Hitching the amiable Rozinante, he throws himself upon the turf beneath the foliage-massed branches of the royal palm, and lights a cigar; as he smokes he grows thoughtful. And from rumination he drifts into moralizing, addressing himself to Rozinante.
“Look here, Rozinante; if you have any horse sense that you’re not using you might assist your master to extricate himself from somewhat of a quandary. As you know, I came to Cuba principally on business for my paper, incidentally to trail down a murder mystery and again incidentally to follow a fair face belonging to the beautiful Louise Hathaway. A good many chaps in my place would have fallen hopelessly in love with Miss Hathaway at first sight, but I—well, that is not the cause of my quandary. If it were, I could easily dismiss it with a philosophical ‘there is no accounting for the tastes of most women.’ Ah, no, Rozinante; it is something far more serious; for what I want to ask you, Rozinante, is whether you believe that I, in my old age, have been so indiscreet as to fall in love?”
But Rozinante, being a well-bred equine, declines to poke his nose into young people’s affairs and continues his grass-cropping.
“See how the case stands, Rozinante,” continues Jack, tossing a pebble at his four-footed companion to enforce attention. “On the one hand is the Senorita Juanita de Quesada, the acknowledged Pearl of the Antilles, the adored of all the beaux in Santiago; Juanita, the beautiful, the accomplished, and the only child of the wealthy and elderly Don Manuel de Quesada, who is likely to become the president de facto of this cheerful country if the yellow fever continues to wilt the imported flower of the chivalry of Spain. On the other hand, Rozinante, look at me.”
At this moment Rozinante lifts his head and blinks comically at Ashley, who grins back in the best of humors.
“Oh, I know what you are thinking about, Rozinante. You are saying to yourself: ‘What a presumptuous fellow! But he is just like all Americans.’ Well, you are not far from right, Rozzy. We Americans are a bit fresh. But that is a digression. To return to our subject, which is the always agreeable one of myself. Now, I am not a bad-looking chap. You can see that, Roz, with one eye. And I am fairly bright and all that. But hang it! I haven’t a bank account bigger than three figures, and it will require nerve, my grass-eating friend, to step up to the wealthy Don Quesada and say: ‘Don, old boy, I love your daughter. May I ask your blessing?’ No one ever accused me of lacking in nerve, but have I enough to supply the demand of such an occasion? Of course, if Don Quesada becomes president of the republic of Cuba, and makes me his cabinet-premier, I might buy a sugar plantation and become enormously wealthy. But that, Rozinante, as you are probably aware, is a twenty-to-one shot.
“The most perplexing feature of the whole affair is the fact that I have no good reason to suppose that the dark-eyed Juanita returns in the slightest degree the deep interest which I feel in her personal welfare. I know that she likes me—why shouldn’t she?—but her maidenly reserve I do not seem to be able to successfully penetrate. Again, my equine friend, I am not so certain that she is not hopelessly in love with that effeminate, downy-cheeked, pink-and-white and milk-and-water Don Carlos. And how any woman can—But, pshaw! What is the use in quarreling with the chap? And what is the use of my lounging longer here, talking at an unappreciative audience? Ah, Juanita, if you would but encourage me a bit I would soon solve my perplexity. Just a draught from this spring back in the bushes, Rozinante, and then we will jog along toward Santos.”
As Ashley bends over the spring the grating of carriage wheels sounds in the road.
A volante flashes by at what seems reckless speed; but the Cuban volante cannot upset. Two ladies are in the vehicle, and as they sweep by they glance curiously at the tethered horse. An instant later they are gone, and the young man who emerges hastily from the bushes and looks down the dust-veiled road emits a long, low whistle.
“Juanita! And unless my usually correct vision is deceived, her companion is my old friend Isabel Harding. The dove and the serpent! What the deuce is the meaning of this unholy intimacy? By heaven, Rozinante,” mutters Ashley, as he untethers his horse and vaults into the saddle, “the presence of Isabel Harding at Santos augurs no good to the house of Quesada. Don Manuel must be warned at once.” And kicking Rozinante’s ample sides Ashley forces that amiable beast into a violent canter.