Adventure Magazine Cover — page 170: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

734 Maya women Haskell had seen. There was a loose curl in her heavy hair, and from the point where she had it caught up at the crown of her head and fastered it with the familiar thorn and red flower it fell over her shoulders far below her hips. Her neck and shoulders were bare. On her little feet were the soft Maya sandals, and her dress was the simple white native tunic falling in straight Grecian lines from shoulder to ankle and broidered with a deep hem of the bril- liantly colored Maya patterns. When she turned on the stair so that the moonlight fell full on her face Haskell felt a queer little thrill in his throat—it was the type that is the boast of Leon—shadowed, slumbrous, languorous eyes, features of the delicacy of the high-caste Singalese, cream and olive coloring, with a little rich red mouth. With simple grace she came slowly down the stair, and with his spurs jingling on the red tiling of the court Haskell crossed to meet her. He was absurdly conscious of the layers of dust that lay not only on his cloth- ing but even in the thick yellow brown curls of his head as he swept off his hat and bow- ed, wondering what language she would use. ‘“‘ Buenas tardes, senor,” she said, solving the question by addressing him in a quaint Spanish with a curious little purl in it. Haskell was glad that he was not compelled to use the Maya, which he had begun to acquire from the time he encountered the first Yucateco on the steamer from Vera Cruz. He was sorry to note in her manner, however, not only an absence of the cor- diality with which the Spanish-American greets a guest, but a little constraint, a cer- tain chill dignity such as even a chance vis- iting stranger would not be accorded ordi- narily. He returned her salutation: “‘Good evening, seforita. Iam Mr. Has- kell, an engineer sent from the United States to this hacienda, where letters of instruction await me. My preliminary instructions came by telegram; I have no letters, nor do I know for whom to inquire, save some member of the family Calderon y Ortegas.” ‘“T am Ortegas y Escalendon, sefior,’’ she said with an added touch of hauteur. Knowing the custom of a husband’s follow- ing his own name with that of his wife, this told him that she was a niece, on the ma- ternal side, of the family Calderon y Ortegas. In the recesses of the house somewhere Adventure there was a low murmur of hushed voices. The girl saw that Haskell heard them, and a little flush crept into her cheeks while a quick change came over her as she looked at him standing embarrassed and uncertain before her. ‘My uncle and his sons are absent from the plantation, sefior, but I bid you wel- come; pray believe our house is yours.” She accompanied this many-centuries’- old conventional formula with a fleeting smile which seemed to say that though she had been sent to greet him and show him that he was unwelcome she meant to receive him regardless of all considerations. Has- kell felt a warm impulse of gratitude toward her, for at the words there was a note of impatience and displeasure in the hushed voices, and then silence. Twice she clapped her little palms together, and the servant who had admitted him reappeared, took the horses and guide in charge after laying off Haskell’s bags, and a sullen old Maya woman, who had been lurking under the arches, led him away toa chamber that opened on the gallery directly at the spot where the unknown knife- wielder must have stood at the time of the delivery of the second blow. Haskell swept the shadowed spots with cautious eyes but, once within the chamber, seeing the spot- lessly white pallet, the little gilt shrine, the great earthen bathing-vessel brimming with water, he breathed a sigh of relief, for he was weary from his long journey and here before him were the means to the ends of physical comfort and cleanliness at least. He stepped to the door to close it and place the heavy bar across it when the old servant had backed out. He saw that the girl was still standing on the stair. ‘“‘At the sefior’s pleasure will he attend in the dining-hall?” she said in her low, sweet voice that carried clearly across the broad patio. On his acknowledgment she turned and walked slowly away toward the gate, where the shadows swallowed her. ‘The grace with which she moved, the exquisite lines of her arms and throat caused Haskell to exclaim to himself, but nevertheless, when he had bathed and replaced his riding- clothes with white military ducks, he drew across his chest the civilian holster designed to carry the heavy pistol under the left arm and examined the weapon carefully before he put it in its resting-place. COMICLOOCKKS. ECO S|