had heard already the sound of the light drum, at Jamiltepec. The boat rowed softly: and there came a sound of a man’s voice singing in the morning.
Her boatman lifted an oar, as a signal to the house. And as the boat rounded the curve into the basin, a man-servant in white clothes came running down to the little jetty. In the changeless sunshine was a scent, perhaps of dattura and of roses, and an eternal Mexican silence, which the noise of the drum, and the voice of singing, did not disturb.
“Is Don Cipriano here?” asked Kate.
“Està!” murmured the man, with a slight motion towards Ramón’s balcony, whence the singing came. “Shall I say you have come?”
He did not lift his voice above the murmur.
“No!” said Kate. “I