"What Spanish colony?"
"Of all things, do you mean to tell me that you never heard of it?"
"I do."
"Well," I said, "it's wonderful how much New Yorkers don't know about themselves. This place was settled a long time ago by the few Spaniards there were in this part of the country, and they've stuck together ever since. I don't believe there are a hundred people in the city that know about the place. Maybe it's on account of the war, when these people had to keep pretty quiet, but whatever it is, they are here. I've been through here before and I've often wished that I could have stopped off. Now the Lord seems to have taken matters into His own hands."
If there was anything Henderson enjoyed it was tales and relics of the old Romance lands, and I knew it. Then there was my ankle, which was throbbing painfully.
"If your old foot really is as bad as you say," said Henderson, "why, we can put up here over night. To-morrow is Sunday, you know, and we don't have to be back."
He spoke condescendingly, but I knew that if I suggested that after all we might get back he would almost get down on his knees and plead with me. So I spared him the trouble. We started again toward the little hamlet. Henderson wanted to stop at the first house we came to, but I pulled him on.
"Let's tackle that larger white one ahead there to the right," I suggested. "It looks to be the best of the lot—and besides, the last time I was through here I noticed a mighty pretty girl standing in the doorway—one of those black-eyed story-book senoritas you so dote on."
"I'm surprised at a man of your age and dignity noticing senoritas," he laughed. Nevertheless he turned into the little garden and raised the iron knocker.
The door was opened almost instantly by a short, rather stoutish man, well past the prime of life. There was nothing in his dress to mark him from the average middle-class New Yorker, but his face was swarthy and the hair that was not grey was glistening black. We explained our desires.