almost indifferent. She wore a white gown and a
rose in her hair. A rosebush as dense as an
arbor spread its prickly arms between herself and
the windows of the house.

"Good-evening," she whispered.

Rezanov gave the grill an angry shake. (San-
tiago had considerately retired.) "Come out," he
said peremptorily, "or let me in."

"There is but one gate, senor, and that is directly
in front of the house door, that stands open--"

"Then I shall get over the wall--"

"Madre de Dios! You would leave your fine
clothes and more on the thorns. My cousin planted
those roses not for ornament, but to let the blood of
defiant lovers. Not one has come twice--"

"Do you think I came here to talk to you through
a grating? I am no serenading Spaniard."

His eyes were blazing. Adobe is not stone.
Rezanov took the light bars in both hands and
wrenched them out; then, as Concha, divided be-
tween laughter and a sudden timidity, would have
retreated, he dexterously clasped her neck and drew
her head through the embrasure. As Santiago,