Mrs. Cortlandt joined him as usual, and they did a mile around the
promenade, chatting idly of many things. The evening was too
glorious to permit of early retiring, and a late hour found them
leaning over the rail, side by side, while Anthony bewailed the
fact that he knew nothing of the country just beyond the dark
horizon ahead of them.
"You are quite right," his companion agreed. "You will miss its
best flavor if you don't know the history back of it. For
instance, we are now on the Spanish Main, the traditional home of
romance and adventure."
"I always wanted to be a pirate," he acknowledged gravely, "up to
fifteen. Then I thought I'd rather run a candy store."
"The ships of Sir Henry Morgan and the galleons of His Catholic
Majesty Philip of Spain sailed these waters. Over yonder"--she
waved a graceful hand to the north and east--"are the haunts where
the adventurers of old England used to lie in wait for their prey.
Ahead of us is the land that Pizarro soaked with blood. We're
coming into the oldest country on this side of the globe, Mr.
Anthony, where men lived in peace and plenty when most of Europe
was a wilderness. I suppose such things appeal more to a woman's
fancy than to a man's, but to me they're mightily alluring.
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