cisely that in which the lover of the young girl was imprisoned, and I could easily comprehend the tenor of the words of hope which my new acquaintance had addressed to the China.
The procession, which was now making its way across the square, had partly a comical, partly a mournful appearance, with an originality in its arrangement truly Mexican. A cargardor (porter) marched in front, bearing on his shoulders, by means of a leathern belt passed round his forehead (as all Mexican porters do), a chair, upon which was strapped a man, or rather a corpse, wrapped in a bloody sheet. The assassin, guarded by four soldiers, followed closely behind. Some gaping idlers, and a few friends of the dead man, who seemed to be making a sorry attempt to appear sad, closed the procession. Of all the individuals of which that crowd was composed, the man most at his ease was the criminal himself, who, with a cigar in his mouth, marched along with perfect coolness, addressing himself every now and then to the bloody corpse, which, to his great surprise, uttered not a word in reply. "Come, now," said he, "none of your waggish tricks, Panchito; you know quite well that I can't make your wife any allowance. You are shamming death well; but I am not to be done in that style." But Panchito was quite dead, let the assassin say what he might, and I could feel a cold shudder creep over me when the hideous corpse was borne close past me. Its eyes (for the sheet did not cover the face), with a stony glitter, stared at the sun with immovable fixity. The bull-fight amateur, who was doubtless more accustomed to such sights, walked right up to the procession, stopped it, and holding the letter of the China out to the murderer,
