There we found the fiscal, and I have rarely seen so drunk an official.  When drunk, he is violent and abusive, and it was plain that the women at the curato were afraid of him.  More than one hundred and fifty years ago Padre Quintana, who was the mission priest at Juquila, translated the Doctrina into Mixe and wrote a Gramatica of the language, both of which were then printed.  We wished to secure copies of these old and rare books, and asked the fiscal if there were any here.  He promptly replied that he had one at his house, and invited us to go there with him to see it.  We at once started, and on our way had to pass the drunken presidente and the musicians.  As we drew near them the presidente, with drunken dignity, rose and said:  “Where are you going, Senores?” The fiscal was for going directly onward without giving answer; we hesitated and began a reply.  Our delay was fatal; staggering up to us, his Honor said:  “I shall not permit you to go; this man is drunk; he will be dangerous.  I am responsible for your safety.”  The fiscal, standing at a little distance, cried:  “Senores! shall we go?” We started toward him; the presidente interfered:  “No, Senores, you shall not go to-night; the man is drunk; return to your house.” “Vamonos,” (Let us go) hiccoughed the fiscal.  “Manana,” (to-morrow) hiccoughed the presidente.  The fiscal stormed; the presidente threatened him with jail, ordered him home, and with a body-guard for our protection led us to our room.  Scarcely able to totter, the presidente assured us that drunken men were dangerous and ought not to be trusted; at the same time he produced his bottle and offered us a drop to warm us.  It required tact and time to get rid of him and his corps of protectors.  Early the next morning both of these worthy officials, presidente and fiscal, still drunk, called upon us with the book—­a Doctrina of 1729.  With the presidente were two stalwart fellows, intended, as he whispered to us audibly, to handle the fiscal in case he became dangerous.  The audience ended, and the party dismissed, the presidente stood in the road until the fiscal had started for home, when he left for the town-house.  The fiscal’s home-going, however, was mere pretense.  No sooner was the presidente gone than he came staggering into the patio of the curato.  The women ran into our room, in terror:  “The fiscal comes; bar the door; do not let him in.”  A moment later a feeble rap at the door, a call and a mournful request for admission; the barricaded door gave no encouragement.  At intervals through the morning there came the flying maids:  “He comes! don’t let him in.”  Again and again the barricade; again and again, the vain appeal for entrance.  We left Ayutla at noon.  We had scarcely well started when we heard some one calling behind us.  Turning, we saw the fiscal, running unsteadily toward us.  We waited; he came up out of breath. “Ya se va?” (Now you are leaving?) “Si, senor,” (Yes, sir.) With a look of despair he removed his hat, and fumbling in its depths produced two cigarettes; presenting one to each of us, he waved his hand as we rode away and cried:  “Adios! senores.”