"I don't doubt that, since you come to me," replied Tio; and, fancying he had divined the message she was going to send, he began complaisantly to fold a sheet of rose-tinted vellum paper, highly glazed, and embossed with cupids. But she made a gesture of impatience with her little brown hand.
"What," said she, "would a man, who is almost breathing his last, care for your rose-tinted billet-doux?"
"The devil!" said the scribe, in a passionless tone, while the girl wiped her streaming eyes with one of her long plaits: "is it a farewell epistle, then?"
A sob was the only reply; then, stooping to the scribe's ear, she forced herself to dictate a short letter, not without frequent pauses to take breath and to wipe away her tears. The contrast between the unsusceptible old man and the passionate girl appeared to me most striking. I was not the only observer; every one who passed the booth of Tio Luquillas could not help casting a glance of pity, not unmingled with curiosity, upon the young China. The evangelist was about to fold the letter, but had not yet written the address, when a passer-by, bolder and more curious than the rest, came unceremoniously to have some conversation with the old man. The new-comer's features were not unknown to me, and I remembered that he had, when standing next me at a bull-fight a few days before, dilated, in the most attractive manner, on a sport which I passionately loved. The time did not seem to me suitable for making any inquiry of the evangelist, and I thought it best not to approach the three. I consequently remained a few paces from the booth, waiting patiently till the visitor would take his departure. The man, with whom an hour or two's chat had made me acquainted, had inspired me with a certain degree of interest. He was about forty years of age. His features were marked with a certain kind of nobility, in spite of a sarcastic expression which he sometimes threw into them. Although I might have forgotten we had ever met, the odd costume in which he was habited stamped him on my recollection. At the bull-fight he wore a wide-flowing blue cloak, lined with red, and on his head an enormous sombrero of yellow vicuna cloth, trimmed with gold lace.
"For whom is the letter, my dear?" he asked of the China, somewhat authoritatively.
The girl pointed to the prison of the presidential palace, and muttered a name which I did not catch.
"Ah! for Pepito?" said the unknown, aloud.
"Alas! yes; and I don't know how to get it conveyed to him," replied the girl.
"Well, never despair. Here's an opportunity that Heaven sends you."
At this moment the people hastily left the galleries, and scattered themselves hastily upon the Plaza Mayor. What motive had they for leaving? The commission of a deed but too common in Mexico; an assassination had been perpetrated on the public street. They had seized the murderer, raised the victim, and the melancholy cortège was on its way to the nearest prison. This place of confinement happened to be precisely that in which the lover of the young girl was imprisoned, and I could easily comprehend the tenor of the words of hope which my new acquaintance had addressed to the China.