This sweet chapter of incidents occurred upon the occasion of my tenth stroll through the Calle del Obispo. It was the last time I had the chance of seeing Mercedes by twilight. After that came the irksome interval of seclusiveness,--now to be succeeded by a prolonged period of chagrin: for the dropping of the _billet-doux_, and the endearing speech, had put an end to my hopes--as effectually as if I had seen Mercedes enfolded in Francisco's arms. Along with my chagrin I felt spite. I was under the impression that I had been _played with_. Upon whom should I expend it? On the Senorita? There was no chance. She had retired from the balcony. I might never see her again--there, or elsewhere? Who then? The man who had been before me in her affections? Should I cross over the street--confront--pick a quarrel with him, and finish it at my sword's point? An individual whom I had never seen, and who, in all probability, had never set eyes upon me! Absurd as it may appear--absolutely unjust as it would have been--this was actually my impulse! It was succeeded by a gentler thought. Francisco's face was favourable to him. I saw it more distinctly, as he leant forward under the lamp to decipher the contents of the note. It was such a countenance as one could not take offence at, without good cause; and a moment's reflection convinced me that mine was not sufficient. He was not only innocent of the grief his rivalry had given me, but in all likelihood ignorant of my existence. From that time forward he was likely to remain so. Such was my reflection, as I turned to take my departure from the place. There was no longer any reason for my remaining there. The cochero might now come and go, without danger of being accosted by me. His tardiness had lost him the chance of obtaining an _onza_; and the letter I had been hitherto holding in my hand went crumpled back into my pocket. Its warm words and soft sentiments--contrived with all the skill of which I was capable--should never be read by her for whom they had been indited! So far as the offering of any further overtures on my part, I had done with the daughter of Don Eusebio Villa-Senor; though I knew I had not done with her in my heart, and that it would be long--long--before I should get quit of her there. I turned to go back to my quarters--in secret to resign myself to my humiliation. I did not start instantly. Something whispered me to stay a little longer. Perhaps there might be a second act to the episode I had so unwillingly witnessed? It could hardly be this that induced me to linger. It was evident she did not intend reappearing. Her visit to the balcon had the air of being made by stealth. I noted that once or twice she cast a quick glance over her shoulder--as if watchful eyes were behind her, and she had chosen a chance moment when they were averted.