the Baron has quite taken me in hand, I think, half amused.
But he is a very necessary quantity in this pilgrimage ashore, and I
walk on obediently by his side, meditating how queer that one who
appeared so masterful and imperious at times could be at others so
weak and almost childish. It shed a new light on his character to see
him ashore. Here he knows the people and their tongue, all our wants
must pass through his interpretation, and he is master of the
situation. He seems, moreover, to fall naturally and simply into the
new office, and treats me quite as if I were a child. I want to stop
and get some plantains as we pass a fruit stall.

"No," says the Baron, "you must not eat dthem; dthey air--_unreif_."

"Ah, but really," I say, "I _must_ taste a plaintain; suppose you had
never seen one of that kind before."

"I vill not buy dthem; I vill not see you ill," he says.

"Very well, I'll buy one for myself." I drop his arm and run to the
booth, and, laying my finger on the greenest plantain I can find, I
say:

"_Quantos?_"

The old woman in charge gabbles away for dear life, and, not feeling
that I am progressing very rapidly, I lay down a media and take up
the plantain. The Baron comes to my rescue with a half-amused,
half-vexed smile.

"She haf cheat you," and he levels a volley of Spanish at the old
criminal. "See," he says, "she vill gif you all dthose limes if you
gif back dthat plantain, you vill be glad of limes _abord du San
Miguel_."

"Yes," I say. "I'll have the limes, too." And I put down another
media. He looks at me curiously.

"Ask her to send them to the hotel," I say. He gives the old woman
some rapid directions.

"Now ve vill haf supper," and we are soon sitting in a private room at
the hotel discussing soup, fish, tortillas and frejoles (the Mexican
black bean) and enchalades, which are only the coarse Indian meal
cakes, "tortillas," rolled up like a French pancake, with cheese and
cayenne pepper and a variety of disagreeable things inside, but
considered quite a delicacy among Mexicans. It is long before I
recover from my first mouthful, and the Baron stands over me with a
fan and a glass of wine, while Mrs. Steele laughs until the tears come
into her eyes.

"Water! water!" I gasp.

"No, _vino blanco_, Senorita," says the Baron, putting the glass to my
lips. I drain the last drop.

"Now some water, please."

"Yes, leedle more _vino blanco_," says the Peruvian, pouring out
anot