n the fifth day out from San Francisco we make the harbour of Mazatlan, on the Mexican coast. The courtesy of the Captain secures us a good view from "the bridge" as we approach our first port. A great white rock juts up in the bay like a fragment of some Titan's fortress; a lighthouse stares out to sea from a cliff at the harbour's entrance; the tall cocoa palms wave their fern leaves in the blinding sunshine, and red-roofed houses huddle below the dome of the Cathedral rising white above the town.

The harbour soon swarms with the countless boats of the natives coming with fruit and wares to sell or hoping to earn a few reales by rowing the curious to the wharf.

SeÑor Noma engages the largest of these boats and invites as many as it will hold to go ashore with him. He helps in Mrs. Steele, Baron de Bach brings me, and we are soon followed by Captain Ball and his wife, and Miss Rogers, a pretty girl with her photographic camera and her mamma, who is an Episcopal clergyman's wife, and so proud of the circumstance that the gentlemen have dubbed her "The Church of England."

The Mexican oarsmen make one think of comic opera brigands, except that they look rather dirtier and their speech is music without song. We land at a rude wharf in the low sea wall and pass through groups of dark-skinned natives who eye us with sleepy interest. Through narrow streets we troop one after another towards the heart of Mazatlan.

It is oppressively warm, and Captain Ball begs us all to come into a restaurant and get some cooling drink. Mrs. Steele and I have limes and Apollinaris, while SeÑor Noma, true to his red-hot appetite, tosses off a glass of mezcal, the fire-water of the Mexicans, the most scorching beverage ever concocted.

"How would you like a true Megsican dinair, Mees?" says SeÑor Noma, blinking a little as the liquid fire pours down his throat. "It ees not bad."

"I should fancy it might be very interesting," I say.

"Well, then, if Madama Steele and the ladies and zhentlemen present will do me so much honour I will await them at the Hotel Nacional at seven o'clock. I must now see a friend. Adios!"

While the rest are taking leave Baron de Bach bows to me with his glass of Rhine wine held out to touch mine. With a comparatively serene face he mutters:

"You talk to efery one but me; I vould like to shoot dhem all."

"It mightn't do," I say, "even in Mexico."

He turns away with a frown between his fine, straight brows.

"Madame, vill you and SeÑorita come to drive? I know dthe place and vill be intairpretair?"

"Yes," says Mrs. Steele. "I intend sending for a carriage; we can get over more ground in that way, and we have so little time."

The Peruvian gives an order to the servant and shortly a vehicle stands at the door. It is a lumbering old open carriage that has evidently been grand in its day—with two white horses that match it in age and decrepitude. In the best of spirits we drive off. The Baron talks Spanish with the driver and answers all our million inquiries.

We learn that the best houses are built round a hollow square called a patio, and the occasional glimpses through the opening of massive doors into these courts reveal a sun-shiny garden of tropical fruits and flowers. Roses everywhere fill the afternoon with fragrance, and the strong aroma of ripening bananas and pines makes the hot air heavy.

"Ees it like vhat you dthought?" asks the Peruvian.

"Much better in some respects," I say, "but the houses look dreadfully dreary outside; they are more like prisons than homes, with their great blank walls and here and there an arched and grated window."

"And there's not a pane of glass in the town," says Mrs. Steele, "lattices inside and wooden shutters without."

"Yes, and I've noticed ever so many pairs of bright eyes peering through those lattices. Poor things!" I say feelingly, "I suppose a Mexican girl of good family must have a very stupid time."

"Not in dthe slightes'," says the Peruvian with decision. "Vomans air much better take care off; dthey air fery happy, I 'sure you," and turning to me—"You vould like it yourself after a leedle."

"Indeed I shouldn't! And neither would the unfortunates who had charge of me."

We pass a Catholic graveyard with high adobe wall and are at the Hospital Municipal, our objective point. A dark young man in ill-fitting clothes receives us and shows us about this primitive refuge. The floors are tiled and all the appointments are rude, but very clean.

Baron de Bach distributes his Mexican dollars so generously the dark young man is quite overcome. He asks some question with solemn black eyes fixed on me. The Peruvian laughs with slight confusion and I catch "Si" in his reply. The dark young man puts another query.

"What's it all about?" says Mrs. Steele; "you promised to interpret."

