outside was nearly intolerable. In the middle of
the dirty patio a fountain splashed in a broken marble basin, and it was
dim, and by contrast cool, under the arcade where Kit sat among the
crumbling pillars. The presidio was a relic of Spanish dominion and its
founders had built it well, copying, with such materials as they could
get, stately models the Moors had left in the distant Peninsula. A part
had fallen and blocks of sun-baked mud lay about in piles, but the long,
white front, with its battlemented top and narrow, barred windows stood
firm. In spite of the ruinous patio, the presidio was the finest building
in the town.

The others, so far as Kit could see, were squares of mud, for the most
part whitewashed, although some were colored pink and cream. The glare
they reflected was dazzling, but a row of limp palmettos ran between them
and the space in front of the presidio, and here and there Kit noted
rounded masses of vivid green. Except for the splash of the fountain, all
was very quiet, and although the shadows had lengthened it looked as if
the half-breed citizens were still enjoying their afternoon sleep. Now
and then a barefooted sentry noiselessly passed the arch. He wore a dirty
white uniform and ragged palm-leaf hat, but carried a good modern rifle,
and Kit knew where the latter had come from. The country was rich with
coffee, rubber, sugar, and dyewoods. Its inhabitants, however, for the
most part, preferred political intrigue to cultivation; its government
was corrupt, and prosperity had vanished with the Spaniards' firm rule.

A table carrying some very small glasses and coffee-cups stood in the
arcade. Don Hernando Alvarez occupied the other side, and Kit imagined it
was not by accident he sat with his back to a whitewashed pillar, since
he was in the shadow and as he wore white clothes could not be seen a
short distance off. Don Hernando's hair was coarse and his skin dark. His
face was well molded, although the cheek-bones were prominent; his black
eyes were keen and his thin lips firm. He wore a plain red sash, with no
other touch of color except a bit of riband on his breast. It was obvious
that he was not a Peninsular, as pure-blooded Spaniards call themselves,
but he looked like a man who must be reckoned on. Just then his dark face
was moody.

"You have come in good time," he said to Adam Askew, in Castilian. "I
think the curtain will soon go up for the last act of the drama, but the
plot