his lance from the struggling mass. The soldier pulls and swears, the grave man raves and tugs at the soldier's arm, the spectators are all astonishment, and the officer darts wildly to the rescue. Meantime, the place resounds with horrid screams, short breathings and hoarse chuckles.
"Dios Mario! Pablo! I will not have them meddled with!" exclaims Don Surillo.
"I insist on examining these hampers," replies the officer.
The hampers are examined accordingly; and on opening the wicker-work he straightway produces—the bleeding body of a newly killed turkey, spitted as neatly on the end of the lance as if it had been before a fire! Then he draws out another turkey—alive, but pierced through the wing; a third takes the opportunity of leaping forth, though with hobbling gait, and shelters itself behind the booted feet of the soldiers; while a fourth is forcibly kept down by the officer, in its attempts to force its passage through the wicker-work to the light of day!
No words can adequately describe the rage and indignation of the grave man at this exhibition; for it was touching him upon a tender
