CHAPTER XVII
THE SHORTEST WAY HOME
The moon was shining in that city of the picturesque past. Its light fell silvery on the narrow streets, the old adobe houses, the listless palms. In every shadow seemed to lurk the memory of a love long dead—a love of the old passionate Spanish days. A soft breeze came whispering from the very sea Ponce de Leon had sailed. It was as if at a signal—a bugle-call, a rose thrown from a window, the boom of a cannon at the water's edge—the forgotten past of hot hearts, of arms equally ready for cutlass or slender waist, could live again.
And Minot was as one who had heard such a signal. He loved. The obstacle that had confronted him, wrung his heart, left him helpless, was swept away. He was like a man who, released from prison, sees the sky, the green trees, the hills again. He loved! The moon was shining!
He stood amid the colorful blooms of the hotel courtyard and looked up at her window, with its white curtain waving gently in the breeze. He called, softly. And then he saw her face, peering out as some senorita of the old days from her lattice—
"I've news—very important news," he said. "May I see you a moment?"
Far better this than the telephone or the bellboy. Far more in keeping with the magic of the night.
She came, dressed in the white that set off so well her hair of gleaming copper. Minot met her on the veranda. She smiled into his eyes inquiringly.
"Do you mind—a little walk?" he asked.
"Where to?"
"Say to the fort—the longest way."