presence."

"You are losing time by your observations. Martin Paz knows his duty and
he will do it."

"It is in the name of the Sambo that we speak to you here."

"It is in my own name that I speak to you."

"Do you not fear that he will find your presence in the suburb of San
Lazaro at this hour unaccountable?"

"I am where my fancy and my will have brought me."

"Before the house of the Jew?"

"Those of my brethren who are disposed to find fault can meet me
to-night in the mountain."

The eyes of the three men sparkled, and this was all. The _zambos_
regained the bank of the Rimac, and the sound of their footsteps died
away in the darkness.

Martin Paz had hastily approached the house of the Jew. This house, like
all those of Lima, had but two stories; the ground floor, built of
bricks, was surmounted with walls formed of canes tied together and
covered with plaster; all this part of the building, constructed to
resist earthquakes, imitated, by a skillful painting, the bricks of the
lower story; the square roof, called _asoetas_, was covered with
flowers, and formed a terrace full of perfumes and pretty points of
view.

A vast gate, placed between two pavilions, gave access to a court; but
as usual, these pavilions had no window opening upon the street.

The clock of the parish church was striking eleven when Martin Paz
stopped before the dwelling of Sarah. Profound silence reigned around; a
flickering light within proved that the saloon of the Jew Samuel was
still occupied.

Why does the Indian stand motionless before these silent walls? The cool
atmosphere woos him with its transparency and its perfumes; the radiant
stars send down upon the sleeping earth rays of diaphanous mildness; the
white constellations illumine the darkness with their enchanting light;
his heart believes in those sympathetic communications which brave time
and distance.

A white form appears upon the terrace amid the flowers to which night
has only left a vague outline, without diminishing their delicious
perfumes; the dahlias mingle with the mentzelias, with the helianthus,
and, beneath the occidental breeze, form a waving basket which surrounds
Sarah, the young and beautiful Jewess.

Martin Paz involuntarily raises his hands and clasps them with
adoration. Suddenly the white form sinks down, as if terrified.

Martin Paz turns, and finds himself face to face with Andre Certa.

"Since when do the Indians pass their nights