"I'm not sure of that," Walthew answered. "You see I was out for money."
"And that was all!" Blanca exclaimed in a half-contemptuous tone.
"I think so," Walthew admitted. "My people are traders and I suppose money-making runs in the family. Still, I might claim to be a soldier of fortune, if you like that better. It's more romantic, anyhow."
"Ah!" she said with a sparkle in her eyes. "There were great soldiers of fortune among the liberators; one thinks of Bolivar, Lafayette, and Garibaldi. But the brave Italian had wounds and prison, not money, for his reward."
"These fellows are too near the top notch for me to follow. I know my limits," Walthew modestly owned.
"One should follow the highest, and chivalry is not dead; even commerce cannot kill it. There are still knights errant, who see visions and leave everything, to right the wrong and help the downtrodden. It has been my good fortune to meet one or two."
"Your Cervantes wrote about one such. Seems to me that although he meant well, Don Quixote did more harm than good."
"Ah, the sad, sad book! But you think like Cervantes? You sneer at romance?"
"I'm young, señorita, but I try to keep my head." He gave her a steady glance. "Sometimes I find it difficult."
She laughed with a sparkle of coquetry, and touched him with her fan.