could be no other woman so beautiful in Honduras, except the daughter
of Joseph Fiske. Had not Aiken said of her, "When she passes, the
native women kneel by the trail and cross themselves?"

I rode toward her fearfully, conscious only of a sudden deep flood
ofgratitude for anything so nobly beautiful. I was as humbly thankful
as
the crusader who is rewarded by his first sight of the Holy City, and
I was glad, too, that I came into her presence worthily, riding in
advance of a regiment. I was proud of our triumphant music, of our
captured flags and guns, and the men behind me, who had taken them.

I still watched her as our column drew nearer, and she pulled her pony
to one side to let it pass. I felt as though I were marching in review
before an empress, and I all but lifted my sword-blade in salute.

But as we passed I saw that the look on her face was that of a
superior and critical adversary. It was a glance of amused disdain,
softened only by a smile of contempt. As it fell upon me I blushed to
the rim of my sombrero. I felt as meanly as though I had been caught
in a lie. With her eyes, I saw the bare feet of our negro band, our
ill-fitting uniforms with their flannel facings, the swagger of our
officers, glancing pompously from their half-starved, unkempt ponies
upon the native Indians, who fawned at us from the sidewalks.

I saw that to her we were so many red-shirted firemen, dragging a
wooden hose-cart; a company of burnt-cork minstrels, kicking up the
dust of a village street; that we were ridiculous, lawless, absurd,
and it was like a blow over my heart that one so noble-looking should
be so blind and so unjust. I was swept with bitter indignation. I