in order not to offend their courteous host, they accepted some pulque, the national beverage of Mexico, and were sorry for the concession. Jack was used to the drink, and professed to like it; but the others pronounced it beastly. Those who have tried pulque for the first time will heartily endorse this opinion.
“Oh, oh!” spluttered Peter, trying to conceal his distaste from their host; “it’s like bad butter-milk.”
“What would I not give for a glass of whisky! ‘Tis pig-wash, this same.”
“It is certainly not the milk of Paradise,” said Philip, in disgust.
Don Miguel had retired for a moment in search of cigars for the party, so they could express themselves freely to Jack. They took full advantage of the opportunity.
“The Mexicans say the angels in heaven prefer it to wine,” said Jack, who had finished his glass with great gusto. “They have a proverb:
“‘Lo beben, los angeles
En vez de vino.’”
“I can’t say much for the angels’ taste, then,” retorted Philip, crossly. “Nastier stuff I never drank. Raki is bad enough, but it’s nectar compared with pulque.”
Jack laughed heartily at the wry faces made by his friends, and comforted them after the manner of Job’s acquaintances.
“You’ll have to drink it, however. Don Miguel will be offended if you do not.”
They all promptly poured the liquor into some of the flower-bearing jars which happened, fortunately enough, to be handy.
“There,” said Peter, triumphantly; “he’ll think we have finished it.”
“I’ll bring a pocket-pistol next time,” said Tim, gloomily. “I’ll be having the cholera with this stuff.”
“Hush! here is Don Miguel.”
Their host returned with a good supply of cigars, which proved to be more acceptable than the pulque. Maraquando expressed great surprise that Peter did not smoke.
“What does he say?” asked Peter, woefully ignorant of Spanish.
“That you ought to smoke.”
Peter shook his head in disgust.
“Tell Don Miguel tobacco is slow poison.”
Maraquando laughed when this was translated to him.
“It must be very slow, Señor,” he said, smiling. “I have smoked for forty years, and yet the poison has not overtaken me as yet.”
All laughed at this speech save Peter, who could not appreciate jokes in the tongue of Castille. Indeed, he began to find his ignorance of Spanish somewhat annoying, as his friends, who acted as interpreters, played tricks on him. He became proficient in the tongue when Doña Serafina took him in hand; but that was many weeks later.
All this time Jack was wondering why Dolores did not appear to welcome him back. As it was not etiquette to ask directly for the ladies of the family, he made the inquiry in a roundabout way.
“Your family I trust are well, Señor?”
“They are in excellent health, I thank you, Señor Juan. At present I have but my daughter with me. Doña Serafina and Dolores are staying for a few days at my estancio.”
This was bad news for Jack; but as Don Miguel’s eyes were fixed inquiringly on his face, he was forced to dissemble his sorrow.
“And Don Rafael?”
“Is at present with his ship at Acauhtzin.”
“What! with Don Hypolito?”
The expression on Maraquando’s face changed, and he seemed about to burst out into a furious speech; but, out of courtesy, restrained himself for the present.
“We will talk of this again,” he said, gravely. “I am sure you do not care about our politics.”
“Indeed we do,” replied Jack, emphatically. “This gentleman”—indicating Tim—“is a special correspondent, sent here by a great English paper, to report on your war.”
“Our war!” echoed the Spaniard, with some surprise. “How do you know there is to be a war?”
“The telegrams to Europe say as much!” interposed Tim, speaking in Spanish.
“Telegrams sent by Don Hypolito, I have no doubt,” responded Maraquando, grimly. “There will be no war, gentlemen.”
“Carambo! Sacré! Damn!” ejaculated Tim, who swore fluently in all three languages. “I have been tricked, then?”
“Wait a moment, Señor Corresponsal. You will have plenty to write about; I will tell you some astonishing news shortly. Meanwhile, I must present you to my daughter, Doña Eulalia.”
The girl who appeared at this moment caused them all to rise to their feet, and assuredly a more beautiful vision could not be seen anywhere. She was a little sparkling brunette, all eyes and smiles (as Tim afterwards phrased it), and when she beheld Jack, came forward eagerly to greet him with outstretched hands.
“Señor Juan,” she said, in a deliciously sweet voice, “you have returned. Ah, how sorry Dol—Doña Serafina will be that she is not here to greet you.”
She gave a side glance at her father on pronouncing the name of Doña Serafina; and, by that diplomatic substitution, Philip guessed that she was in the secret of the lovers.
“I trust Doña Serafina will return soon, Señora,” said Jack, significantly, after exchanging courtesies. “I am anxious to see Doña Serafina.”
Eulalia put her black fan up to hide the smile on her lips, and intimated that she expected her aunt back on the morrow. Nothing was said of Dolores; but Jack was not so dull a lover as not to know that, in this case, the lesser Serafina included the greater Dolores. Meanwhile, neither Tim nor Philip could keep their eyes off this Spanish beauty, and Don Miguel graciously presented them to his daughter. As for Peter, he was examining an ugly clay god at the other end of the court, which showed that he had no eye for beauty.
“At your feet, lady,” said Philip, in his best Castillian.
“My hands for your kisses, Señor,” she responded, coquettishly, whereat the baronet felt a strange feeling about the region of his heart.
“Oh, Lord, Lord!” he muttered, as Tim was executing court bows to the lady. “Great Heaven! this cannot be love at first sight. It must be the pulque.”
He caught Jack’s eye at this moment, and saw a derisive smile on that young man’s lips, whereat he smiled also, as if to intimate that he thought but little of the dainty beauty. Jack knew better, however. Then Peter was torn away from his Aztec deity, and presented in due form, making use, at the introduction, of all the Spanish of which he was master.
“Bueno! Bueno!”
