ary provisions.

The house looked forbidding enough. A wall of adobe, eighteen feet
high, ran all around the establishment, shutting it in securely. It
was provided with two small towers, which had loop-holes for rifles.

In the house was a small chapel, in which Don Teodoro and his father
before him had frequently knelt to pray. The altar was decorated with
the pictures of many saints, and in the centre was a painting of the
Christ-child, a crucifix, and an artificial apple.

When the lord of the manor arrived the following day, I immediately
went to see him. As I passed through the enclosure he was scolding
the superintendent, but on perceiving me he stepped forward to
receive me. This modern Fra Diavolo was about thirty years old,
rather short of stature, but unusually well built. He wore an
embroidered brown jacker and a blue waistcoat, and around his neck
was thrown a many-coloured scarf. On one side of his sombrero was a
scarlet rosette. Under it gleamed brown, piercing eyes. His hair was
cut short. Altogether he was quite good-looking, except for a cruel,
sensual expression of the features. His entire manner, erect carriage,
and quick, decisive movements told me he was a man of violent temper
and extreme determination.

He led the way into a room, and I handed him my letter of
recommendation from the Mexican Government, and explained what I
was doing in the sierra. After he had read the letter, he said that
he was my friend. I told him that I had heard there were robbers in
the vicinity, and in case I was molested I should apply to him for
assistance, since he was a very influential man. Of course I knew as
long as he did not rob us we were quite safe. I then photographed him
and his house, and he evidently felt quite flattered. He accompanied
me for a mile down the road, and then, taking me aside, handed me
back the paltry sum I had paid for the provisions, saying he did
not accept payment from his guests. This was rather embarrassing,
but there was no way out of it, and I had to accept it. I afterward
sent him a copy of his photograph to even up matters.

The guide with whom Don Teodoro had provided me pointed out to us
a place where his master last year killed and robbed a man. "He is
a poor shot," he added, "except at close range, and he generally
travels at night." In 1895 Don Teodoro Palma himself was killed by
the Indians. If half the rumours about him are true, he certainly
deserved his fate. He nev