"Ah, mees," says the Guatemalan deprecatingly, as he stops before us, "I did sit one meeserable quarter-hour by the rail with two life presairvairs and try to raimember _one_ Ave Maria." Acting on Mrs. Steele's wise suggestion, I keep the Peruvian at bay as much as possible; but this is not so easy as it might seem, and my best safeguard is to stay with Mrs. Steele every moment and insist I understand only English. Baron de Bach observes a day or two after this: "Senorita's knowledge of French and Jherman ees better zome days dthan odthers. But it ees gude for me that I vill learn spik zo beautiful Eenglish." "Forgif me, Senorita," he says, beginning afresh after a pause, "but _vhat_ blue eyes you haf!" "You are colour blind, Baron," observes Mrs. Steele, with a quiet smile. The Peruvian starts slightly. Had he forgotten her? "Madame----" he begins. "Hush!" I say, with uplifted finger, "I hear the bells of San Blas." Mrs. Steele shades her eyes with one little grey-gloved hand, and looks intently towards the undulating outline of the coast. The flood of sunshine that bathes the world is flung back ceaselessly from the shimmering sea, till the poor eyes of mortals are dazed and blinded with the shifting splendour. Beyond, the rugged coast of misty purple has rest and charm for the dazzled vision. There is a sympathetic interest in Mrs. Steele's beautiful face, and I knew her fancy, like my own, had restored the ancient Jesuit mission to the far-off headland, and the legend of consecrated bells--that still ring out from a tower long since crumbled--is fresh and vivid in her memory. "I really believe I hear the bells, don't you, Mrs. Steele?" She puts the grey-gloved hand over her eyes as if she were tired. "I could hear them, dear, if I were twenty." "Vhat bells ees dthat?" The Peruvian turns away his fine head to listen. "I hear nodthing." "You are the only one that hears them, Blanche; tell us what they say." "Even Longfellow can't do that," I answer, "and his sense was so acute and fine he heard them half across the world." I look out to the misty coast line and repeat: "What say the Bells of San Blas To the ships that outward pass To the harbour of Mazatlan? To them it is nothing more Than the sound of surf on the shore-- Nothing more to master or man. But to me, a dreamer of dreams, To whom what is and what seems Are often one and the same, The Bells of San Blas to me Have a strange wild melody, And are something more than a name." "Ah, vas I not right, Madame Steele? I vill learn zo beautiful Eenglish on dthis voyage." CHAPTER II [Illustration: Chapter Two] MY INTERPRETER AT MAZATLAN