The casa was built upon a level, where the hill ceased to be a hill just long enough to allow of a broad foundation for Don Gil's improvements. At the edge of the veranda the hill sloped gently again for the distance of a hundred yards, and then dropped in a short but steep declivity to the sand beach.
The old habitation had been built entirely of palm boards, but in its place, at the bidding of Don Gil, had arisen a new and more modern erection, whose only material was mahogany. Pilotijos, escaleras, ligazones, verandas, techos, all were hewn and formed of the fine red mahogany. The boards were unpolished, it is true, but dark and rich in tone. They made a cool interior, where, coming from the white glare outside, body and eye alike were at once at rest. The covering of the techos was the glazed tile of Italy. Perhaps one should speak of the roofs as tejados, as they were covered with tiles. This tiling proved a beacon by day, as it glittered in the blazing light of the sun of the tropics.
Agueda guided her horse up the path between the two dead palm trees, and rapped with the stock of her whip upon the counting-house door, which stood partly open.
"Entra," was the reply. She rapped again.
"It is I who cannot enter, Señor," she called in her clear, young voice. "I have not the time to dismount."
An inner door was opened and closed. A fine-looking young fellow stepped across the intervening space and appeared upon the threshold of the outer door. He raised his brows; he did not know Agueda. Don Beltran made various pretexts for her absence when he had visitors.
Agueda held out the note. It was crumpled and dusty from being held in her hand.
"I am sorry," she said; "the day is hot, and my Castaño is not quiet."
Don Gil gazed with interest at the boyish-looking figure riding astride the little chestnut. "What a handsome lad she would make!" he thought. "And you are from—"
"It makes no difference for me. I bring a message."