"Florencio paused, visibly embarrassed. Without heeding this, Fuentes asked him why he was in such grief when we came up, and why he persisted in taking the carcass of a mule for a seat.

"This mule is the cause of my sorrow,' replied Planillas. Although I was tenderly attached to her, misery compelled me to sell her to yonder hacienda de platas.* In order to see her every day, I took employment there. Alas! the poor brute died this morning, and I have dragged her to this lonely place in order to mourn over her undisturbed.'

"And again Planillas plunged his head violently between his hands, with the air of a man who will not be consoled. Then, doubtless to turn the conversation:

"Ah! my lord cavalier,' he said, 'this is not my only misfortune! Yesterday a fight occurred between the miners of Rayas and those of Mellado, and I was not there.'

"I replied that I saw nothing very unfortunate in that.

"Not unfortunate!' Planillo exclaimed. Ah! it was not one of those vulgar encounters that one may see any day; and you would never guess how it terminated. To prove the superiority of their mine, the Mellado men pelted their adversaries with hard dollars-fine eagle dollars!' he added, with an air of profound grief,

and I was too late in the field.'

"I could better understand Florencio's grief at the loss of the dollars than at the death of the mule. But I should have doubted the arrogant prodigality of the Mellado miners, if Fuentes had not confirmed, with proud satisfaction, the truth of the tale. He would then again have questioned Planillas, whose lamentations appeared to excite his suspicions, but a sudden cracking of branches in the thicket behind us drew his attention. I thought I saw Planillas turn pale, notwithstanding his matchless impudence. A little thickset man, a sort of dwarf Hercules, stood before us. He saluted us courteously, and sat down upon the ground near Planillas. His mouth strove to smile, but his glance, sinister and piercing

as that of a bird of prey, belied the feigned gaiety. For a few moments we were silent. The new-comer was the first to speak.

"You were talking just now,' he said, with a soft and silky manner that contrasted strangely with his evil look, if my ears did not deceive me, of one Don Thomas? Was it by chance of Don Thomas Verduzco ? This simple question, proceeding from a man who had at once inspired me with the strongest repugnance, sounded to me like an insult.

"Precisely,' I replied, exerting myself to keep cool. I accused Thomas Verduzco of a murder committed two days ago at Guanajato.'

"Are you sure of it?' said the man, with a sinister glance.

"Ask this wretch,' I replied, pointing to Planillas.

"On hearing this reference, Planillas sprang up as if moved by springs. He had recovered all his assurance.

"I never said anything of the sort,' he cried. But your lordship,' he added in an ironical tone, 'is surely not acquainted with the respectable cavalier Verduzco, since you speak thus in his presence.'

"I gazed at the man thus denounced to me, and whom I beheld for the first time. Imagination placed before my eyes the bleeding body of Don Jaime, his agony, his last moments. I thought of his young life and happy prospects, cut off in an instant by the knife of this ruffian.

"Ah! you are Don Thomas Verduzco

"I could not finish. My head swam, and, without accounting to myself for what I was about to do, I cocked one of my pistols. At the click of the lock the stranger's face became livid; for Mexicans of the lower classes, who will not wince from the glitter of a knife-blade, tremble at the sight of a firearm in a European hand. He did not stir, however. Fuentes threw himself between us.

"Gently! señor, gently!' cried he. 'Cascaras! how ill you take the customs of the country!'

"The deuce take that Planillas!' said the stranger with a forced laugh, he can never resist a joke. But the

idea of introducing me as Don Thomas is rather too good a one. Your lordship, then, is greatly exasperated against this Don Thomas?'

"My passion appeared to me ridiculous, and passed away as by enchantment.

"I do not know him,' I replied, a little confused. I know not how he has become mixed up in my affairs, but I think I owe it to my safety to show no mercy to such assassins, when chance throws them in my way.'

"The stranger muttered some unintelligible words. I thought the opportunity a good one to get rid of my new friend Desiderio, of whose society I had had enough; so I saluted the group, and rode off. But I had forgotten to take into account the idleness of Fuentes. Before I had ridden a hundred yards, he was again at my side.

"I was perhaps wrong to interfere,' he said, and to prevent you from sending a bullet into the brain of that ill-looking knave, for, judging from the revengeful look he cast at you, I presume the first stab you receive will be from his hand.'

