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 edge of the pavement. A man appeared without a sound in the light of a street-lamp, showing the colored inverted triangle of his bordered poncho, square on his shoulders, hanging to a point below his knees. From the harbor end of the calle a horseman walked his soft-stepping mount, gleaming silver-gray abreast each lamp under the dark shape of the rider.

"Behold the illustrious capataz de cargadores," said Decoud, gently, "coming in all his splendor after his work is done. The next great man of Sulaco after Don Carlos Gould. But he is good-natured, and let me make friends with him."

"Ah, indeed!" said Antonia. "How did you make friends?"

"A journalist ought to have his finger on the popular pulse, and this man is one of the leaders of the populace. A journalist ought to know remarkable men—and this man is remarkable in his way."

"Ah, yes!" said Antonia, thoughtfully. "It is known that this Italian has a great influence."

The horseman had passed below them, with a gleam of dim light on the shining broad quarters of the gray mare, on a bright heavy stirrup, on a long silver spur; but the short flick of yellowish flame in the dusk was powerless against the muffled-up mysteriousness of the dark figure with an invisible face concealed by a great sombrero.

Decoud and Antonia remained leaning over the balcony, side by side, touching elbows, with their heads overhanging the darkness of the street, and the brilliantly lighted sala at their backs. This was a tête-à-tête of extreme impropriety; something of which in the