A pearl, indeed, incomparable and above price for all who could appreciate the charms and graces of bright blooming girlhood.

Mariquita Hidalgo was still in her teens—­a woman full grown, but with the frank, innocent face of a child.  A slender figure, tall, but well-rounded and beautifully poised, having the free, elastic movement of her Spanish ancestors, whose women are the best walkers in the world.  She had, too, the olive complexion as clear and transparent as wax, the full crimson lips, the magnificent eyes, dark and lustrous, the indices of an ardent temperament capable of the deepest passion, the strongest love, or fiercest hate.

A very gracious figure indeed was this splendid specimen of a handsome race, as she stood there coyly talking to the man of her choice.

The contrast was strongly marked between them.  She, with raven hair, dark skin, and soft brown eyes, was a perfect Southern brunette:  quick, impatient, impulsive, easily moved.  He, fresh-coloured, blue-eyed, with flaxen moustache, stalwart in frame, self-possessed, reserved, almost cold and impassive in demeanour, was as excellent a type of a native of the North.

“What brings you this way, Senor don Sargento, at this time of day?” said Mariquita.  “Was it to see me?  It was unwise, indiscreet; my aunt—­”

“I have been on duty at Waterport,” replied McKay, with a rather ungallant frankness that made Mariquita pout.

“It is plain I am only second in your thoughts.  Duty—­always duty.  Why did not you come last night to the Alameda when the band played?”

“I could not, star of my soul!  I was on guard.”

“Did I not say so?—­duty again!  And to-morrow?  It is Sunday; you promised to take me to Europa to see the great cave.  Is that, too, impossible?”

McKay shook his head laughingly, and said—­

“You must not be angry with me, Mariquita; our visit to Europa must be deferred; I am on duty every day.  They have made me orderly—­”

“I do not believe you,” interrupted the girl, pettishly.  “Go about your business!  Do not trouble to come here again, Don Stanislas.  Benito will take me where I want to go.”

“I will break Benito’s head whenever I catch him in your company,” said the young serjeant, with so much energy that Mariquita was obliged to laugh.  “Come, dearest, be more reasonable.  It is not my fault, you know; I am never happy away from your side.  But, remember, I am a soldier, and must obey the orders I receive.”

“I was wrong to love a soldier,” said Mariquita, growing sad and serious all at once.  “Some day you will get orders to march—­to India, Constantinople, Russia—­where can any one say?—­and I shall never see you more.”

This trouble of parting near at hand had already arisen, and half-spoilt McKay’s delight at the prospect of sailing for the East.

“Do you think I shall ever forget you?  If I go, it will be to win promotion, fame—­a better, higher, more honourable position for you to share.”