The Return from the Fiesta

The sure-footed mules, braced hard against the weight of the carriage,
slid down a steep descent across slippery stones when Clare, who wondered
what would happen if the worn-out harness broke, rode into Adexe.
Gleaming white houses rose one above another among feathery palms, with a
broad streak of darker green in their midst to mark the shady alameda.
Behind, the dark range towered against the sky; in front lay a
foam-fringed beach and the vast blue sweep of dazzling sea. Music came up
through the languid murmur of the surf, and the steep streets were filled
with people whose clothes made patches of brilliant color. The carriage
jolted safely down the hill, and Clare looked about with interest as they
turned into the central plaza, where the driver stopped.

"It's a picturesque little town and I'm glad you brought me," she said.
"But what does the fiesta they're holding celebrate?"

"I don't know; the first landing of the Spaniards, perhaps," Kenwardine
replied. "Anyhow, it's a popular function, and as everybody in the
neighborhood takes part in it, I came with the object of meeting some
people I do business with. In fact, I may have to leave you for a time
with the wife of a Spaniard whom I know."

When coming down the hillside Clare had noticed a sugar mill and an ugly
coaling wharf that ran out into the bay. Two steamers lay not far off,
rolling gently on the glittering swell, and several lighters were moored
against the wharf. Since she had never heard him speak of coal, she
imagined her father's business was with the sugar mill, but he seldom
talked to her about such matters and she did not ask. He took her to an
old, yellow house, with tarnished brass rails barring its lower windows
and a marble fountain in the patio, where brilliant creepers hung from
the balconies. The soft splash of falling water was soothing and the
spray cooled the air.