A magnificent carriage, drawn by four fine horses, at that moment entered the Plaza-Mayor; its only occupant was a man of proud mien, mingled with sadness; he gazed, without seeming to see them, on the multitude assembled to breathe the coolness of the evening. This man was the Marquis Don Vegal, knight of Alcantara, of Malta, and of Charles III. He had a right to appear in this pompous equipage; the viceroy and the archbishop could alone take precedence of him; but this great nobleman came here from ennui and not from ostentation; his thoughts were not depicted on his countenance, they were concentrated beneath his bent brow; he received no impression from exterior objects, on which he bestowed not a look, and heard not the envious reflections of the mestizoes, when his four horses made their way through the crowd. "I hate that man," said Andre Certa. "You will not hate him long." "I know it! All these nobles are displaying the last splendors of their luxury; I can tell where their silver and their family jewels go." "You have not your entree with the Jew Samuel for nothing." "Certainly not! On his account-books are inscribed aristocratic creditors; in his strong-box are piled the wrecks of great fortunes; and in the day when the Spaniards shall be as ragged as their Caesar de Bazan, we will have fine sport." "Yes, we will have fine sport, dear Andre, mounted on your millions, on a golden pedestal! And you are about to double your fortune! When are you to marry the beautiful young daughter of old Samuel, a Limanienne to the end of her nails, with nothing Jewish about her but her name of Sarah?" "In a month," replied Andre Certa, proudly, "there will be no fortune in Peru which can compete with mine." "But why," asked some one, "do you not espouse some Spanish girl of high descent?" "I despise these people as much as I hate them." Andre Certa concealed the fact of his having been repulsed by several noble families, into which he had sought to introduce himself. His interlocutor still wore an expression of doubt, and the brow of the mestizo had contracted, when the latter was rudely elbowed by a man of tall stature, whose gray hairs proclaimed him to be at least fifty, while the muscular force of his firmly knit limbs seemed undiminished by age. This man was clad in a brown vest, through which appeared a coarse shirt with a broad collar; his short breeches, striped with green, were fastened by red garters to stockings of clay-color; on his feet were sandals made of _ojotas_, ox-hide prepared for this purpose; beneath his high-pointed hat gleamed large ear-rings. His complexion was dark. After having jostled Andre Certa, he looked at him fixedly, but with no particular expression. "Miserable Indian!" exclaimed the mestizo, raising his hand upon him. His companions restrained him. Milleflores, whose face was pale with terror, exclaimed: "Andre! Andre! take care." "A vile slave! to presume to elbow me!"