"Do you think so?' I replied, rather startled by this unpleasant prediction.

"I yielded too readily to my first impulse,' continued Fuentes, who seemed reflecting. Presently, 'What if we went back?' he said. You might resume the affair at the point at which you left it, and in case of need I would help you.'

"It was plain that Fuentes repented having missed an opportunity of quarrel. I drily refused his proffered assistance, and thought to myself that decidedly his second impulse was worse than his first.

So

"You will not?' he said. be it then! After all, what matters a knife-thrust more or less? I have received three, and am none the worse for them!""

M. Bellamare deemed it unnecessary to reply to this revelation, which did not improve his opinion of his guide, and turned the conversation to the subject of the mine they were about to visit. Before leaving it, he obtained an explanation of two things he had not understood at the time. The tender solicitude of Planillas for

the dead mule-which he had never seen until that day-arose from the fact that the carcass contained a considerable number of silver ingots, stolen and concealed by him. Verduzco was his accomplice. They afterwards quarrelled about the division of the spoils, and Planillas finally got nothing, except a couple of stabs from the ready knife of Don Thomas. The hand nailed to the wall was that of a great criminal. On the road from San Miguel el Grande (a small town near Guanajato, celebrated for its manufacture of sarapes, or woollen coverings) to Dolores, the cradle of Mexican independence, the traveller has to cross the river Atotonilco. In the rainy season it is impassable, except by persons acquainted with the fords. At the spot where it crosses the San Miguel road it is about sixty yards wide, and its yellow waves flow with alarming impetuosity. On the opposite side, a few huts made of branches shelter some wretched families, whose chief support is the money they earn, when the river is swollen, by piloting travellers across-leading their horses by the bridle, or mounting behind them. One stormy night, a miner from Zacatecas-who, having rendered himself obnoxious to justice, had fled from the mine, and established himself as a passer on the banks of the Atotonilco-crossed the river to bring over a horseman. Towards the middle of the stream he got up behind him, and, a moment afterwards, another passer, who was watching on the shore, heard a heavy plash. The horse reached land with only one rider; its owner, a priest, remained in the river, but was rescued by the witness of the crime. The murderer rode away, and worked for some time in the mines of Rayas. Wounded one day-mortally, as it was thought

in one of the quarrels so frequent amongst the miners, a priest, who chanced to pass, was called in to hear his confession. On beholding the wounded man, the priest uttered a cry of horror; he had recognised the passer of the Atotonilco, who on his part gazed with terror and astonishment on the man he thought he had drowned. Justice being thus put on the scent, the miner was convicted of several crimes, amongst others, of a

robbery of plate in the cathedral of Guanajato. He suffered death by the garrotte, and it was his hand M. Bellamare had seen upon the wall in the great square of Guanajuato.

One of the most curious and interesting sections of M. Bellamare's book is that entitled the Jarochos. This is the name given to the peasants of the coast and country around Vera Cruz. In dress, dialect, and habits, they differ from the other Mexicans. The general opinion is, that they are descended from Andalusian gipsies, and various circumstances connected with them seem to confirm the supposition. Their costume has some analogy with that of Andalusia; they are superstitious, inclined to cruelty, very independent in their habits and ideas, and fond of dwelling in woods and lonely places. Addicted to fighting, and adventurous on the water, they yet will never willingly subject themselves to the discipline of a camp or of a man-of-war. Their favourite pursuits are those of the shepherd or the horse-dealer. They are never seen without their machete, a straight, sharp, scabbardless sword which they carry at their side, suspended in a leather ring. The slightest pretext-a bet, a futile point of honour-suffices to bring on a duel. This generally terminates with the first blood, but if a mortal wound is given, a sort of vendetta often ensues, and a long series of deadly combats are the result. The Jarocho, however, has some good qualities to set against his quarrelsome disposition and other defects. He is sober, frank, loyal, and hospitable to the whites (the name he gives to people of a higher class than himself); he holds theft in horror, loves the land of his birth, is a stranger to cupidity, and lives contented with little in the midst of a fertile country, where he has but to scatter the seed on the earth to gather in three crops a-year. His pleasures are play, music, dancing, poetry. He is generally more or less of an improvisatore, and able to celebrate in song the three objects of his devotion-his horse, his sword, and his mistress.

