anxiously of Florencio; "for time is passing, and poor Vasquez is in danger of his life."
"He is there, assuredly," stammered my companion; "for I could never forgive myself if I had arrived too late, and any misfortune (here his eyes became bathed in maudlin tears) were to happen to Don Tomas. Such a worthy man as he is, too!"
After this burst of sensibility, which failed signally in its object, Florencio plunged into the lane, and I remained alone, for I thought that we could no longer proceed together. I walked about in the street, a prey to anxiety easy to comprehend, counting the minutes, which seemed centuries, and expecting every moment to see this Don Tomas, who had not been out of my thoughts for so many days, appear before me; but time passed, and he did not make his appearance. An hour was spent in this manner, and at last I decided on going to the house myself. I walked through the dark alley, entered the garden at the other end, and the first thing I saw was a man stretched on the ground. This was the unhappy Florencio, who was snoring as if he would burst his nostrils, and had forgotten every thing in his drunkenness. I retraced my steps, resolving to trust to myself only; but it was a long time before I found myself in a part of the town I knew. I got to my hotel with some difficulty. Cecilio met me at the gate.
"Ah!" cried he, on seeing me, "what a dreadful misfortune has happened! The young cavalier that you met this morning had a quarrel fixed on him by a passenger in the street, and they have carried him to his own room. He is dead, there's no doubt of it."
Such an occurrence is so common in Mexico that no unusual stir was visible in the hotel as I mounted
