There began a noisy interchange of greetings between the occupants
of the two trains, and meanwhile the hot sun glared balefully upon
the huddled figures on the car tops. A half-hour passed, then
occurred a commotion at the forward end of Alaire's coach.
A group of officers climbed aboard, and among them was one who
could be none other than Luis Longorio. As he came down the
passageway Alaire identified him without the aid of his insignia,
for he stood head and shoulders above his companions and bore
himself with an air of authority. He was unusually tall, at least
six feet three, and very slim, very lithe; he was alert, keen; he
was like the blade of a rapier. The leanness of his legs was
accentuated by his stiff, starched riding-breeches and close-
fitting pigskin puttees, while his face, apart from all else,
would have challenged prompt attention.
Longorio was a young man; his cheeks were girlishly smooth and of
a clear, pale, olive tint, which sun and weather apparently were
powerless to darken; his eyes were large, bold, and brilliant; his
nostrils thin and sensitive, like those of a blooded horse. He
seemed almost immature until he spoke, then one realized with a
curious shock that he was a man indeed, and a man, moreover, with
all the ardor and passion of a woman.
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