"Oh, yes, if I must. Dthis zhentleman ask if dthis young lady ees my wife and if she like roses."

"Oh, let us see the roses," says Mrs. Steele, calmly ignoring the wretch's prevarication, for I know to the first question he said "Yes." With my nose in the air I follow the rest into the rose garden of the hospital, where all is so lovely I quite forget I am offended.

Oh, the rose trees and the wilderness of bloom!

The dark young man gathers for Mrs. Steele and the Baron de Bach for me.

"You ask me vonce vhat kind was a Castilian rose. Look, SeÑorita, so weich so sÜss, so fein, wie die Castilien Frauen," and he hands me a pale pink rose, loose-petalled, fragile, and very fragrant. With great bunches in our hands we leave the hospital garden, and I notice with irritation that the dark young man in bidding me good-bye, long life and happiness, salutes me as "SeÑora."

It is six o'clock and we drive towards the town. The narrow streets are full of idlers in every attitude of picturesque languor. Mrs. Steele sympathises deeply with the lean and patient little burros with wooden racks on their backs holding on either side a clay jar filled with water.

"Efery yar ees two media, about twenty-five cent your money. Vater ees more dearer dthan vine," explains our interpreter.

We find all the rest of the company assembled at the Hotel Nacional in the gallery on the ground floor that looks into the patio. Mrs. Steele and I are shown by a native servant (half Indian, I should think) into a room across the court, where we make a primitive toilet. This is the very best hotel of Mazatlan, but the guest chamber is guiltless of carpet or rug; the one high window, grated and latticed, looks into the narrow street. A bed heavily draped with coarse curtains stands in one corner, and under a cracked glass giving forth a freckled and bilious reflection stands the deal toilet-table. A tin pan does duty for bowl, a delightful old clay carafe holds the water, and an abalone shell contains a bit of yellow laundry soap.

With these aids to beauty we reappear refreshed and ready for the dinner that is spread in the half-open gallery. Only a trellis thickly mantled with grape vines is between us and the garden; indeed, over the top of this screen I can see, as I sit at the table, the vine-leaves rise and fall in the soft air, and the more ambitious tendrils daintily pencilled against the red sky of that lovely Mexican evening. An odd dinner it is; but SeÑor Noma makes a most courteous host, and the dishes are certainly rare and interesting—generally peppery beyond words to describe and most of them liberally seasoned with garlic. But the luscious fruits, the "vino blanco," and champagne cool our smarting palates and reconcile us to our gastronomic ventures. At the beginning of the meal, out of the meditative mood that has overtaken him, Baron de Bach rouses himself to enter into earnest conversation with the little Mexican boy who is helping to serve us. I notice the boy's snapping black eyes and fine oval face, and how he nods with an added gleam as he says "Si! si!" to every remark of the Baron's, and finally disappears. In a few minutes he returns and presents a large bunch of lovely orchids to Mrs. Steele. Then he exchanges a few words with the Baron and is off again like a shot.

"Yust to show you dthat flowers can grow here out of a hospital garden," explains the Baron, bowing across the table to my friend and adding under his breath:

"I haf send for odthers for you, SeÑorita."

Towards the end of this curious dinner the Mexican boy returns with a great round native basket piled high with roses and strange rare flowers I have never seen before—such wonderful fantastic conceits in bloom that I can only look and clasp my hands about the dainty store. Mrs. Steele recalls Hernando Cortes' wonder and delight at the flowery surprises of the new world three hundred years ago.

"Ah, yes," says SeÑor Noma, who has caught the remark, "you see we haf something worth your notice in this dark corner of America. If you stay here longer you will find we haf many things you would like."

Baron de Bach is strangely quiet all the evening, but the unfailing good temper of our host and the gaiety of the others keep us at the table till the pale crescent of the new moon looks in over the vine trellis to warn us of the waning hours.

"We must remember the Captain's caution to be back by eleven," says Captain Ball, consulting his watch.

"Yes, but it ees scarce nine o'clock," says SeÑor Noma. "Mrs. Steele, will you accept my escor'?" And our clever host, having won over the only possible objector, leads the way out into the dim, mysterious street.

"Vill you haf zome Eendian dthings, en souvenir?" asks the Baron, offering me his arm.

