e earliest stars were rising above the horizon, the
numerous promenaders were traversing the streets of Lima, wrapped in
their light mantles, and conversing gravely on the most trivial affairs.
There was a great movement of the populace on the Plaza-Mayor, that
forum of the ancient city of kings; artisans were profiting by the
coolness to quit their daily labors; they circulated actively among the
crowd, crying their various merchandise; the ladies of Lima, carefully
enveloped in the mantillas which mask their countenances, with the
exception of the right eye, darted stealthy glances on the surrounding
masses; they undulated through the groups of smokers, like foam at the
will of the waves; other senoras, in ball costume, _coiffed_ only with
their abundant hair or some natural flowers, passed in large caleches,
throwing on the _caballeros_ nonchalant regards.

But these glances were not bestowed indiscriminately upon the young
cavaliers; the thoughts of the noble ladies could rest only on
aristocratic heights. The Indians passed without lifting their eyes upon
them, knowing themselves to be beneath their notice; betraying by no
gesture or word, the bitter envy of their hearts. They contrasted
strongly with the half-breeds, or mestizoes, who, repulsed like the
former, vented their indignation in cries and protestations.

The proud descendants of Pizarro marched with heads high, as in the
times when their ancestors founded the city of kings; their traditional
scorn rested alike on the Indians whom they had conquered, and the
mestizoes, born of their relations with the natives of the New World.
The Indians, on the contrary, were constantly struggling to break their
chains, and cherished alike aversion toward the conquerors of the
ancient empire of the Incas and their haughty and insolent descendants.

But the mestizoes, Spanish in their contempt for the Indians, and Indian
in their hatred which they had vowed against the Spaniards, burned with
both these vivid and impassioned sentiments.

A group of these young people stood near the pretty fountain in the
centre of the Plaza-Mayor. Clad in their _poncho_, a piece of cloth or
cotton in the form of a parallelogram, with an opening in the middle to
give passage to the head, in large pantaloons, striped with a thousand
colors, _coiffed_ with broad-brimmed hats of Guayaquil straw, they were
talking, declaiming, gesticulating.

"You are right, Andre," said a very obsequious