During one of his long and solitary rides, which had brought him into the vicinity of Vera Cruz, M. Bellamare fell in with a Jarocho, with whom he narrowly escaped having to cross swords, and afterwards became the best of friends. There was to be a fandango (dance and festival) the next day at the little village of Manantial, and the crowd, said Calro (Jarocho for Carlos), would be as "thick as smoke." So M. Bellamare agreed to remain a day and see the fun. Manantial is a woodland village, situated in a glade of an extensive forest, and consisting of a few bamboo cabins thatched with palm leaves. It was nightfall when the French traveller and his new acquaintance arrived there, and the former was struck by the pastoral and pretty scene. Women sat at the cottage doors rocking their children, suspended in hammocks of aloe thread; men in picturesque costume, and young girls dressed in white, their raven tresses wreathed with the fragrant flowers of the suchil, and spangled with glow-worms,* danced gracefully in the centre of an admiring circle of spectators. Rice, milk, fried bananas, and the celebrated red beans of the Tierra Caliente, proverbial in Mexico for their excellence, composed the frugal supper set before M. Bellamare. In hot countries one sleeps little and late; mosquitos and the lingering heat of the day are apt to banish slumber until they are chased away by the cool breath of morning. Stretched upon their blankets near the open door of the cabin, Carlos and his guest discoursed for some time before seeking repose. Jarocho was dejected. He was in love with the most beautiful girl in the village; he feared a rival, and yet he was obliged to depart in quest of a man who, some months previously, had killed one of his relatives. The duty of revenge had devolved upon Carlos, and of itself had no terrors for him; but the murderer had fled, and he knew not how long it might be before he should discover him. There was only one way of avoiding

The

the task, and that was by some devoted friend undertaking it in his stead. Carlos coolly proposed that M. Bellamare should do this; but the latter modestly declined the honour, offering, however, to accompany him in his search. It was agreed that they should start the day after the fandango.

The account of the village festival is curious and characteristic, but it cannot be abridged, and is too long to extract. On the morrow Carlos and M. Bellamare set out for Boca del Rio, a village on the coast, where dwelt a pilot named Ventura, who, they had been informed, could give them news of the person they sought. They reached the sea just as a storm came on. In the figurative local phrase, the north-west wind advanced "sword in hand." That night, at Boca del Rio, an American ship, deceived by a signal fire, lighted with malicious intent, ran upon the rocks. The pilot Ventura was on board, and was saved, with the greater part of the crew. A party of marauders soon came down, to profit by the disaster their wicked stratagem had caused. Fired on from an ambush, they speedily fled. Ventura and the villagers desired no interlopers to lessen their shares of the spoils that the waves soon washed ashore from the shattered ship. Amongst the intruders the man whom Carlos was in quest of was recognised, and the next day the pilot undertook to conduct the Jarocho and his foreign friend to the village where he dwelt. To get there they had to ascend a rapid stream, shut in by forests and lofty overhanging rocks, and embowered in a virgin vegetation which, to all appearance, the hand of man had rarely disturbed. "The river, of so gloomy an aspect on the preceding evening, seemed to smile in its verdant bed at the rising sun. Thin mists arose, soon dissipated by the burning heat which abruptly replaced the cool temperature of the night. The flowers of the wild jessamine, of the suchil trees, and of the rose-laurel, mingled their perfumes and their colours amidst festoons of creepers, whose tangled branches, covered with blue and purple flowers, trailed down along both banks on crowded beds of

water-lilies. Separated for a moment by the rapid furrow of the canoe, the green and fragrant arcades closed again behind us. Nothing in this solitary region bore the trace of man's passage; not a sound was heard save the monotonous tap of the woodpecker on the trunk of a dead tree." Pleasant scraps of description of this kind are not unfrequent in M. Bellamare's pages, to which we must refer the reader who is curious to know something of his adventures on that seductive stream, upon whose flower-draped banks it soon found that serious perils lurked. It is time we should conduct our traveller out of the country he so agreeably describes, and we cannot even wait to tell of the sanguinary duel between Carlos and his kinsman's murderer.

