A brief sight of Columbus’ Landfall served to break the monotony; then followed a swift flight past low, tropical islands ringed with coral sand, upon which broke a lazy, milk-white surf.  Through the glasses villages were spied, backed by palm groves and guarded by tall sentinel lighthouses; but the Santa Cruz pushed steadily southward, her decks as level as a dancing floor, the melancholy voice of her bell tolling the leagues as they slipped past.  The eastern tongue of Cuba rose out of the horizon, then dropped astern, and the gentle trades began to fan the travellers.  Now that they were in the Caribbean, schools of flying fish whisked out from under the ship’s prow, and away, like tiny silver-sheathed arrows.  New constellations rose into the evening sky.  It became impossible to rest indoors, with the trade-winds calling, and the passengers spent long, lazy hours basking in the breath of the tropics and grudging the pleasure of which sleep deprived them.

It was the last night of the voyage, and the thrill of approaching land was felt by all.  As usual, the monotony of the first day or two had given way to an idle contentment and a vague regret at leaving the ship and severing the ties so newly made.  Home, instead of looming close and overshadowing, had become a memory rather indistinct and blurred, clouded by the proximity of the new and unknown.

Kirk Anthony acknowledged to a reluctant enjoyment of the change and found himself less eager to go back.  As he paced the deck after dinner he felt a lurking desire to defer his return until he had absorbed something more of this warmth and languor; he even reflected that he might welcome a stay of some length in the tropics if it were not for the fact that he had so much to do.

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.”