er the Fonda with a conviction that our appearance in public
might be attended with danger. We resolve, therefore, to keep within
doors.

In all my life I never suffered ennui as when cooped up in this
semi-barbarous town, and almost confined within the walls of its filthy
Fonda. I felt it the more that I had so lately enjoyed the company of
such free, jovial spirits, and I could fancy them in their bivouacs on
the banks of the Del Norte, carousing, laughing, or listening to some
wild mountain story.

Gode shared my feelings, and became as desponding as myself. The light
humour of the voyageur disappeared. The song of the Canadian boatman
was heard no longer; but, in its place, the "sacre" and English
exclamations were spluttered plentifully, and hurled at everything
Mexican. I resolved at length to put an end to our sufferings.

"This life will never do, Gode," said I, addressing my compagnon.

"Ah! monsieur, nevare! nevare it vill do. Ah! ver doll. It is like von
assemblee of le Quaker."

"I am determined to endure it no longer."

"But what can monsieur do? How, capitaine?"

"By leaving this accursed place, and that to-morrow."

"But is monsieur fort? strongs beau-coup? strongs to ride?"

"I will risk it, Gode. If I break down, there are other towns on the
river where we can halt. Anywhere better than here."

"C'est vrai, capitaine. Beautiful village down the river. Albuquerque;
Tome: ver many village. Mon Dieu! all better, Santa Fe is one camp of
tief. Ver good for us go, monsieur; ver good."

"Good or not, Gode, I am going. So make your preparations to-night, for
I will leave in the morning before sunrise."

"It will be von grand plaisir to makes ready." And the Canadian ran
from the room, snapping his fingers with delight.

I had made up my mind to leave Santa Fe at any rate. Should my
strength, yet but half restored, hold out, I would follow, and if
possible overtake the caravan. I knew it could make but short journeys
over the deep sand roads of the Del Norte. Should I not succeed in
coming up with it, I could halt in Albuquerque or El Paso, either of
which would offer me a residence at least as agreeable as the one I was
leaving.

My surgeon endeavoured to dissuade me from setting out. He represented
that I was in a most critical condition, my wound far from being
cicatrised. He set forth in most eloquent terms the dangers of fever,
of gangrene, of haemorrhage. He saw I was