was

M. Bellamare at last made up his mind to leave Mexico. Four days in one of the diligences, recently set up by a Yankee company, would have taken him to Vera Cruz, where he was to embark for Europe; but he was so accustomed to travel on horseback, and had become so vagabond in his predilections, that he could not resolve to have recourse to the vehicles in question, upon which, moreover, a daring band of robbers regularly levied black mail. The fact was, that by that time the roving Frenchman had become half Mexican, and had contracted a dislike to civilised "fixings," and to the ordinary modes of living and travelling. He was still uncertain in what way he should accomplish his journey, when, one day, in the court of the house in which he lodged, he saw muleteers loading their beasts with specie. Mexico happened to be tolerably tranquil at that moment, and a number of merchants took advantage of the political lull to send silver for shipment. Four hundred bags, each containing a thousand dollars, and packed in a small wooden box, were placed upon some eighty mules, to be escorted by a squadron of lancers. The sight of this convoy decided M. Bellamare, who determined to accompany it to Vera Cruz. As it would make but very short marches, he proposed to wait a couple of days to take leave of his friends, and then ride after it. The escort was to be commanded by Don Blas

a fanfaron officer of doubtful courage and queer associates, but a pleasant companion, and an old acquaintance of M. Bellamare's. On the way back from the mines to Mexico, the French traveller had again halted at the inn at Arroyo Zarco, and there he found Don Blas. To his astonishment, his military friend was on terms of familiarity with the ill-looking ruffian whom he had last seen in company with Florencio Planillas, and a dead mule, and who turned out to be in reality Don Thomas Verduzco. With matchless effrontery the bravo greeted him as an acquaintance, recommended him to the care of the hostess as a gentleman whom he particularly esteemed, and would fain have made him partake of a bottle of Catalan brandy. With some difficulty he avoided the unenviable companionship, and made his escape from the inn, having previously ascertained that, if the bandit had sought him in Mexico, it was because he mistook him for another person.

In

To M. Bellamare's surprise, Don Blas gave him little encouragement to join his party. Perceiving, however, that he was determined to do so, he affected to rejoice at having him for a travelling companion. His departure was delayed by one of those political convulsions frequent in Mexico. The convoy had marched before the revolution broke out, but was stopped on the road, and put in a place of safety. On learning that it had resumed its journey, M. Bellamare commenced his, and on the third day discerned in the distance the red pennons of the lancers. the first horseman he overtook (a serjeant) he recognised a former servant of Don Blas, an ex-lepero, who, like his master, had recently been transferred from infantry to cavalry, and whose great ambition ever since had been to equip himself in complete dragoon uniform. He had succeeded tolerably well. Excepting that he had a shoe on one foot, a bottine on the other, and no straps to his trousers, his uniform was pretty complete. A little farther on, M. Bellamare came up with Don Blas himself, lately promoted to the rank of captain of cavalry, as a reward for the courage he had displayed and the wound he

had received (both equally imaginary) when fighting for Santa Anna in the streets of Mexico. The captain again showed an unaccountable anxiety to prevent his French friend from accompanying him. He spoke of the dangers of the road, of the perilous pass of Amozoque, of the possibility of their being attacked by forces that even his gallant squadron might be unable to beat off. M. Bellamare was not to be intimidated. He admitted to himself that the long string of silver-laden mules, each bearing its five thousand dollars, was a prize worth striking a blow for, but he was used to dangerous adventures, and would not part from the convoy. The march was slow and wearisome enough, but its tedium was in some degree beguiled by the songs and stories of one of the chief muleteers. Of a night, at the bivouac fire, whilst the soldiers slept, with their arms close beside them, and the mules munched their ration of maize, with a horse-blanket for a manger, Victoriano was a great resource; and when listening, under a cloudless and starlit sky, to his wild narratives and characteristic songs, M. Bellamare congratulated himself on the mode of journeying he had selected, and heartily pitied the travellers who were whirled past him in the diligence.

The convoy had passed the town and fort of Perote, when Victoriano, who had travelled that road for many years, suggested to M. Bellamare that the fort was worth a visit. He offered to accompany him to the entrance and procure him admission, and said that he could afterwards rejoin them at Cruz Blanca, a little village two leagues off, where they would pass the night, and where he promised to tell him a singular story relating to the fortress. The proposal pleased M. Bellamare, who passed an hour at Perote, and again joined the convoy, soon after nightfall, at Cruz Blanca. To his surprise Victoriano had not made his appearance. The muleteer was habitually exact and punctual, and his absence excited some alarm. Presently a man, dressed in the striped woollen frock and short apron of a mule-driver, asked to speak to the chief arriero, and told him that Victoriano had been badly hurt by his