ee the banana plantations! Oh, those date-palms!" Mrs. Steele leans out of her window, full of delight at the curious panorama moving past.

"Mrs. Steele!" I bend over and take her hand. "I hope all this will never grow dim. I want to remember it all my life."

"You will, dear." She turns away absorbed, eager to lose nothing of this new phase of Nature.

"Haf no fear—you vill not forget—Blanca."

The low voice over my shoulder is an interruption; to enjoy the gift of sight is all-sufficient for a time. With happy disregard of the man at my back, I take in the changeful, fantastic vision.

The adobe houses standing in orange groves, the long stretches of jungle, wild tangles of rank growth, cactus, giant ferns, brake and netted vines; birds of gorgeous plumage and discordant note, alligators basking on the sunny bank of a sluggish stream, half-dressed natives at work in coffee fincas, sugar-cane and cotton fields; nude children standing in the doorways of palm-thatched huts, staring with still and stupid wonder at the train, and looking like inanimate clay models of a fairer, finer race to come. It is all like a curious dream from which we waken at Escuintla to take our eleven o'clock breakfast. This place has been partially destroyed by earthquake, and Mrs. Steele urges despatch with breakfast that we may see what is left. A very tolerable meal is served in the wide, open veranda of the station.

"What a nice little spoon!" Mrs. Steele remarks, as we sit down, noticing one of tortoise shell quaintly carved.

"You like it?" is all the Baron says, and coolly puts it in his pocket. Mrs. Steele is aghast. "I pay dthem," he says unconcernedly. "Haf leedle salade?"

I have finished first and go out to the platform. Groups of natives are gathered about, carrying on their heads round shallow baskets like trays displaying fruit, eggs and water for sale. These people seem very different from the Mexican Indians. They are blacker, their faces are more flat and stupid, and the women's dress is a straight piece of gay cotton cloth wound round the lower half of the body and secured at the waist with a scarf tied over. The only other encumbrance is a thin white cotton sacque, short and loose. The women immediately attack me with vociferous gibberish, offering me their wares. Mrs. Steele sends the Baron out to look after me, and when he has bought a basket full of pineapples, sappadillos, mangoes and grenadillas, he proposes a little walk up the road. We have twenty minutes yet, he says, and Mrs. Steele is stopping to buy some grass baskets and fans. We walk up the dusty little highway, and the burning sun beats down strong and hot in our unaccustomed faces.

"How can people endure it?" I marvel, wiping away great drops of moisture.

"See dthat big house all come down? Dthat ees eardthquake," explains my escort.

"How dreadful! Look at the thatch roofs of those queer little huts—it makes me think of peaked Robinson Crusoe hats. Just see how they're pulled far down over the sun-burnt wall as if to shade their eyes from the scorching sun."

"Robeen Crusa?" The Baron looks puzzled. "I know not dthat kind of hat. Ees it like vhat you tell me about vhen I first see you—dthat 'Robeen Hood'?"

I stand still in the quiet street and wake a far-off echo with my laughter. The Peruvian gets red in the face and begins to look offended.

"Please don't mind me; I think you've said something a little 'komisch'—but perhaps I've got a sunstroke and it acts like laughing gas. Don't be cross, Guillermo." I take his arm and notice covertly that he is mollified.

"Blanca," he says, with a half smile, "dthat adobe house vidth vines look cool—suppose I buy dthat and ve stay here leedle vhile."

I follow his eyes.

"That mansion would hardly hold our party; it doesn't look as if it boasted more than two rooms."

"Dthat vould be enough. Madame Steele vish much to see Guatemala; she go on and ve miss dthat train."

"Brilliant scheme!" I admit, "but——" A shrill blast cuts through the air. "Heavens and earth! that's the whistle!"

