Here was a pure Spaniard, with a red sash round his waist, and a
velvet cap, round as a cartwheel, on his head, with a boatful of
vegetables and early fruit. There was a grave and sedate Moor, in
green turban and white flowing robes, with an assortment of
gold-braided slippers and large brass trays. Next a Maltese
milk-seller, in scanty garments, nothing but short canvas trousers and
a shirt, who had come with cans full of goats'-milk from the herds he
kept on the barren slopes of the Rock. Not far off was the galley of
the health-officer, with a crew of "scorpion" boatmen in neat white
jackets and straw hats.
On the deck of the yacht, under an awning--for the spring sun already
beat down hotly at noon--were the owner and his guests. Lord Lydstone,
cigar in mouth, lounged lazily upon a heap of rugs and cushions at the
feet of Mrs. Wilders, who took her ease luxuriantly in a comfortable
cane arm-chair.
Blanche Cyprienne, Countess of St. Clair, had changed little since her
marriage. Her beauty had gained rather than lost; her manner was more
commanding, her look more haughty. Her fine eyes flashed insolently,
or were veiled in lazy disdain, and her voice spoke scornfully or
drawled with careless contempt, according to her mood.
"So that is the Rock--the great Rock of Gibraltar," she was saying.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59