It is only a step, and we are soon resting on one of the semi-circular stone seats, listening to some primitive music and watching the enjoyment of the people. Mrs. Steele draws my head down on her shoulder and I shut my eyes. The Baron puts a coat over me and hums a low accompaniment to the fantastic air. Suddenly I become aware of someone touching me from behind the stone seat. I start up and turn quickly, to find my apparition of the church chattering at my back. Her restless eyes and the one white fang shine out from the shrivelled monkey-face, and the skeleton arms with wrinkled, black skin drawn loosely over the bones hold out long strings of shells. The strong light shows her even uglier than I had thought, but it robs her of her ghostliness, and I interrupt the Baron's probably impolite remarks by saying:
"Don't drive her away. I'll buy some of her shells in remembrance of the worst shock I've received in Mexico."
Soon I am decorated with chains of sea-treasures wound about waist and neck and arms, and the old crone stands by gibbering and nodding approval.
The Baron laughs at her last shot as she moves away with my media in her hand and some unusually rich guerdon from him.
"What is she chattering about?" asks Mrs. Steele.
"She zay she know dthe Señorita vidth dthe pretty eyes would like dthe shaills, and dthat vas vhy she follow her in dthe church, but Señorita ees easy frighten. Señor must take gude care off her and nefer leaf her."
Mrs. Steele smiles indulgently and draws out her watch.
"It's time we were going," she says. "The San Miguel's lights will be all out, I'm afraid."
The Baron's "cargodor" meets us at the wharf laden with our bizarre purchases, and, after bestowing us and them in the boat, he dips his oars and we glide out into the bay. The far-off steamer is wrapped in darkness, the lamps are all extinguished in the staterooms, for it is long past eleven, but the waves flash every attack of the oar, and the Southern Cross shines aslant the sky.