the romantic history of
Cortez's conquest, and his mind had become deeply imbued with the
picturesqueness of Mexican scenes; so that among the fancies of his
youthful life one of the pleasantest was that of some day visiting the
land of Anahuac, and its ancient capital, Tenochtitlan. After leaving
college the dream had grown into a determination, and was now in the act
of being realised. In New Orleans he was so far on his way. He came
thither expecting to obtain passage in a coasting vessel to some Mexican
seaport--Tampico or Vera Cruz.

Why he had not at once continued his journey thither was due to no
difficulty in finding such a vessel. There were schooners sailing every
week to either of the above ports that would have accommodated him, yet
still he lingered in New Orleans. His reason for thus delaying was one
far from uncommon--this being a lady with whom he had fallen in love.

At first the detention had been due to a more sensible cause. Not
speaking the Spanish language, which is also that of Mexico, he knew
that while travelling through the latter country he would have to go as
one dumb. In New Orleans he might easily obtain a teacher; and having
sought soon found one, in the person of Don Ignacio Valverde,--a refugee
Mexican gentleman, a victim of the tyrant Santa Anna, who, banished from
his country, had been for several years resident in the States as an
exile. And an exile in straitened circumstances, one of the hardest
conditions of life. Once, in his own country, a wealthy landowner, Don
Ignacio was now compelled to give lessons in Spanish to such stray
pupils as might chance to present themselves. Among the rest, by chance
came Florence Kearney, to whom he had commenced teaching it.

But while the latter was making himself master of the Andalusian tongue,
he also learnt to love one who spoke it as purely, and far more sweetly,
than Don Ignacio. This was Don Ignacio's daughter.

After parting with Cris Rock, the young Irishman advanced along the
Levee, his head bowed forward, with eyes to the ground, as if examining
the oyster-shells that thickly bestrewed the path; anon giving his
glance to the river, as though stirred by its majestic movement. But he
was thinking neither of the empty bivalves, nor the flow of the mighty
stream. Nor yet of the speech he had promised to make that same night
at the _rendezvous_ of filibusters. Instead he was reflecting upon that
affair of the heart, from