the _San Miguel_ and headed
towards the town. It is dark when we reach the wharf, and Baron de
Bach gives us each an arm, saying:

"It ees not safe dthat you leaf me; stay close beside."

"Yes," observes Mrs. Steele encouragingly, "I've heard that these
wretches think nothing of murdering a stranger for a ring or a few
reales."

"Dthere ees no fear; I haf mine pistol."

But nevertheless I have a delightfully creepy sensation as we pass the
occasional groups of evil-looking natives, and I keep close beside the
muscular Peruvian, with a new sense of comfort in his presence. At
the little hotel not far from the wharf the Baron orders supper, and
then takes us into the market.

This interesting place is lit with smoky old lamps and flaring
torches, and the fitful light shows weird pictures to our unaccustomed
eyes. Each booth is in charge of one or more women, and here and there
is a man resplendent in overshadowing sombrero, with heavy silver
braid wound about the crown. The women have the scantiest of clothing,
arms and neck bare, dark eyes glittering, and dusky unkempt hair. The
atmosphere is stifling, but we must endure it long enough to get some
of the wares. The women chatter volubly, and even leave their booths
to come and take us by the dress and urge us to some dingy stall.
Vegetables and fruit are piled about in profusion, but we make our way
to the pottery tables. I am afraid to admire the curious designs and
archaic workmanship, for everything I notice approvingly the Peruvian
straightway buys, and we soon have a basket full.

"Ah! Figurines you must haf!" he exclaims as we approach a booth
populous with little clay figures, tiny men and women in native dress,
engaged in native avocations. These evidence no small cleverness in
the modeller, and the Baron insists on taking a dozen. Far on the
other side of the market some Indian women crouch in a semi-circle
over an open air fire.

"What are they doing?" asks Mrs. Steele.

"Dthey make tortillas," says the Baron.

"Oh, yes, I've heard about these meal cakes," says my friend, stopping
to look at the queer group. One old woman jumps up and offers her
something smoking in a pan. Mrs. Steele, bent upon discovery, bravely
tears off a bit and tastes it, throwing the woman a coin.

"Give me some," I say.

"No," interposes the Baron, with a fatherly decision; "you vill haf
supper soon, and I haf order tortillas. Mine vill be better. Vait
leedle."

Really,