"Pardon, Mademoiselle, you look efer as if you laugh at me, but I am not sure."
"No, it's only my natural buoyancy that gives me a smiling aspect," and I turn the conversation to Mexico. "We shall go ashore at Mazatlan and dine at a native hotel and see the people."
"May I accompany you?" says the Baron.
"Mrs. Steele makes all the arrangements; you must see her about that."
"Ah, but you spik not Spanish, and you must haf intairpretair. Madame Steele!" he says, as my friend appears, looking refreshed from her long rest, "desire you not an intairpretair at Mazatlan, or spik you Spanish?"
Mrs. Steele does not "spik Spanish," and accepts his offices. In some way the Peruvian has secured the confidence and goodwill of my friend in a very brief acquaintance. He is decidedly agreeable, but his slight knowledge of English puts him at constant and amusing disadvantage.
The next evening as we stand at the vessel's side, watching the marvellous display of phosphorescence that plays about the prow of the San Miguel, Mrs. Steele is joined by Señor Noma, and the Baron urges me to come a little further away from the light—"ve can see dthe yelly fishes viel besser." I move away unsuspectingly out of the shine of the ship's lanterns, and the Baron, folding his arms on the railing beside me, begins quite low to recite a Spanish sonnet, liquid, musical, impassioned. I look out over the waters well-named Pacific, and yield my luxurious sense a moment to the charm of the dusky beauty stretching away endless in the night, listening half in a dream to the lapping of the weirdly lit water against the side of the San Miguel, and to the sweet, low music of the Spanish tongue. The spell is broken when the Peruvian begins in a rapid, excited French a sentimental declaration.
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you," I interrupt. "Are you telling me about jelly fish or the Peruvians?"
"Sacre!..."
A low, repressed volley of Castilian followed by a few words in German.