"There is, confound it! I promised ña[1] Sacramenta a bow of red ribbons for the occasion, and there is not a bit to be had in all the neighborhood. At the very moment you joined me I was cursing my unlucky star. Probably you are yourself going to the fandango?"
"Well, I am; but chance alone brought me to think of it, for I had reckoned on sleeping to-night at Vera Cruz, had not an unfortunate occurrence come in the way."
"You will have no cause to regret it, I hope, for the crowd will be as thick as smoke. But where will you put up at Manantial? There is no inn in the place."
"With you, perhaps, since you appear to be so desirous to have me at the fête."
The Jarocho bowed in token of assent, and then began to give me an account of the numerous pleasures that awaited me on the morrow. Conversing thus, we reached Manantial. Night had come. A few scattered lights gleaming from among the green foliage announced our approach to the village. We soon reached a little clearing in the wood, dotted with cabins formed of wattled bamboo. This was Manantial. Some men and women, clad in the national costume, were dancing to the monotonous sound of a mandolin, while the mothers were rocking their infants to sleep in ham mocks formed of strips of aloe bark. I soon learned the name of my new host.
"Ah! its Calros,"[2] cried they, in a tone as if his arrival had long been looked for. He paid no attention to the greeting of his friends, who advanced to
