It was
like a woman, he reflected, to follow her mood to the last
extreme, and, being a man, he was not displeased. The change in
her manner was too elusive for him to analyze. There was no real
concession of her reserve--no sacrifice of the feminine privilege
of prompt and complete withdrawal. If he had struck a false note,
he knew that she would have turned frigid in an instant. But he
could not help feeling that some barrier which had existed between
them had been magically removed. Her apparent obliviousness to all
that under the circumstances might have troubled her was a subtle
compliment to himself, and soon he, too, forgot that there was
anything in the world beyond their present relation to each other.
It was on their return to the house that the climax came, leaving
him strangely shaken.
Their course took them past a tiny cantina. It was open in front,
and brightly lighted, although at this hour most of the houses
were dark and the village lay wrapped in the inky shadow of the
mountain behind. Within, several men were carousing--dark-haired,
swarthy fellows, who seemed to be fishermen. Drawn by the sound of
argument, the strangers paused a moment to watch them. The quarrel
seemed a harmless affair, and they were about to pass on, when
suddenly one of the disputants lunged at his antagonist with a
knife, conjured from nowhere, and the two came tumbling out into
the street, nearly colliding with the onlookers.
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