"_We_ call the Zambo Don!" reiterated the Spaniard, "and stand up on his entrance! Madre de Dios, what insolence! No, Senora, that shall never be," continued he with much solemnity. "By the Virgen de los Remedios, and the most excellent Sant Jago, that shall never be! Were we a thousand times as ill, and this Zambo could cure us by the mere touch of his staff, as Senor Don Moses did the Israelites--Dona Anna," said the man, with an assumption of immense dignity, "we would rather die a thousand deaths that call the Zambo Senor, or stand up before him. We are a _viejo Cristiano, y basta_! Enough! I have spoken." During this declaration of his principles, the Spaniard's cigar had gone out; he lit another, pressed down his huge cocked hat deeper upon his forehead, took a long cross-hilted dagger from the wall, with the words, "_Ven, mi querida Virgen!_" and kissing the sacred emblem, laid it before him. Husband and wife had quarrelled themselves weary, and now remained silent. The dispute seemed to have excited no interest in the saloon and mirador, where the young ladies were still lounging, yawning, and smoking; their features wearing that disagreeable relaxed expression which is frequently to be observed in the countenances of Mexican women. A moment, however, was sufficient to change the scene. The Senorita Ximene had gazed awhile, with the drooping underlip and careless glance of indifference, upon a number of persons who were coming up the Tacuba Street, and who, to judge from their garb, were for the most part members of the _cinco gremios_, the five guilds or handicrafts. On a sudden, however, her eyes lost their vague and languid look, and became fixed and sparkling; her lips were protruded as if inviting a kiss; her hand was extended, her mantilla fell, as of itself, into graceful folds--it was but an instant, and the damsel was completely transformed. Her two companions had scarcely remarked this change, when they in their turn underwent a like metamorphosis; their countenance became all animation, their manner fascination itself; they were no longer the same beings. "_Don Pinto y un superbo hombre!_" whispered Ximene. "_Quien es?_ Who is it?" asked Celestine. "_No se_," replied the other two. The whispering and commotion in the balcony had roused Dona Isidra from her state of indolent apathy. Her hair was already tressed and knotted; she now hastily slipped on a gown, darted through the folding-doors out upon the mirador, and clapped her hands together, uttering the words, "_Venid, venid, querido!_" Then tripping back into the saloon with her three companions, they all four seized the cords of variegated silk that hung down, as already mentioned, from the centre of the ceiling, which was full fifteen feet high. The waiting-maid had just had time to slip on Dona Isidra's basquina, and fasten her mantilla on the crown of her head, when the door opened, and Don Pinto, accompanied by another cavalier, entered the room.