“Adieu, then, dearest. Adieu, Mendoza, for the present--_hasta manana_. I now hurry to town to arrange your affairs as I best may.” And Don Felipe Le Brun withdrew, a happier man than he had long been, ay and a better. It may well be conceived that the evening, which on this occasion might have passed off in a lively manner, was dull in the extreme. Every one felt embarrassed: they soon retired, and next morning they all found their way back to the city. CHAPTER V. On the evening succeeding to the day at the _chacra_, a small evening party--or tertulia, as it is called--was held at the town residence of Luis Mendoza. Our friends Thorne and Griffin were there, two midshipmen belonging to an English man-of-war lying in the roads, with such a sprinkling of young ladies and gentlemen as could be called on such a short notice. Mendoza and Le Brun were closeted hard at work by themselves in an adjoining room. The daughters of the former strove to keep up an appearance of gaiety which they could not feel; even Thorne himself was more silent than was his wont, and it seemed as if the gloomy prospect of the times had its effect in diffusing a shade of sadness over the countenances of those who had met to be gay. The midshipmen were the only parties who appeared really to enjoy themselves. They feared their first-lieutenant more than Rosas, and him they had left on board: they had come on shore in quest of amusement, and like birds free from the cage, they fluttered about in the full hey-day of enjoyment. Happy themselves, they conceived all around them to be the same, and at last diffused a little of their light-heartedness to others. “Come, Mr Thorne, we have had plenty of singing and music,” said Anita Mendoza, forcing herself to exertion: “I make you the ‘bastonero.’ What say you to dancing now?” “A fair challenge! Gentlemen, choose your partners for a quadrille. Miss Anita, will you favour me with your hand. Gentlemen, please hand round refreshments to the ladies to give them a little life before we begin. Griffin, the pleasure of a glass of champagne with you. Here, my young captains, you come and wet your mustaches. _Vive la bagatelle._ Now, then, gentlemen.” Thus rattled on Tom Thorne, seeking to rouse up the flagging spirits of the company; but he himself had seldom been in worse spirits--he scarce knew how. “I have strange forebodings this night,” said Mr Thorne to Anita Mendoza, as he stood beside her during an interval in the dance. “I see both you and your sisters are dull, too; your father and Le Brun are as busy as if this were to be the last night of their existence. Anita, I suspect that man--I wish to God your father would trust some foreigner--one native is not better than another, that is, not more secure.” “_Por dios_, tell me, Mr Thorne, what do you suspect in Mr Le Brun? Tell me at once; tell me without reserve--it may not be too late yet?”