Like one possessed I tear down the road with never a glance behind—it seems miles to the station, and as I come near I see the train is moving. I make a rush for the rear platform. Voices behind scream reproof and warning, but I never look back; I grasp the iron railing and am whisked off my feet by the motion. With a desperate wrench I pull myself up the steps and steady my trembling body against the door of the baggage car. I look in. It's locked, and no one is there. "Stupid idiot!" I mutter. "That mooning Baron hasn't the smallest grain of sense—saying we had twenty minutes! Well, he's left anyhow—serves him right!" And then I cool down and reflect that going to Guatemala without the Baron may not be so amusing. I shake the door of the car, but no one hears, and I notice the train is slowing. "Mrs. Steele thinks I'm left and has made them come back—well, I'm not sorry, for now we'll get that stupid Baron again. Yes, just as I thought——" as we begin to move back to Escuintla—"there's the vine-covered hut that idiotic person proposed buying—here's the station and ... who's that?" Before my astonished eyes stand Mrs. Steele and the Baron de Bach, looking anxiously for the advancing train. As it stops they run forward.

"My dear, don't you ever do such a foolhardy thing again," begins Mrs. Steele, severely.

"If I had known vhat you vould do, I vould haf hold you till——"

"The train doesn't go for ten minutes," Mrs. Steele interrupts; "it was only shifting to another track. You might have known the Baron would watch the time."

Mrs. Steele looks weak with apprehension—it is only when she has been alarmed that I realise how delicate she is.

"I'm so sorry you were frightened," I say, feeling too utterly reduced to rebuff the Baron for lifting me down from the platform as he would have taken a child.

"Come," says Mrs. Steele, "we will get our old places."

An Indian woman comes to the window after we are seated and offers a paraquito for sale. The Baron buys it and shows me how to hold it on my fan and let it take a piece of sappadilla from my teeth. This performance somewhat restores my spirits, and the incident of catching the wrong train at the risk of life and limb fades before the crowding interests of an eventful day. It seems hotter and closer in the cramped little car. Mrs. Steele grows faint.

"Come in dthe air." The Baron and I support her to the door. She recovers a little and the Peruvian returns for his valise. He brings out a silver travelling flask and sprinkles a white silk handkerchief with delicious eau de Cologne and gives it to Mrs. Steele. I can see it refreshes her, and I throw the Peruvian a grateful glance for his thoughtfulness. From the platform we have a far finer view of the country. The rugged wilderness of the Cordilleras hems us in on every side.

"Dthose air yust the zame mountains I look on from my home in Peru; it ees von chain from Tierra del Fuego to Mexico," and a look of welcome comes into the handsome face. "It ees four years since I zee dthose Cordilleras. I am glad I am near dthem vonce more. Ah!" he exclaims, as we break through the close circle of the mountains, and, coming out on a wide plateau, a shining sheet of water bursts on our delighted vision. "Lake Amatitlan!"

The world up here is wild and silent; one feels a breathless sense of discovery and is vaguely glad there is no trace of man. No canoe rises the waves save the grey feather-boat of the wild duck, and the majestic circling hawk is the only fisherman.

"It was like this when Cortes saw it!" I say.

"It was like this when God made it!" says Mrs. Steele, under her breath.

The train stops by the lake and we gather wild Lantana and many a new flower during the few minutes' stay. I rush into a thicket after a red lily, and come out a mass of thorns and Spanish needles. When the train starts Mrs. Steele is tired, and goes inside to rest, but the Baron and I still stay on the platform. He sits on the top step and laboriously picks the needles off my dress.

"You zee dthat smoke, Blanca? Dthat ees a volcano."

"Oh, how delightful! but there's no fire!"

"No, not at present!"

"It's very disappointing," I say, "and the geography pictures are all wrong. They show a great burst of smoke and flame, and huge rocks shooting up out of the crater. I supposed a volcano was a sort of perpetual 'Fourth of July.'"

"Fourdth of Yuly! how mean you?"

"Oh, fireworks and explosions! but that little white funnel of steam—well, it's a disappointment!"

"You vill zee dthree volcano near Guatemala; dthey air dthe 'spirits' of dthe place—call in Eenglish 'Air,' 'Fire' and 'Vater.' Zee on dthis leedle coin dthey haf all dthree mountains on dthe back."

"Why, what's the matter with your hands?" I say, taking the coin.

"All dthose burrs on your dress make bleed," he says, looking a bit ruefully at his finger-tips, sore and red, and one stained a little where some obstinate briar or needle has drawn the blood.

"Oh! what a shame!" I take the shapely hand in mine and look compassionately at the hurt fingers.

"I feel it not, Blanca, vhen you hold it so!"

I drop the hand, instinctively steeling myself against all show of sympathy with this boyish sentimentalism.

