The dinner dishes were at length removed, and dessert followed: cakes and creams, and jellies of various kinds, and blancmange, and a profusion of the most luxurious fruits. The golden orange, the ripe pine, the pale-green lime, the juicy grape, the custard-like cherimolla, the zapoté, the granadilla, the pitahaya, the tuna, the mamay; with dates, figs, almonds, plantains, bananas, and a dozen other species of fruits, piled upon salvers of silver, were set before us: in fact, every product of the tropical clime that could excite a new nerve of the sense of taste. We were fairly astonished at the profusion of luxuries that came from no one knew where.
“Come, gentlemen, try a glass of curaçoa. Señor Coronel, allow me the pleasure.”
“Sir, your very good health.”
“Señor Coronel, would you prefer a glass of Majorca?”
“Thank you.”
“Or perhaps you would choose Pedro Ximenes. I have some very old Pedro Ximenes.”
“Either, my dear Don Cosmé—either.”
“Bring both, Ramon; and bring a couple of bottles of the Madeira—sello verde,” (green seal).
“As I am a Christian, the old gentleman’s a conjuror!” muttered the major, now in the best humour possible.
“I wish he would conjure up something else than his infernal wine bottles,” thought I, becoming impatient at the non-appearance of the ladies.