"Were, are, and will be. _Salteadores del camino grande_!"

"Many of us consider it a scandal. So the world will esteem it. A band of brigands taken into the service of a civilised nation, and treated as its own soldiers! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Ah, senor! I see you are a true soldier of civilisation. I am sorry to say that in my poor country such travesties are but too common. In our army--that is, the army of his most Ill.u.s.trious Excellency, General Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna--you may discover captains, colonels-- nay, even generals, who--. But no. It is not for me to pour these sad revelations into the ears of an enemy. Perhaps in time you may find out for yourself some strange things; which we of the country are accustomed to call--_Cosas de Mexico_!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

EARLY BIRDS.

I supped with Francisco. The G.o.ddess Fortuna did not show any grudge against him, for his short flirtation with the sister divinity; but, on his return to the _monte_ table, again smiled upon him--as she did upon myself.

By way of a change we paid our addresses to Coena and Bacchus--to the latter more especially--keeping up our devotions to a late hour of the night.

It did not hinder me from being early abroad on the morning after. I saw the rose-tints upon the "White Sister," as Phoebus imprinted his first kiss upon her snowy brow. I saw this as I entered the Calle del Obispo--the magnificent mountain appearing like a white wall stretched across at the termination of the street!

You will scarce ask why I was there? Only, why at such an early hour?

I could but gaze at the house--trace the frescoes on its _facade_--feast my eyes upon inanimate objects; or, if animate, only nest-building birds, or domestics of the mansion.

You are thinking of Park-lane--not Puebla, where the angels rise early.

In Park-lane they sleep till a late hour, having "retired" at a late hour. In Puebla they are up with the sun, having gone to bed with the same.

The explanation is easy. Puebla is Catholic--a city of _orisons_.

Park-lane is Protestant, and more given to midnight revels!

Had I not known the peculiarity of Mexican customs in this respect, I should not have been traversing the "Street of the Bishop" before seven o'clock in the morning.

But I did know them; and that the lady who, at that hour, or before it, is not on her way to church--_capilla, parroquia_, or cathedral--is either too old to take an interest in the _confessional_, or too humble to care for the Church at all!

Few there are of this sort in the City of the Angels. It was not likely that Mercedes Villa-Senor would be among the number. Her sister, Dolores, had let me into a secret--without knowing, or intending it.

In Mexico there are two twilights--equally interesting to those who make love by stealth. One precedes the rising, the other follows the setting, of the sun.

It seems like reversing the order of nature to say that the former is more favourable to the _culte_ of the G.o.d Cupid--but in Mexico it is even so. While the Belgravian beauty lies asleep on her soft couch, dreaming of fresh conquests, the fair Poblana is abroad upon the streets, or kneeling before the shrine of the Virgin--in the act of _making them_!

Early as I had sallied out, I was a little behind time. _Oracion_ bells had commenced tolling all over the town. As I entered the Calle del Obispo, I saw three female forms pa.s.sing out at its opposite end. Two walked side by side: the third a little behind them.

I might have permitted them to pa.s.s on without further remark, had it not been that the great gate of the Casa Villa-Senor stood open.

The _portero_ was closing it, as if a party had just pa.s.sed out; and it could only be they who were going along the street.

The two in advance? Who should they be but the daughters of Don Eusebio Villa-Senor?

The third I scarce spent a thought upon; or only to conjecture, that she was _Tia Josefa_.

The Calle del Obispo had no further attractions for me. Folding my cloak around me, I followed the trio of senoras.

A spurt of quick walking brought me close upon the heels of Tia Josefa, and within good viewing distance of the two damsels--over whom she was playing _duena_.

I had no longer any doubt of their being the daughters of Don Eusebio, though both were veiled to the eyes. Over the eyes in fact: since their shawls were carried _tapado_. Instead of hanging from the shoulder, they were drawn across the crown of the head, and held under the chin-- so as completely to conceal the countenance!

The black Spanish eye sparkling in shadow was all that could have been seen; though I saw it not: as I was at some distance behind them.

I saw that of Tia Josefa--as she turned, on perceiving my shadow projected before her on the pavement.

There was a sudden glance, accompanied by the bristling of a fan, as the maternal hen ruffles her feathers when the shadow of the hawk is seen sailing towards her chicks.

Only for an instant was I the object of _aunt_ Josefa's suspicion. My meek look, directed towards the "White Sister," at once rea.s.sured her.

I was not the bird of prey she had been cautioned to keep guard against: and, after a cursory glance at me, she went on after her pair of proteges.

I did likewise.

Though they were dressed exactly in the same style--wearing black lace shawls, with high combs holding them above their heads--though their figures were scarce to be distinguished in height, shape, or _tournure_--though the backs of both were toward me--I could tell my chosen at a glance.

There is something in the physical form--less in its muscular development than its motion--in the play of the arms and limbs--that proclaims the spirit within. It is that unmistakeable, and yet undefinable essence we term _grace_; which Nature alone can give, and Art cannot acquire. It is a quality of the soul; and not belonging to the body--to the adornment of which it but lends itself.

It proclaimed itself in every movement of Mercedes Villa-Senor--in her step, her carriage, the raising of her hand, the serpentine undulation perceptible throughout her whole frame. Every gesture made was a living ill.u.s.tration of Hogarth's line.

Grace was not denied to Dolores; though to her given in a lesser degree.

There was a sprightliness about her movements that many might have admired; but which in my mind but poorly compared with the grand, queen-like, air that characterised the step of her sister.

I soon became aware that they were on their way to the Cathedral--whose matin bells were filling the streets with their clangour. Other intended devotees--most of them women, in shawls and _rebosos_--were hastening across the Piazza Mayor, in the same direction.

Dolores alone looked round. Several times she did so--turning again towards the Cathedral with an air of evident dissatisfaction.

Her seeing me made not the slightest difference--a stranger accidentally walking the same way.

I felt no chagrin at her indifference. I divined the cause of it. I was not "Querido Francisco."

Mercedes appeared to be uninterested in aught that was pa.s.sing around.

Her air was that of one a little "out of sorts"--as was shown by the cold salutations she exchanged with the "caballeros" encountered upon the way, and who one and all seemed to court a more cordial "buenas dias."

Only once did she show sign of being interested:--when an American officer in the uniform of the Mounted Rifles came galloping along the street. Then only during the six seconds spent in scrutinising him, as he swept past; after which her eyes once more turned towards the Cathedral.

Its ma.s.sive door stood open to admit the early devotees, who were by this time swarming up the steps.

The sisters became part of the throng, and pa.s.sed on inside--Tia Josefa closely following, and keeping up her espionage with as much strictness, as while pa.s.sing along the streets!

I did the same--with a different intent.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

AT MATINS.