“You could forget—nay, I should not be surprised if you have already forgotten—all but the fact that your mistress is a blonde, with bright golden hair. Is it not so?”
“I confess, Captain, that I should make but a poor portrait of her from memory.”
“And, were I a painter, I could throw her features upon the canvas as truly as if they were before me. I see her face outlined upon these broad leaves—her dark eyes burning in the flash of the cocuyo—her long black hair drooping from the feathery fringes of the palm—and her—”
“Stop! You are dreaming, Captain! Her eyes are not dark—her hair is not black.”
“What! Her eyes not dark?—as ebony, or night!”
“Blue as a turquoise!”
“Black! What are you thinking of?”
“‘Mary of the Light’.”
“Oh, that is quite a different affair!” and my friend and I laughed heartily at our mutual misconceptions.
We rode on, again relapsing into silence. The stillness of the night was broken only by the heavy hoof bounding back from the hard turf, the jingling of spurs, or the ringing of the iron scabbard as it struck against the moving flanks of our horses.