The botanist had desisted from his labours, and stood listening with delighted attention. At each return of the thrilling invocation, “Aux armes, citoyens!” the old man snapped his fingers, and beat the floor with his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with the same spirit which at that time, over all Europe, was gathering to its crisis.
“Where am I? French faces, French music, French voices, and the conversation in French!” for the botanist addressed the females in that language, though with a strong Rhenish patois, that confirmed my first impressions of his nationality. “Where am I?”
My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognise the furniture: the cross-legged Campeachy chairs, a rebozo, the palm-leaf petate. “Ha, Alp!”
The dog lay stretched along the mattress near my couch, and sleeping.
“Alp! Alp!”
“Oh, mamma! mamma! écoutez! the stranger calls.”
The dog sprang to his feet, and throwing his fore paws upon the bed, stretched his nose towards me with a joyous whimpering. I reached out my hand and patted him, at the same time giving utterance to some expressions of endearment.
“Oh, mamma! mamma! he knows him. Voilà.”
The lady rose hastily, and approached the bed. The German seized me by the wrist, pushing back the Saint Bernard, which was bounding to spring upward.
“Mon Dieu! he is well. His eyes, doctor. How changed!”