"It should teach you a lesson. You take too much care of your hands; they are whiter and softer than most women's—such hands are good for nothing."

"I vill show you you can be meestake." His face is quite changed, and there's something dimly threatening in the deep eyes.

"When will you show me?" I say, affecting a carelessness I do not quite feel.

"Perhaps in Guatemala." I leave that side of the platform and lean out over the other. "Come back, Blanca; it ees not zafe!"

His tone is entirely too dictatorial. I close my hand firmly round the iron rail and lean out further still. At that instant, as ill-luck would have it, the train encounters some obstruction on the track, something is struck, and there is a jolt and concussion. Before I have time to recover myself I feel my hand wrested from the iron, and a powerful arm is closed around me, but instead of being drawn back, I am held out in the very position I myself had taken. Bewildered and frightened, I give one scream "on account" and turn my head with an endeavour to grasp the horrible situation. The Peruvian is holding to the rail with one hand and has me grasped under one arm as an inconsiderate child holds a kitten.

"Let me go!"

"I ask you before dthat you lean not out—but if you vill, I must zee dthat you fall not."

"I tell you I'll come back, let me go!" and I glance out shudderingly. We have passed over the obstruction, whatever it was, and are running along the side of a steep descent.

"I am sorry you dthink my hands zo weak, for if dthey fail ve bodth go down."

"Oh, please, please!" I gasp.

"Now ve come to a baranca. I am curious to zee vill you like a 'baranca.'"

The wretch speaks as calmly as if we sat in a Pullman car. Through all my fright and indignation I wonder what on earth's a "baranca"—and forget to scream.

"Now, SeÑorita, if I hold you not zo far out as you like, tell me."

I look down, and under my very eyes the solid ground ends, my horrified vision drops hundreds of feet to the bottom of a mighty gash in Cordilleras' flank, and for one sick instant I shut my eyes.

"How like you a baranca?"

Is it the wind jeering after me as I drop down, down, down? With a supreme effort I turn to see if that face is behind me, and behold! the Peruvian calmly meets my eyes with actually a smile on his lips. He is still holding me jauntily over the platform steps, and it was only my giddy fancy that fell so far.

We have passed the gorge, and, looking back, I see the "narrow-gauge" track lying across the chasm like a herring-bone over a hole.

"Ve haf more barancas if you like dthem."

"Oh, Guillermo," I say, "please let me go in!"

"Not for my sake! I can hold you here von hour vidth dthese 'gude-for-nodthing' hands."

"Oh, I don't doubt it; you're the strongest man I ever knew, but I don't like barancas. Please, please, Guillermo!"

He draws me back on the platform, and without asking my pardon or looking the least bit penitent, he opens the door for me to go inside.

Mrs. Steele looks away from her window as we take our former seats.

"How deliciously cool it's grown," she says. "What makes you so white, Blanche?"

"Vas it not for dthat she ees call Blanca?"

"What is it, child? Are you faint?"

"Yes, a little," I answer, wondering whether I had better tell how that Peruvian monster has been behaving.

"That's strange! It's quite unlike you to be faint. Baron, will you mix a little of this brandy with some water? That will make her feel better."

Again he takes out his traveller's cup of silver. Calling the negro conductor, he tells him to bring some "agua."

"He's afraid to leave us," I think indignantly; "he doesn't want me to tell Mrs. Steele."

"Did you notice that great cleft in the mountain we went over?" asks the latter, fanning me gently.

"Yes, dthat ees call 'baranca.' SeÑorita seem not to like it."

"Neither would Mrs. Steele if she had——"

"She nefer vould! Madame Steele ees a too vise voman. Vhat you dthink, Madame? SeÑorita inseest to lean out far ofer dthose steps; I beg her not, but——" he ends with a modest gesture of incompetence.

"And you," I begin, with a sudden determination to unmask his villainy, "you rushed over and——"

"And hold you zo dthat you fall not. Madame Steele, desairve I not dthanks?"

"Ah! yes, Baron. You are certainly very kind and watchful; but, Blanche, if you don't care for yourself, you ought to consider other people. It's a terrible responsibility to travel with such a foolhardy person. I can't say I'm sorry if you've been a little frightened. Take the brandy, dear."

