the
plantains flapped and whistled, and, bending gracefully, allowed the
fierce blast to pass over.

Then a great cloud came rolling down; a thick vapour seemed to fill the
space; and the air felt hot and dark and heavy. A choking, sulphureous
smell rendered the breathing difficult, and for a moment day seemed
changed to night.

Suddenly the whole atmosphere blazed forth in a sheet of flame, and the
trees glistened as though they were on fire. An opaque darkness
succeeded. Another flash, and along with it the crashing thunder--the
artillery of heaven--deafening all other sounds.

Peal followed peal; the vast cloud was breached and burst by a hundred
fiery bolts; and like an avalanche the heavy tropical rain was
precipitated to the earth.

It fell in torrents, but the strength of the tempest had been spent on
the first onslaught. The dark cloud passed on to the south, and a
piercing cold wind swept after it.

"_Vamos a bajar, senores_!" (Let us descend, gentlemen), said Don Cosme
with a shiver, and he conducted us back to the stairway.

Clayley and the major looked towards me with an expression that said,
"Shall we go in?" There were several reasons why our return to the
drawing-room was unpleasant to myself and my companions. A scene of
domestic affliction is ever painful to a stranger. How much more
painful to us, knowing, as we did, that our countrymen--that _we_--had
been the partial agents of this calamity! We hesitated a moment on the
threshold.

"Gentlemen, we must return for a moment: we have been the bearers of
evil tidings--let us offer such consolation as we may think of. Come!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A LITTLE FAIR WEATHER AGAIN.

On re-entering the _sala_ the picture of woe was again presented, but in
an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just
witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now
succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.

On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with
its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture--a portrait
of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the "Lady of Grief" looked not
more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent
before her.

With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their
swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet,
they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.

Not wishing to intrud