I finish a hasty toilet and follow Mrs. Steele on deck. The Baron is waiting—he looks pale and rather graver than usual.
"Good-morning, Señorita," he says, and we shake hands. "Haf you sleep?"
"Oh, yes," I say, accepting the coffee he has ordered. "I always sleep."
The first faint flush of the coming splendour spreads above the hills as we push off from the San Miguel. Deeper and deeper grow the purple and the saffron till long shafts of golden light shoot up from hilltop to high heaven, and the great red sun of the tropics peers an instant over the mountain wall that shuts in Acapulco.
"This is a sunrise I think we shall never forget," says Mrs. Steele with grave enjoyment.
The Baron and I say nothing.
The air blows cool and fresh, and we skirt the rugged beach, close to the high-piled rocks at the water's edge, till we come to a cocoa grove sheltering a few thatched cottages.
The Baron gives some direction to the boatman, and we are moored in shallow water. The Mexican jumps out of the boat and disappears in the grove. The water is so clear we have been able to see the bottom for a long time, and now the Baron shows me how to use a boathook in spearing the red starfish. We succeed in bringing up several, but they turn brown when out of the water and are said to sting. So we throw them back and turn to hear the Indian water-women singing and laughing as they follow the winding, rugged path half way up the heights. The red-brown feet and ankles must be as strong as they are shapely; the arms holding aloft the water jars are well moulded and taper finely to the wrist; splendid freedom is in every motion and a grace their fairer sisters have forgotten. I see the admiration in Baron de Bach's face.
"You like that type?" I ask.
"It ees part of dthe landscape," he answers; "ve like it in dthe picture. Ve put more deeferent vomans in our hearts and homes."