“Ah!” he said. “It is a beautiful night—a glorious night! Never have I dreamed that so far up here in the North they could have such nights. I am a child of the South, and to me the North has ever seemed cold, and sterile, and barren, and devoid of all that’s beautiful and attractive. I love beautiful things. I love the flowers, the birds, the open air, the sunshine, almost everything but darkness. Somehow I don’t like darkness. It oppresses me! It crowds me! In the moonlight I am happy, but let the moon go behind a cloud and I am heavy-hearted. At night I sleep always with a light within reach of my hand. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Strange!” exclaimed Elsie. “Yes, it is. I have known children and women who always slept with a light burning, but it’s a rare thing for a man. Isn’t it possible, señor, that you have a reason for being afraid of the darkness?”
“Possibly I have,” he admitted at once. “My father was murdered at midnight on a very dark night. My mother heard the blows and tried to aid him. She sprang to his assistance and grappled with his assailants. They beat her down. She was stricken unconscious to the floor. When she recovered she struck a light, and it fell on the dead body of my father, who had been stabbed nineteen distinct times. My mother never forgot it. She told me of it scores of times. No wonder I hate the darkness!”
He gave a heavy sigh and then suddenly exclaimed:
“A thousand pardons, ladies! I hope I’ve not disturbed you by this little story. I should not have mentioned it. It’s a gruesome thing, and I don’t like to think of it myself. Miss Bellwood led me into telling you about it.”
“I am very interested,” declared Inza immediately. “Why was your father murdered?”
“It’s a very long story. I cannot tell you everything in connection with it now, but there were enemies who wished him out of the way. You know my family has been connected with revolutions and government troubles ever since the days of Miguel Hidalgo. And I may add, by the way, that the blood of the Hidalgoes runs in my veins. I can trace my family back to Aneta Hidalgo, the half-sister of the famous priest who led the first insurrection against the provincial government.”
“Your family history must be very interesting, señor,” said Inza. “I should love to hear something of it.”
“Perhaps you may some time, señorita,” he bowed. “Just now it would give me pleasure to amuse you both with the guitar, if you don’t object.”
“Not in the least,” Inza hastened to say.