"Indian things!" I echoed, delighted. "I should like to see them immensely, wouldn't you, Mrs. Steele?" and I explain. The notion is received with enthusiasm, and Baron de Bach takes us to a little shop, where some sinister-looking men and women show us glazed clay mugs rudely decorated and often adorned with some Spanish name in scrawling script. There are carafes with cups to match, pipes, whistles, and animals in clay and little dishes of every description. The Baron buys a great tray full of these things, and hires a barefooted "moso" to carry them down to the wharf. We go on to the garden-planted Plaza that had so attracted us by day. Now it is a blaze of light and resonant with the strains of a Mexican band. Dark-visaged idlers lounge on the long seats about the garden, and a constantly shifting throng moves up and down on every side.

Affecting to show me a white flower that thrust its dainty head through the garden's iron fence and filled the air with heavy, strange perfume, Baron de Bach separates me a few moments from my friends.

"At last," he says, with a deep breath, looking around and seeing that the others have passed on, "I haf you a moment alone. I haf been in torture dthese seven hours."

"Very polite speech," I answer, peering through the garden's iron palings, "seeing that you have been with me these seven sad hours."

"Ah, SeÑorita, it ees no use dthat I egsplain, you air zo fery heartless. I do not find myself possible to make you out. You haf pairhaps had too many tell you 'I loaf you'—you care not any more. I haf travel dthe vorld ofer, many beautiful and clevair vomans haf loaf me. I haf seen nefer a voman like you for not to care. Efery body loaf you, you loaf nobody, and vhen a man say 'You air charmante,' you say 'Vill ve feeshe to-day?' If a man say 'You haf eyes wie die Sternen im Himmel' you ask 'Hear you dthose bells of San Blas?' and vhen a man say 'I loaf you to deestraction' you tell him 'I do so like dthose qveer Megsican Eendians.'" The Baron strikes the pavement violently with his stick. "Vill you marry von qveer Megsican Eendian, SeÑorita?" I laugh at the funny conclusion and the Peruvian's excited face.

"Monsieur," I say, "I'm told that nearly every man says 'I love you' to an average of eighteen women in a lifetime; he perhaps really cares at various times for three, and the rest do well to let the mistake pass unchallenged and soon forgotten. I am not especially strong-minded myself, and I don't object to your talking a little nonsense, for I find you very entertaining; but I won't deceive you so far as to let you think I believe you."

A low volley of French so quick and excited that I cannot follow it is the Peruvian's reply. I am a little bit uneasy at the look in his face; the glow of ruddy health runs out like a fast-ebbing tide, and although I have not understood his French, with the intuition of my sex I comprehend his face, and I look around for the rest of the party. He catches the glance and seems to struggle for self-control.

"SeÑorita, take my arm; ve shall valk. I vill hope to teach SeÑorita zome day dthat Peruvians air no liars."

"Ah, Baron," I say deprecatingly, "I never meant that, you didn't understand me—I——"

"No," he interrupts—"I know dthat often I understand you not and zometimes it ees my so bad Eenglish dthat ees to blame. If I could tell you all in Spanish you must believe," and before all the people in the Plaza he lifts the hand that lies on his arm and kisses it.

I flash a horrified look around, but no one seems to have noticed.

"Like you dthe Spanish tongue?" he asks quite unconcerned.

"Yes, very much," I say, glad to get him on some impersonal subject, "it is the most musical in the world, I believe."

"You vould soon learn it," he says, "you understand many words now, I know by your face. Can you say my name, I vondair; try! Federico Guillermo."

"Federico Guillermo," I repeat imperfectly—"what a beautiful name!"

"Dthen Blanca vill call me 'Guillermo.' I like not 'de Baron de Bach' from her lips. Besides ve use not titles in Peru."

Mrs. Steele and SeÑor Noma call us from the corner of the Plaza as we approach.

"We've been round four times hunting for you; where in the world have you been?" says Mrs. Steele, looking disapproving and a little out of breath.

"Walking about here looking for you! I couldn't imagine where you were," I say.

The others come up and we turn our faces towards the harbour. The dusky oarsmen are waiting for us, and we are soon skimming over the dark water—I with my hoard of flowers in my lap and my eyes fixed on the great dim hulk of the San Miguel anchored out in the bay.