ould all at
once speak up and say, laying his hands upon the narrator's knee,
"Comrade, your throat is dry, here are fresh limes; let my dear child
herself come and mix you a lemonade." Then the neighbors over the way,
sitting about their doors, would by and by softly say, "See, see! there
is Pauline!" and all the exiles would rise from their rocking-chairs,
take off their hats and stand as men stand in church, while Pauline came
out like the moon from a cloud, descended the three steps of the cafe
door, and stood with waiter and glass, a new Rebecca with her pitcher,
before the swarthy wanderer.

What tales that would have been tear-compelling, nay, heart-rending, had
they not been palpable inventions, the pretty, womanish Mazaro from time
to time poured forth, in the ever ungratified hope that the goddess
might come down with a draught of nectar for him, it profiteth not to
recount; but I should fail to show a family feature of the Cafe des
Exiles did I omit to say that these make-believe adventures were heard
with every mark of respect and credence; while, on the other hand, they
were never attempted in the presence of the Irishman. He would have
moved an eyebrow, or made some barely audible sound, or dropped some
seemingly innocent word, and the whole company, spite of themselves,
would have smiled. Wherefore, it may be doubted whether at any time the
curly-haired young Cuban had that playful affection for his Celtic
comrade, which a habit of giving little velvet taps to Galahad's cheek
made a show of.

Such was the Cafe des Exiles, such its inmates, such its guests, when
certain apparently trivial events began to fall around it as germs of
blight fall upon corn, and to bring about that end which cometh to all
things.

The little seed of jealousy, dropped into the heart of Manuel Mazaro, we
have already taken into account.

Galahad Shaughnessy began to be specially active in organizing a society
of Spanish Americans, the design of which, as set forth in its
manuscript constitution, was to provide proper funeral honors to such of
their membership as might be overtaken by death; and, whenever it was
practicable, to send their ashes to their native land. Next to Galahad
in this movement was an elegant old Mexican physician, Dr.--,--his name
escapes me--whom the Cafe des Exiles sometimes took upon her lap--that
is to say door-step--but whose favorite resort was the old Cafe des
Refugies in the Rue Royale (Royal Str