r.

These objects--themselves the emblems of the stony and iron things of
nature--call up associations of the darker passions: strange scenes of
strife and bloodshed; struggles between red and white savages; and
struggles hardly less fierce with the wild beasts of the forest. The
rifle, the tomahawk, and the knife are the visions conjured up, while
the savage whoop and the dread yell echo in your ear; and you dream of
_war_.

Far different are the thoughts that suggest themselves as you glide
along under the aromatic arbours of the American _southern_ forest,
brushing aside the silken foliage, and treading upon the shadows of
picturesque palms.

The cocuyo lights your way through the dark aisles, and the nightingale
cheers you with his varied and mimic song. A thousand sights and
sounds, that seem to be possessed of some mysterious and narcotic power,
lull you into silence and sleep--a sleep whose dream is _love_.

Clayey and I felt this as we rode silently along. Even the ruder hearts
of our companions seemed touched by the same influence.

We entered the dark woods that fringed the arroyo, and the stream was
crossed in silence. Raoul rode in advance, acting as our guide.

After a long silence Clayey suddenly awoke from his reverie and
straightened himself up in the saddle.

"What time is it, Captain?" he inquired.

"Ten--a few minutes past," answered I, holding my watch under the
moonlight.

"I wonder if the Don's in bed yet."

"Not likely: he will be in distress; he expected us an hour ago."

"True, he will not sleep till we come; all right then."

"How all right then?"

"For our chances of a supper; a cold pasty, with a glass of claret.
What think you?"

"I do not feel hungry."

"But I do--as a hawk. I long once more to sound the Don's larder."

"Do you not long more to see--"

"Not to-night--no--that is until after supper. Everything in its own
time and place; but a man with a hungry stomach has no stomach for
anything but eating. I pledge you my word, Haller, I would rather at
this moment see that grand old stewardess, Pepe, than the loveliest
woman in Mexico, and that's `Mary of the Light'."

"Monstrous!"

"That is, until after I have supped. Then my feelings will doubtless
take a turn."

"Ah! Clayey, you can never love!"

"Why so, Captain?"

"With you, love is a sentiment, not a passion. You regard the fair
blonde as you would a picture or a curious ornament."

"You mean