"That's strange! It's quite unlike you to be faint. Baron, will you mix a little of this brandy with some water? That will make her feel better." Again he takes out his traveller's cup of silver. Calling the negro conductor, he tells him to bring some "agua." "He's afraid to leave us," I think indignantly; "he doesn't want me to tell Mrs. Steele." "Did you notice that great cleft in the mountain we went over?" asks the latter, fanning me gently. "Yes, dthat ees call 'baranca.' Senorita seem not to like it." "Neither would Mrs. Steele if she had----" "She nefer vould! Madame Steele ees a too vise voman. Vhat you dthink, Madame? Senorita inseest to lean out far ofer dthose steps; I beg her not, but----" he ends with a modest gesture of incompetence. "And you," I begin, with a sudden determination to unmask his villainy, "you rushed over and----" "And hold you zo dthat you fall not. Madame Steele, desairve I not dthanks?" "Ah! yes, Baron. You are certainly very kind and watchful; but, Blanche, if you don't care for yourself, you ought to consider other people. It's a terrible responsibility to travel with such a foolhardy person. I can't say I'm sorry if you've been a little frightened. Take the brandy, dear." My good friend is never severe long. The Baron holds the silver cup to my lips, and I shut out the sight of him--with closed eyes I drink the mixture obediently. I lean my head against the window, and the voices of my friend and the Baron grow less and less distinct. The next thing I know Mrs. Steele is saying, "Is that Guatemala?" I rouse myself and look out. A white city on a wide plateau. Is this the "Paris of Central America," with its 70,000 inhabitants? Mrs. Steele is met in the depot by some friends, Californians, who live here part of the year. We promise to dine with them, and the Baron comes back from his search for a carriage, saying one will be here presently. "Vhile Madame Steele talks vidth her friends, vill you come zee dthe Trocadero, vhere dthey haf bull-fights?" "No, thank you." "Oh, I dthought you vould like." "Where is it?" "Yust ofer dthere, dthree steps--dthat round house." "I'd better see it perhaps while I have time," I think, and I walk towards the circular building indicated. Baron de Bach keeps at my side. He tries the door--shakes it--but it is evidently locked; he leans down and looks through the keyhole. "Oh, you can zee qvite vell dthrough here." I put my eye to the little opening and can dimly descry an open arena with seats in tiers opposite. "Dthey zay dthey haf a bull-fight Dthursday"--the Baron is reading the Spanish bill posted at the door. "Ve had better stay and let you zee."