“Lock them up in the _calaboso_ till the Juez comes to-morrow, Lieutenant,” suggested the old man by the door, speaking through a bushy white beard and a cloud of tobacco-smoke. “Do you not know that the door is broken, old fool?” said the officer. “Lock them up! Here I am neglecting my own affairs to serve the State, and this is how I am treated. We must now take them to the Juez at his own house and let him look after them. Come on, boys.” We were then conducted out of Las Cuevas to a distance of about two miles, where the Señor Juez resided in the bosom of his family. His private residence was a very dirty, neglected-looking _estancia_ house, with a great many dogs, fowls, and children about. We dismounted, and were immediately taken into a large room, where the magistrate sat at a table on which lay a great number of papers--goodness knows what they were about. The Juez was a little hatchet-faced man, with bristly grey whiskers, standing out like a cat's moustache, and angry eyes--or, rather with one angry eye, for over the other a cotton handkerchief was tied. No sooner had we all entered than a hen, leading a brood of a dozen half-grown chickens, rushed into the room after us, the chickens instantly distributing themselves about the floor in quest of crumbs, while the mother, more ambitious, flew on the table, scattering the papers right and left with the wind she created. “A thousand demons take the fowls!” cried the Juez, starting up in a fury. “Man, go and bring your mistress here this instant. I command her to come.” This order was obeyed by the person who had ushered us in, a greasy-looking, swarthy-faced individual, in threadbare military clothes; and in two or three minutes he returned, followed by a very fat, slatternly woman, looking very good-tempered, however, who immediately subsided, quite exhausted, into a chair. “What is it, Fernando?” she panted. “What is it? How can you have the courage to ask such a question, Toribia? Look at the confusion your pestilent fowls are creating amongst my papers--papers that concern the safety of the republic! Woman, what measures are you going to take to stop this before I have your fowls all killed on the spot?” “What can I do, Fernando?--they are hungry, I suppose. I thought you wanted to ask my advice about these prisoners--poor fellows! and here you are with your hens.” Her placid manner acted like oil on the fire of his wrath. He stormed about the room, kicking over chairs, and hurling rulers and paper-weights at the birds, apparently with the most deadly intentions, but with shockingly bad aim--shouting, shaking his fist at his wife, and even threatening to commit her for contempt of court when she laughed. At last, after a great deal of trouble, the fowls were all got out, and the servant placed to guard the door, with strict orders to decapitate the first chicken that should attempt to enter and disturb the proceedings.