The Lighted Match - Page 79/142

"Tell us another story--" piped a high treble voice, "--a story about

the beautiful Princess who married the King." The demand was seconded by

an immediate clamor of eager voices.

The girl rose unsteadily and shook her head. For a moment she stood

looking off over the miles of sea with her hands at her breast and her

eyes clouded, oblivious of the small companions of her truancy. She

stretched out both strong young arms toward the Mediterranean.

Then she heeded the children's clamor again and, turning to them, she

laughed.

"No, no!" she teasingly answered, and the man above realized for the

first time that Portuguese is a tongue of liquid music. "These are fairy

stories without Princesses. These are perfectly good fairy stories, you

know." Then with a sudden burst of confidence, "In really-truly life,

Princesses are not much good. Don't any of you ever be a Princess if you

can help it!" After planting this seed of treasonable ideas she turned

away, adding: "No, no, no! I've run away and I must go back. To-morrow

we will have a wonderful story--but no more to-day."

Slowly she made her way down to the old gate, stopping twice to look out

to the sea, and above her, choking off the shout that clamored at his

lips, the man sat motionless and gave no intimation of his presence.

Finally he rose and made his way unsteadily back to the city. He walked

slowly down between the wine-shops, noisy with laughter, to the road

along the bay. Immersed in reflection and forgetful of his resolution to

keep as much as possible out of sight, he went openly and conspicuously

along the street that overhangs the water, where at sunset all Puntal

promenades. It was only when a detachment of soldiers in the familiar

opera-bouffe uniform went clanking by to change the guard at the Palace

gates that he remembered he was to have remained inconspicuous. With a

sense of chagrin for his indiscretion, he turned into a side street

which sloped upward toward his hotel. This street was so little used

that between its cobble stones tender sprigs of grass made the way as

green as a turf course.