"That is true, Don Felipe. Fortunately they do _not_ run north. No; the wires run south to Janjalla which town will certainly remain faithful to the Government. From thence all messages can with ease be transmitted to England." Philip was pleased at this, as he saw that Tim would be enabled to transmit messages to England with the greatest ease, and thus cover himself with glory. They conversed for a few minutes on the subject, and then left the market for the alameda. It was a most delightful promenade. High trees on either side, whose branches formed a green arcade above the heads of the promenaders. Beds of roses in profusion--brilliant tropical plants, bronze statues, marble statues, and plenty of pleasantly situated seats. One portion was reserved for those who chose to walk, another for horses and their riders. Hither came all the aristocracy of the city, when they grew weary of the zocala of the Plaza de los Hombres Ilustres, and on this day the alameda was crowded. In a gaily decorated bandstand, an excellent company of musicians played bright music, mostly airs from comic operas, and Philip was amused to hear Offenbachian frivolities sounding in this spot. They seemed out of place. The musicians had no sense of the fitness of things. They should have played boleros fandangos--the national music of Spain--instead of which they jingled the trashy airs of minor musicians. The alameda was thronged by a motley crowd, presenting more varied features than are to be seen in any other part of the world. Indian women squatting at the corners selling fruit and pulque, beautiful señoritas with black mantillas and eloquent fans, gay young cavaliers dashing along on spirited horses, in all the bravery of the national costume, and not seldom a sour-looking duenna, jealously watching her charge. Occasionally a priest in shovel-hat and black cassock--but these were very rare. The army was also represented by a number of gaily-dressed officers who smoked cigarettes, smiled at the señoritas, and clanked their huge spurs ostentatiously together. It was a gay scene, and Philip admired it greatly. "I have never seen such a mixed crowd anywhere," he said, lightly, "save in the Strada Reale in Valetta." "Well!" said Maraquando, after a pause, "and what do you think of Tlatonac?" "It is a terrestrial Paradise," replied Philip, "and Hypolito is the serpent." CHAPTER VII. DOLORES. Your eyes Are dark as midnight skies, And bright as midnight stars, Their glance Is full of love's romance, When no hate loving mars. Oh let those eyes look down on me, Oh let those glances wander free, And I will take those stars to be My guides for life, Across the ocean of wild strife, Dolores!