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
MY INTERPRETER AT MAZATLAN
n the fifth day out from San Francisco we make the harbour of Mazatlan, on the Mexican coast. The courtesy of the Captain secures us a good view from "the bridge" as we approach our first port. A great white rock juts up in the bay like a fragment of some Titan's fortress; a lighthouse stares out to sea from a cliff at the harbour's entrance; the tall cocoa palms wave their fern leaves in the blinding sunshine, and red-roofed houses huddle below the dome of the Cathedral rising white above the town.