He went blindly, scarcely aware of the sun-mottled
trail his feet were following, for his wits were a-flutter and his
heart was leaping to some strange intoxication that grew with
every instant.
It threatened to suffuse him, choke him, rob him of his senses; he
wanted to cry out. Her name was Chiquita. He repeated it over and
over in time to his steps. Was there ever such a beautiful name?
Was there ever such a ravishing little wood-sprite? And her sweet,
hesitating accent that rang in his ears! How could human tongue
make such caressing music of the harshest language on the globe?
She had called him "Senor Antonio," and invited him to come again
to-morrow. Would he come? He doubted his ability to wait so long.
Knowing that she agreed to the tryst, no power on earth could
deter him.
What a day it had been! He had started out in the morning, vaguely
hoping to divert his mind with some of those trite little
happenings that for lack of a better term we call adventures in
this humdrum world. And then, with the miraculous, unbelievable
luck of youth, he had stumbled plump into the middle of the most
wondrous adventure it was possible to conceive. And yet this
wasn't adventure, after all--it was something bigger, finer, more
precious.
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