"There’s Campbell, sitting beside Armstrong of the 71st; doubtless he is fighting some battle in Egypt over again. He speaks so earnestly, that he is not aware of our presence,—and yonder is Chisholm." "Stuart," exclaimed Alister, abruptly, "who can that strange fellow be who seems to scrutinize you so narrowly. See, behind the chair of Blacier, in the dark recess of the doorway." Ronald looked in the direction pointed out, and beheld the fierce serpent-like eyes of a well-known face fixed on him with a settled stare. "It is the rascal Narvaez," whispered Ronald, making a stride towards the place; but the worthy, pulling his sombrero over his face, pressed through the crowd, gained the door, and disappeared. "Pshaw! let him go," said Alister, holding Ronald back by his silk sash. "You surely would not follow him? You are neither an alcalde or an alguazil, and you need not care how many he sends to the shades. He eyes you with a look that bodes you no good, and the revengeful disposition of these swarthy gentlemen is well known. I would advise you to be on your guard; perhaps he is dogging you for your squabble at Albuquerque." "If ever I meet the vagabond on a hill side," replied Ronald angrily, "I will teach him to model his face differently, when he dares to look at me." "Ay; but ’tis not decently on the hill side that disputes are settled here. A stab in the dark, or a shot from behind a hedge ends matters, and all is over," answered Macdonald, as they issued into the street, after settling with the _patron_. "And now, before it is quite dark, let us take a view of the amphitheatre. I see its ruins above the flat-roofed houses at the end of the street yonder, and a bold outline it rears against the clear sky of the evening." *CHAPTER VIII.* *AN ADVENTURE.* "The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumin’d all the ground: A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, And shoot a shady lustre o’er the field. Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, Whose umber’d arms by fits thick flashes send; Loud neigh the coursers o’er their heaps of corn, And ardent warriors wait the rising morn." _Iliad_, book viii.