others keep us at the table till the pale crescent of the new moon looks in over the vine trellis to warn us of the waning hours.

"We must remember the Captain's caution to be back by eleven," says Captain Ball, consulting his watch.

"Yes, but it ees scarce nine o'clock," says Señor Noma. "Mrs. Steele, will you accept my escor'?" And our clever host, having won over the only possible objector, leads the way out into the dim, mysterious street.

"Vill you haf zome Eendian dthings, en souvenir?" asks the Baron, offering me his arm.

"Indian things!" I echoed, delighted. "I should like to see them immensely, wouldn't you, Mrs. Steele?" and I explain. The notion is received with enthusiasm, and Baron de Bach takes us to a little shop, where some sinister-looking men and women show us glazed clay mugs rudely decorated and often adorned with some Spanish name in scrawling script. There are carafes with cups to match, pipes, whistles, and animals in clay and little dishes of every description. The Baron buys a great tray full of these things, and hires a barefooted "moso" to carry them down to the wharf. We go on to the garden-planted Plaza that had so attracted us by day. Now it is a blaze of light and resonant with the strains of a Mexican band. Dark-visaged idlers lounge on the long seats about the garden, and a constantly shifting throng moves up and down on every side.

Affecting to show me a white flower that thrust its dainty head through the garden's iron fence and filled the air with heavy, strange perfume, Baron de Bach separates me a few moments from my friends.

"At last," he says, with a deep breath, looking around and seeing that the others have passed on, "I haf you a moment alone. I haf been in torture dthese seven hours."

"Very polite speech," I answer, peering through the garden's iron palings, "seeing that you have been with me these seven sad hours."

"Ah, Señorita, it ees no use dthat I egsplain, you air zo fery heartless. I do not find myself possible to make you out. You haf pairhaps had too many tell you 'I loaf you'—you care not any more. I haf travel dthe vorld ofer, many beautiful and clevair vomans haf loaf me. I haf seen nefer a voman like you for not to care. Efery body loaf you, you loaf nobody, and vhen a man say 'You air charmante,' you say 'Vill ve feeshe to-day?' If a man say 'You haf eyes wie die Sternen im Himmel' you ask 'Hear you dthose bells of San Blas?' and vhen a man say 'I loaf you to deestraction' you tell him 'I do so like dthose qveer Megsican Eendians.'" The Baron strikes the pavement violently with his stick. "Vill you marry von qveer Megsican Eendian, Señorita?" I laugh at the funny conclusion and the Peruvian's excited face.

"Monsieur," I say, "I'm told that nearly every man says 'I love you' to an average of eighteen women in a lifetime; he perhaps really cares at various times for three, and the rest do well to let the mistake pass unchallenged and soon forgotten. I am not especially strong-minded myself, and I don't object to your talking a little nonsense, for I find you very entertaining; but I won't deceive you so far as to let you think I believe you."

A low volley of French so quick and excited that I cannot follow it is the Peruvian's reply. I am a little bit uneasy at the look in his face; the glow of ruddy health runs out like a fast-ebbing tide, and although I have not understood his French, with the intuition of my sex I comprehend his face, and I look around for the rest of the party. He catches the glance and seems to struggle for self-control.

"Señorita, take my arm; ve shall valk. I vill hope to teach Señorita zome day dthat Peruvians air no liars."

"Ah, Baron," I say deprecatingly, "I never meant that, you didn't understand me—I——"

"No," he interrupts—"I know dthat often I understand you not and zometimes it ees my so bad Eenglish dthat ees to blame. If I could tell you all in Spanish you must believe," and before all the people in the Plaza he lifts the hand that lies on his arm and kisses it.

I flash a horrified look around, but no one seems to have noticed.

"Like you dthe Spanish tongue?" he asks quite unconcerned.

"Yes, very much," I say, glad to get him on some impersonal subject, "it is the most musical in the world, I believe."

"You vould soon learn it," he says, "you understand many words now, I know by your face. Can you say my name, I vondair; try! Federico Guillermo."

"Federico Guillermo," I repeat imperfectly—"what a beautiful name!"

"Dthen Blanca vill call me 'Guillermo.' I like not 'de Baron de Bach' from her lips. Besides ve use not titles in Peru."

Mrs. Steele and Señor Noma call us from the corner of the Plaza as we approach.

"We've been round four times hunting for you; where in the world have you been?" says Mrs. Steele, looking disapproving and a little out of breath.

"Walking about here looking for you! I couldn't imagine where you were," I say.

The others come up and we turn our faces towards the harbour. The dusky oarsmen are waiting for us, and we are soon skimming over the dark water—I with my hoard of flowers in my lap and my eyes fixed on the great dim hulk of the San Miguel anchored out in the bay.