The Lighted Match

The narrow fissure between its walls was aflow with the evening current

of promenaders, crowding its scant breadth, and sending up a medley of

laughter and musical sibilants. Grandees strolled stiffly erect with

long capes thrown back across their left shoulders to show the brave

color of velvet linings. Young dandies of army and navy, conscious of

their multi-colored uniforms, sifted along through the press, toying

with rigidly-waxed mustaches and regarding the warm beauty of their

countrywomen through keen, appreciative eyes, not untinged with

sensuousness. Here and there a common hombre in short jacket, wide,

low-crowned sombrero and red sash, zig-zagged through the

pleasure-seekers to cut into a darker side street whence drifted pungent

whiffs of garlic, black olives and peppers from the stalls of the street

salad-venders. Occasionally a Moor in fez and wide-bagging trousers,

passed silently through the volatile chatter, looking on with jet eyes

and lips drawn down in an impervious dignity.

They found a table in one of the more prominent cafés from which they

could view through the plate-glass front the parade in the street, as

well as the groups of coffee-sippers within.

"Yonder," prompted Blanco, indicating with his eyes a near-by group, "he

with the green-lined cape, is the Duke de Tavira, one of the richest men

in Spain--it is on his estate that they breed the bulls for the rings of

Cadiz and Seville. Yonder, quarreling over politics, are newspaper men

and Republicans. Yonder, artists." He catalogued and assorted for the

American the personalities about the place, presuming the curiosity

which should be the tourist's attribute-in-chief.

"And at the large table--yonder under the potted palms, and

half-screened by the plants--who are they?" questioned Benton

perfunctorily. "They appear singularly engrossed in their talk."

"Assume to look the other way, Señor, so they will not suspect that

we speak of them," cautioned the Andalusian. "I dare say that if one

could overhear what they say, he could sell his news at his own price.

Who knows but they may plan new colors for the map of Southern Europe?"

Benton's gaze wandered over to the table in question, then came

uninquisitively back to Blanco's impassive face. It took more than

European politics to distract him.

"International intrigue?" he inquired.

The eyes of the other were idly contemplating the street windows, and as

he talked he did not turn them toward the men whom he described.

Occasionally he looked at Benton and then vacantly back to the street

parade, or the red end of his own cigarette.

"There is a small, and, in itself, an unimportant Kingdom with

Mediterranean sea-front, called Galavia," said Blanco. Benton's start

was slight, and his features if they gave a telltale wince at the word

became instantly casual again in expression. But his interest was no

longer forced by courtesy. It hung from that moment fixed on the

narrative.