There was indeed a sound of some one’s crying, a sound that came nearer every moment.
“It is most unusual to hear a sound of weeping in the Alhambra au clair de la lune,” said Rodrigo. “If the Señorita will permit me, I shall find out the cause.”
Soon he came back with a girl whose cheeks glistened with tears.
“She is a dancer,” Rodrigo explained. “She says she is Italian, but—” With a shrug of the shoulders he gave Sylvia to understand that he accepted no responsibility for her statement. It was Carnival.
Sylvia asked the new-comer in French what was the matter, but for some time she could only sob without saying a word. Rodrigo, who was regarding her with a mixture of disapproval and compassion, considered that she had reached the stage—he spoke with all possible respect for the Señorita, who must not suppose herself included in his generalization—the stage of incoherence that is so much more frequent with women than with men whose feelings have been upset. If he might suggest a remedy to the Señorita, it would be to leave her alone for a few minutes and continue the interrupted music. They had come here to enjoy the Alhambra by moonlight; it seemed a pity to allow the grief of an unknown dancer to spoil the beauty of the scene, grief that probably had nothing to do with the Alhambra, but was an echo of the world below. It might be a lovers’ quarrel due to the discovery of a masked flirtation, a thing of no importance compared with the Alhambra by moonlight.
“I’m not such a philosopher as you, Rodrigo. I am a poor, inquisitive woman.”
Certainly inquisitiveness might be laid to the charge of the feminine sex, he agreed, but not to all. There must be exceptions, and with a gesture expressive of tolerance for the weaknesses of womankind he managed to convey his intention of excepting Sylvia from Eve’s heritage. Human nature was not all woven to the same pattern. Many of his friends, for instance, would fail to appreciate the Alhambra on such a night, and would prefer to blow horns in the streets.
By this time the grief of the stranger was less noisy, and Sylvia again asked her who she was and why she was weeping. She spoke in English this time; the fair, slim child, for when one looked at her she was scarcely more than fifteen, brightened.
“I don’t know where I was,” she said.
Rodrigo clicked his tongue and shook his head; he was shocked by this avowal much more deeply than in his sense of locality. Sylvia was puzzled by her accent. The ‘w’s’ were nearly ‘v’s,’ but the intonation was Italian.