pect,"
and I turn the conversation to Mexico. "We shall go ashore at Mazatlan
and dine at a native hotel and see the people."

"May I accompany you?" says the Baron.

"Mrs. Steele makes all the arrangements; you must see her about
that."

"Ah, but you spik not Spanish, and you must haf intairpretair. Madame
Steele!" he says, as my friend appears, looking refreshed from her
long rest, "desire you not an intairpretair at Mazatlan, or spik you
Spanish?"

Mrs. Steele does not "spik Spanish," and accepts his offices. In some
way the Peruvian has secured the confidence and goodwill of my friend
in a very brief acquaintance. He is decidedly agreeable, but his
slight knowledge of English puts him at constant and amusing
disadvantage.

The next evening as we stand at the vessel's side, watching the
marvellous display of phosphorescence that plays about the prow of the
_San Miguel_, Mrs. Steele is joined by Senor Noma, and the Baron
urges me to come a little further away from the light--"ve can see
dthe yelly fishes viel besser." I move away unsuspectingly out of the
shine of the ship's lanterns, and the Baron, folding his arms on the
railing beside me, begins quite low to recite a Spanish sonnet,
liquid, musical, impassioned. I look out over the waters well-named
Pacific, and yield my luxurious sense a moment to the charm of the
dusky beauty stretching away endless in the night, listening half in a
dream to the lapping of the weirdly lit water against the side of the
_San Miguel_, and to the sweet, low music of the Spanish tongue. The
spell is broken when the Peruvian begins in a rapid, excited French a
sentimental declaration.

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you," I interrupt. "Are you telling
me about jelly fish or the Peruvians?"

"_Sacre!..._"

A low, repressed volley of Castilian followed by a few words in
German.

"_Seit jenem Tage wo ich zum ersten Male in deinen schoenen Augen
geblickt habe, habe ich dich grenzenlos geliebt._"

"I'm sorry I can understand nothing but English," I say, turning to
see if I can catch a glimpse of Mrs. Steele.

"Senorita!"

The Peruvian holds my finger tips fast to the rail with a hand that
trembles a little.

"Senorita, I must gif you anodther proof dthat I am not Jherman, and
am unlike your--how you say--practi_cal_ countrymen. I haf know you
two days, yust so long haf I loaf you, and being Peruvian, I must die
if I tell you not."

"Blanche, where are you?" It is Mrs