While I was thinking that this might be the scene where many a tender tale of love may have been whispered, a thousand years ago, by the simple swain and artless damsel who dwelt near its margin—that here the proud cacique may once have loitered with the lovely mistress of his affections—while I was meditating over the probability, the almost certainty of these things, something of a parallel nature was, in reality, transpiring in my immediate vicinity. My right-hand man, José, whose peculiar propensity has before been hinted at, was pouring out his heart to a beautiful Indian girl a few rods distant, and she was listening to his story of love with all the attention that the most faithful passion could deserve. They were not, however, permitted to dream themselves into an undisturbed state of happiness. It is said that love is jealous as well as watchful. They had been observed by a rival, who suddenly breaking in upon their stolen moments, threatened total annihilation to all their blissful anticipations. José manfully contended for his rights; but, had I not come up at the critical instant, there is no telling to what extent the rupture might have been carried. My presence, however, soon allayed the excitement. It was not difficult to discern that José was the preferred one. I learned from him that the fair cause of his trouble was from the neighborhood of Merida, an old acquaintance; and that pledges of love had long since been exchanged between them; but circumstances had removed her from his vicinity, he knew not whither, until the present accidental meeting had again thrown them into each other’s arms. Such being the case, I promised to intercede with the major-domo in their behalf, which I subsequently did, but without the entire success that I had anticipated.