HE limitless darkness of a tropic night lay upon land and sea. Far out, beyond the confines of Santiago Bay the restless waters of the Atlantic boomed dully upon the shoals that guard the entrance to the harbor. But even the roar of these tireless ones seemed muffled by the intense heat, and the sleepless stars gave no illumination, but hung like jewels on a pall of sable velvet.
Throughout the drowsing city twinkled a few feeble gleams; lamps of weary souls, perhaps, who dreaded the subtle night. But from one spot arose a square shaft of brilliant, palpitating light, a living glow of yellow radiance that seemed to throb and pulsate with the mellow tones of a waltz, guitar-played, that echoed from its heart. High walls inclosed this festive patio and hid its beauties from the chance night prowler in the street; but through the open roof space the luster of its many lights was flung against the black, impenetrable heavens.
Here Naomi, the lover of all men, was holding her court untroubled by the thought of war, heedless of impending battles; Naomi of the golden eyes, of the dusky, perfumed hair, of the supple, soft body! She sat erect upon a wicker couch, swaying to and fro in rhythm with the music, and beside her sat the comandante; a stranger to be sure, but for the nonce a lover. He watched her between his narrowed eyelids and blew thin, idle wreaths of cigarette smoke into the still air.
In the center of the floor, Anita the Little was languidly singing a curious Oriental air, half waltz, half machiche; and two young men in the Cuban conception of evening dress sat cross-legged on the floor before her and marked time with the hollowed palms of their hands. Gathered about a large table, a noisy group of people sat eating sweet stuffs and drinking a pink liquid from tall thin glasses; and along the walls lounged some twenty or thirty others, variously occupied. There a thinly clad flaminca was whispering to a stout tobacco exporter in white linen. Next to them, the proprietor of the Ponce de Leon sat listening to La Anita's song, much to the troubled interest of his brunette companion, who in turn was watched by the jealous eyes of an enamored wine merchant. Here and there among the brilliant gowns of the women, glinted the gold braid of an officer from the garrison. For this was no ribald hostelry, but the private villa of Naomi, princess of her sisterhood. The Japanese lanterns tilted on their slender wires; laughter echoed; in the little balcony the musicians played tirelessly.
Among the revelers at the table were two men whom Naomi's quick eye had instantly distinguished as unfamiliar. She, exquisite voluptuary, barred no man from her house, and strangers, particularly in these troubled times, were no uncommon sight. Who, indeed, would come to Santiago and not go to the house of the “beautiful, but strange one”—as the city called her—if only for an hour in idle curiosity? So there was nothing unusual in the advent of an unknown face.
It was not surprise at an intrusion that made Naomi look twice. Who was the tall señor with the handsome chin, she asked in her mind. He attracted her. And the other one, who was more vivacious? Neither bore the weight of more than thirty years. They were evidently friends and had come together. by their dress they were provincial planters. A closer examination became desirable.
“Come, excelencia,” said she imperiously to the little soldier beside her. “Let us promenade.”
Her obedient slave followed her instantly, howbeit with some reluctance. The wicker sofa was a little apart from the crowd, comfortably cool, and he had Naomi there alone.
She crowded into a place at the large table, between her devoted comandante and the stranger with the handsome chin. Then, with intentional clumsiness, she jarred the latter's elbow so that the glass in his hand sprinkled its contents indiscriminately over them both.
“Pardon, señor,” she exclaimed. “I am awkward!”
The stranger smiled, but did not reply beyond giving her the slightest of bows.
“Name of all the saints, what a mule!” cried a musical voice just beyond him, and the second unfamiliar face leaned forward in eager apology. This man had pushed aside his friend.
“Allow me, most beautiful,” said he, “to repair the damage my unfortunate companion has caused.”
And whipping out a gorgeous silk handkerchief, he dabbed at her gown with no little skill, talking rapidly all the while.