rough 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 Senor 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 Senor 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 Senorita 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