Mariquita Hidalgo was still in her teens--a woman full grown, but with
the frank, innocent face of a child. A slender figure, tall, but
well-rounded and beautifully poised, having the free, elastic movement
of her Spanish ancestors, whose women are the best walkers in the
world. She had, too, the olive complexion as clear and transparent as
wax, the full crimson lips, the magnificent eyes, dark and lustrous,
the indices of an ardent temperament capable of the deepest passion,
the strongest love, or fiercest hate.
A very gracious figure indeed was this splendid specimen of a handsome
race, as she stood there coyly talking to the man of her choice.
The contrast was strongly marked between them. She, with raven hair,
dark skin, and soft brown eyes, was a perfect Southern brunette:
quick, impatient, impulsive, easily moved. He, fresh-coloured,
blue-eyed, with flaxen moustache, stalwart in frame, self-possessed,
reserved, almost cold and impassive in demeanour, was as excellent a
type of a native of the North.
"What brings you this way, Senor don Sargento, at this time of day?"
said Mariquita. "Was it to see me? It was unwise, indiscreet; my
aunt--"
"I have been on duty at Waterport," replied McKay, with a rather
ungallant frankness that made Mariquita pout.
"It is plain I am only second in your thoughts.
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