"Viva Dios!" the sailor said, as he returned his pistols to the leather belt that passed round his hips; "It is a good wind that brings you, Don Serapio, and you too, Don Cristoval." "All the better, Ramirez," said the officer addressed as Serapio. "Have you any news, then?" his comrade asked, curiously. "Excellent, Don Cristoval, excellent," Ramirez answered, as he rubbed his hands gleefully. "Oh, oh!" the two officers muttered, as they exchanged a glance of satisfaction; "Tell us it, then, Ramirez." The latter took a suspicious glance around. "I should like to do so," he said, "but the place where we are does not seem at all propitious for a conversation of the nature of the one we have before us." "That is true," said Don Serapio; "but what prevents us getting into your boat? There we can talk at ease." But Ramirez shook his head. "Yes," he said; "but then we should have to push off; and I am no more anxious than I presume you to be, to be discovered and hailed by some guard boat." "That is true," Don Cristoval objected; "we must find other and less perilous means for conversing, without fear of indiscreet ears." "What o'clock is it?" Ramirez asked. Don Serapio struck his repeater. "Just ten," he answered. "Good: in that case we have time, since the affair does not come off till midnight. Follow me. I know a pulqueria where we shall be as safe as on the top of the Coffre de Perote." "But the boat?" Don Cristoval objected. "Be at your ease--it is commanded by Lucas. However clever the Mexicans may be, he is the man to play at hide and seek with them for the entire night; besides, he has my instructions." The officers bowed, but made no further remark. The three men then set out, Ramirez walking a few paces in advance of his companions. Although the night was so dark that it was impossible to distinguish objects ten paces off, the sailor proceeded through the narrow and winding streets of the town with as much certainty and ease as if traversing it in broad daylight, in the bright sunshine. Close to the Cabildo, at the corner of the Plaza Mayor, stood a species of cabin, built of ships' planks, clumsily nailed together, which offered, in the stifling midday hours, a precarious shelter to the leperos and idlers of all sorts, who collected there to smoke, drink mezcal, or play at monte, that game so beloved by Spanish-Americans of all classes.