_, and through the dark vestibule. "_Gracias!_" I say to the dusky little servitor as the huge door opens. "_Si! Si!_ Dthousand thanks," mutters the Baron as the bolts fall behind us, and we are out in the moonlit street. He draws my hand through his arm. "What makes your heart beat so?" I say. "Come on the right side;" he changes me quickly to the other arm, and I laugh at my acuteness, little dreaming what the Baron's well-disguised excitement foreboded. We turn down a narrow, ill-lighted street. "What a lovely night! It makes one feel strangely, doesn't it, to be out after dark in a foreign city that no one you know has ever visited, and that seemed in geography days as far off as the moon?" I get no answer to my small observations, and we walk on. "The gallery isn't as near as I thought." "It ees not far, Blanca; you air fery lofely in dthe moonlight." "I'm glad to know what is required to make me lovely." "You air alvays 'wonderschoen' to me--but you look too clevair zometimes in dthe day. In dthis moonlight you look so gentle--like a leedle child. Blanca, zay again you loaf me." He holds my hand close and bends down until I feel his hot breath on my cheek. "I can't say _again_ what I never said once." I begin to walk faster. "Ve air not _abord du San Miguel_; no von see, no von hear. I know in my heart you loaf me; tell me so vonce! Blanca!" The music and entreaty in the deep voice thrill me strangely. "Oh, Blanca darling, keess me!" My puny resistance is nothing to those athlete's arms; he holds me close one instant and I, breathless, struggle to free my hands, and push his hot cheek away from mine. "How dare you; you are no gentleman!"