both by strangers and friends. It stood at a corner of the Street
of the Holy Sepulchre. A grove of small orange-trees crowded against
one side of it, enclosed by a low, rock wall over which a tall man
might easily step. The house was of plastered adobe, stained a
hundred shades of color by the salt breeze and the sun. Upon its
upper balcony opened a central door and two windows containing broad
jalousies instead of sashes.

The lower floor communicated by two doorways with the narrow,
rock-paved sidewalk. The ~pulperia~--or drinking shop--of the
proprietess, Madama Timotea Ortiz, occupied the ground floor. On
the bottles of brandy, ~anisada~, Scotch "smoke," and inexpensive
wines behind the little counter the dust lay thick save where the
fingers of infrequent customers had left irregular prints. The upper
story contained four or five guest-rooms which were rarely put to
their destined use. Sometimes a fruitgrower, riding in from his
plantation to confer with his agent, would pass a melancholy night
in the dismal upper story; sometimes a minor native official on some
trifling government quest would have his pomp and majesty awed by
Madama's sepulchral hospitality. But Madama sat behind her bar
content, not desiring to quarrel with Fate. If any one required
meat, drink or lodging at the Hotel de los Extranjeros they had but
to come, and be served. ~Esta bueno~. If they came not, why, then,
they came not. ~Esta bueno~.

As the exceptional yachtsman was making his way down the precarious
sidewalk of the Street of the Holy Sepulchre, the solitary permanent
guest of that decaying hotel sat at its door, enjoying the breeze
from the sea.