g the object of my thoughts. The
house, as I have elsewhere stated, was but a single story in height, and
from the saddle I could almost look into the azotea. I could see that
it was a sanctuary of rare plants, and the broad leaves and bright
corollas of some of the taller ones appeared over the edge of the
parapet. Abundance of fair flowers I could perceive, but not that one
for which I was looking. No face yet showed, no voice greeted us with a
welcome. The shouts of the vaqueros, the music of singing-birds caged
along the corridor, and the murmur of the fountain, were the only
sounds. The two former suddenly became hushed, as the hoofs of our
horses rang upon the stone pavement, and the heedless water alone
continued to utter its soft monotone.

Once more my eyes swept the curtain, gazing intently into the few
apertures left by a careless drawing; once more they sought the azotea,
and glanced along the parapet: my scrutiny still remained unrewarded.

Without exchanging a word, Wheatley and I sat silent in our saddles,
awaiting the return of the portero. Already the peons, vaqueros, and
wenches, had poured in through the back gateway, and stood staring with
astonishment at the unexpected guests.

After a considerable pause, the tread of feet was heard upon the
corridor, and presently the messenger appeared, and announced that the
_dueno_ was coming.

In a minute after, one of the curtains was drawn back, and an old
gentleman made his appearance behind the railing. He was a person of
large frame, and although slightly stooping with age, his step was firm,
and his whole aspect bespoke a wonderful energy and resolution. His
eyes were large and brilliant, shadowed by heavy brows, upon which the
hair still retained its dark colour, although that of his head was white
as snow. He was simply habited--in a jacket of nankeen cloth, and wide
trousers of like material. He wore neither waistcoat nor cravat. A
full white shirt of finest linen covered his breast, and a sash of dull
blue colour was twisted around his waist. On his head was a costly hat
of the "Guayaquil grass," and in his fingers a husk cigarrito smoking at
the end.

Altogether, the aspect of Don Ramon--for it was he--despite its assumed
sternness, was pleasing and intelligent; and I should have relished a
friendly chat with him, even upon his own account.

This, however, was out of the question. I must abide by the spirit of
my orders: the farc