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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
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