The narrow fissure between its walls was aflow with the evening current
of promenaders, crowding its scant breadth, and sending up a medley of
laughter and musical sibilants. Grandees strolled stiffly erect with
long capes thrown back across their left shoulders to show the brave
color of velvet linings. Young dandies of army and navy, conscious of
their multi-colored uniforms, sifted along through the press, toying
with rigidly-waxed mustaches and regarding the warm beauty of their
countrywomen through keen, appreciative eyes, not untinged with
sensuousness. Here and there a common hombre in short jacket, wide,
low-crowned sombrero and red sash, zig-zagged through the
pleasure-seekers to cut into a darker side street whence drifted pungent
whiffs of garlic, black olives and peppers from the stalls of the street
salad-venders. Occasionally a Moor in fez and wide-bagging trousers,
passed silently through the volatile chatter, looking on with jet eyes
and lips drawn down in an impervious dignity.
They found a table in one of the more prominent cafés from which they
could view through the plate-glass front the parade in the street, as
well as the groups of coffee-sippers within.
"Yonder," prompted Blanco, indicating with his eyes a near-by group, "he
with the green-lined cape, is the Duke de Tavira, one of the richest men
in Spain--it is on his estate that they breed the bulls for the rings of
Cadiz and Seville. Yonder, quarreling over politics, are newspaper men
and Republicans. Yonder, artists." He catalogued and assorted for the
American the personalities about the place, presuming the curiosity
which should be the tourist's attribute-in-chief.
"And at the large table--yonder under the potted palms, and
half-screened by the plants--who are they?" questioned Benton
perfunctorily. "They appear singularly engrossed in their talk."
"Assume to look the other way, Señor, so they will not suspect that
we speak of them," cautioned the Andalusian. "I dare say that if one
could overhear what they say, he could sell his news at his own price.
Who knows but they may plan new colors for the map of Southern Europe?"
Benton's gaze wandered over to the table in question, then came
uninquisitively back to Blanco's impassive face. It took more than
European politics to distract him.
"International intrigue?" he inquired.
The eyes of the other were idly contemplating the street windows, and as
he talked he did not turn them toward the men whom he described.
Occasionally he looked at Benton and then vacantly back to the street
parade, or the red end of his own cigarette.
"There is a small, and, in itself, an unimportant Kingdom with
Mediterranean sea-front, called Galavia," said Blanco. Benton's start
was slight, and his features if they gave a telltale wince at the word
became instantly casual again in expression. But his interest was no
longer forced by courtesy. It hung from that moment fixed on the
narrative.