every Mexican--were brought, and these served me
for breakfast. A glass of cognac and a Havanna were more to the
purpose, and helped to stay the wild trembling of my nerves.
Fortunately, there was no duty to perform, else I could ill have
attended to it.

I remained on the azotea till near mid-day. The storm raging within
prevented me from taking note of what was passing around. The scenes in
the piazza, the rangers and their steeds, the "greasers" in their
striped blankets, the _Indias_ squatted on their _petates_, the pretty
poblanas, were all unnoticed by me.

At intervals my eyes rested upon the walls of the distant dwelling; it
was not so distant but that a human form could have been distinguished
upon its roof, had one been there. There was none, and twenty, ay,
fifty times, did I turn away my disappointed gaze.

About noon the Serjeant of the guard reported that a Mexican wished to
speak with me. Mechanically, I gave orders for the man to be sent up;
but it was not until he appeared before me that I thought of what I was
doing.

The presence of the Mexican at once aroused me from my unpleasant
reverie. I recognised him as one of the vaqueros of Don Ramon de
Vargas--the same I had seen on the plain during my first interview with
Isolina.

There was something in his manner that betokened him a messenger. A
folded note, which he drew from under his jerkin--after having glanced
around to see whether he was noticed--confirmed my observation.

I took the note. There was no superscription, nor did I stay to look
for one. My fingers trembled as I tore open the seal. As my eye rested
on the writing and recognised it, my heart throbbed so as almost to
choke my utterance. I muttered some directions to the messenger; and to
conceal my emotion from him, I turned away and proceeded to the farthest
corner of the azotea before reading the note. I called back to the man
to go below, and wait for an answer; and, then relieved of his presence,
I read as follows:--

"_July_ 18--.

"_Gallant_ capitan! allow me to bid you a _buenas dias_, for I presume
that, after the fatigues of last night, it is but morning with you yet.
Do you dream of your sable belle? `Poor devil!' Ha, ha, ha! _Gallant_
capitan!"

I was provoked at this mode of address, for the "gallant" was rendered
emphatic by underlining. It was a letter to taunt me for my ill
behaviour. I felt inclined to fling it down, but my eye wandering over