My good friend is never severe long. The Baron holds the silver cup to my lips, and I shut out the sight of him—with closed eyes I drink the mixture obediently.

I lean my head against the window, and the voices of my friend and the Baron grow less and less distinct. The next thing I know Mrs. Steele is saying, "Is that Guatemala?" I rouse myself and look out. A white city on a wide plateau. Is this the "Paris of Central America," with its 70,000 inhabitants? Mrs. Steele is met in the dÉpot by some friends, Californians, who live here part of the year. We promise to dine with them, and the Baron comes back from his search for a carriage, saying one will be here presently.

"Vhile Madame Steele talks vidth her friends, vill you come zee dthe Trocadero, vhere dthey haf bull-fights?"

"No, thank you."

"Oh, I dthought you vould like."

"Where is it?"

"Yust ofer dthere, dthree steps—dthat round house."

"I'd better see it perhaps while I have time," I think, and I walk towards the circular building indicated. Baron de Bach keeps at my side. He tries the door—shakes it—but it is evidently locked; he leans down and looks through the keyhole.

"Oh, you can zee qvite vell dthrough here."

I put my eye to the little opening and can dimly descry an open arena with seats in tiers opposite.

"Dthey zay dthey haf a bull-fight Dthursday"—the Baron is reading the Spanish bill posted at the door. "Ve had better stay and let you zee."

"There's the carriage!" I exclaim, and we hurry back, take leave of Mrs. Steele's friends and drive over roughly cobbled streets to the Gran Hotel. Our rooms are secured to us in three languages by the Baron; he scolds the proprietor for delays in German, conciliates the wife in French, and gives orders to the servant of this polyglot establishment in Spanish. Finally we are stowed in rooms opening on the wide veranda that encloses the patio. A hasty toilet and we meet the Baron in the vestibule downstairs. We wander about the crooked streets from shop to shop, getting at a jeweller's some ancient coins, unalloyed gold and silver rudely stamped and cut out in irregular shapes, the only currency when Central America was a Spanish province. We are longest in the great market, buying curious pottery from the Indians—calabash cups, brilliant serapes of native weaving and lovely silk rebosas. We order a variety of fans—one kind is of braided palm with clumsy handle ending in a rude brush. An Indian girl shows me how the fan is used to make the fire burn more brightly, and the brush to sweep the hearth. From market into the main Plaza, and then to the cool shelter of the Cathedral, brings our short afternoon to an end; we must hurry back to our dinner appointment. The Baron grumbles vigorously when he discovers he was included in the invitation, and that Mrs. Steele promised to bring him.

"Really, he hasn't seemed like himself all this afternoon," says Mrs. Steele, when we are once more in our rooms, which conveniently adjoin.

"No, he can be conspicuously disagreeable when he likes." I have in mind the "baranca" episode.

"What do you suppose makes him so absent-minded and constrained, Blanche?"

"Simple perversity, very likely." I stand in the communicating doorway, brushing a jacket. I am conscious that Mrs. Steele pauses in her toilet and looks keenly in my direction.

"I still like the Baron extremely, but I'm glad to see you are not so unsophisticated or so unpractical as to be captivated by a pair of fine eyes and a melodious voice. I was once uncomplimentary enough to be afraid of the effect of such close intercourse for both of you. You two are cut out to make each other happy for a few weeks, and miserable for a lifetime. You should both be thankful that your acquaintance is to be counted by pleasant days and ended before the regretful years begin."

"Really, I don't know what put all that in your head!"

"Observation, my dear! In spite of the velvet cloak of courtesy, our Peruvian is a born tyrant, and you—forgive me—but you know you're the very child of caprice. I am most thankful, however, that you are not impressionable. Otherwise this experience might leave a bitter taste in your mouth."

"You seem content with my escape. You don't feel any concern that the Baron may lack the valuable qualities you think are my safeguard? Suppose, just for argument's sake, he should say I had——?"

"Broken his heart? Ah, my dear, he has probably said that to a dozen. It's a tough article, the masculine heart, and the kind of women who strain it most are——"

"Bewildering beauties, such as you were at twenty! And I may rest in my defects with an easy conscience. Thank you!"

"That was not what I was going to say."

In my heart I knew it was what she was thinking.