Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT, ~“ What insult is this, hurled at so beauti- ful and highborn a lady?” the matador from Central America cried, leaving his seat and coming to the center of the room. The crowd of sailors and bargemen was frozen now in anticipation of the sort of fight they all desired. An insult! A beauti- ful woman! A strange guest! ‘Look here, mister,” the innkeeper ad- vised, “let me say confidential-like that you’re kotowin’ to a gal which she belongs in the kitchen.” The matador did not turn about. He was entranced with the sight of the woman before him—a woman decked as they were decked in his own country. ‘She ain’t the gal for you, mister.” “ Give me the word, most gracious sefo- rita,’ the matador cried passionately, “‘ and I will kill him! You are a beautiful woman —the kind all men will die for. Permit me to kiss your hand, and in return I will kill this man who insults you.” Juana paused a moment, looking into the aquiline, swarthy face before her. ‘““Who are you?” she asked coolly. ‘Senor El Gato—have you never heard that name?” 661 The innkeeper backed away, paling with fright. The mozo shrunk out to the kitchen with a terror-struck whimper. Tom Yarre, standing on the steps and surveying the scene and its actors with a whimsical and benign sort of interest, won- dered if the girl would try her power now, or peremptorily put an end to the Spaniard’s advances by slapping his face. The very next instant he was satisfied. Old Rob Hawkins, too, must have been sat- ishied as he floated about in the depths of the sea. } Instead of slapping the matador, which would have put Juana in the position she had always been in—a pretty wench whom no man could touch—she held out her hand. And Tom Yarre noticed that the manner of her holding it was like a queen knighting a soldier who has won a battle. He actually shuddered at the power she assumed by that one simple gesture. “T’m thinkin’,” the boatswain said to himself, “it weuld have been better if we’d never cast the lock off that damned sea chest. I’ve thrown sixpence overboard for a breeze, and here, be God, comes a typhoon!”’ TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. U U U SHOWERS RAN in the sunshine, Sparkling, crystal rain— Glad tears by parted lovers shed Who meet again. Sunshine through the rain, Soft, gold-dripping sun— Bright hope that lovers. part no more When life is done. Sun and rain—a rainbow, Joy against the sky— Love’s promise to al] lovers that love Shall never die. Edith Tatum. COMmMicloooks (E@)