In all that quiet Tansey turned his head suddenly, and saw, without disquietude, a troop of spectral horsemen deploy into the Plaza and charge a luminous line of infantry that advanced to sustain the shock.  He saw the fierce flame of cannon and small arms, but heard no sound.  The careless victuallers lounged vacantly, not deigning to view the conflict.  Tansey mildly wondered to what nations these mute combatants might belong; turned his back to them and ordered his chili and coffee from the Mexican woman who advanced to serve him.  This woman was old and careworn; her face was lined like the rind of a cantaloupe.  She fetched the viands from a vessel set by the smouldering fire, and then retired to a tent, dark within, that stood near by.

Presently Tansey heard a turmoil in the tent; a wailing, broken-hearted pleading in the harmonious Spanish tongue, and then two figures tumbled out into the light of the lanterns.  One was the old woman; the other was a man clothed with a sumptuous and flashing splendour.  The woman seemed to clutch and beseech from him something against his will.  The man broke from her and struck her brutally back into the tent, where she lay, whimpering and invisible.  Observing Tansey, he walked rapidly to the table where he sat.  Tansey recognized him to be Ramon Torres, a Mexican, the proprietor of the stand he was patronizing.

Torres was a handsome, nearly full-blooded descendant of the Spanish, seemingly about thirty years of age, and of a haughty, but extremely courteous demeanour.  To-night he was dressed with signal magnificence.  His costume was that of a triumphant matador, made of purple velvet almost hidden by jeweled embroidery.  Diamonds of enormous size flashed upon his garb and his hands.  He reached for a chair, and, seating himself at the opposite side of the table, began to roll a finical cigarette.

“Ah, Meester Tansee,” he said, with a sultry fire in his silky, black eyes, “I give myself pleasure to see you this evening.  Meester Tansee, you have many times come to eat at my table.  I theenk you a safe man—­a verree good friend.  How much would it please you to leeve forever?”

“Not come back any more?” inquired Tansey.

“No; not leave—­leeve; the not-to-die.”

“I would call that,” said Tansey, “a snap.”

Torres leaned his elbows upon the table, swallowed a mouthful of smoke, and spake—­each word being projected in a little puff of gray.

“How old do you theenk I am, Meester Tansee?”

“Oh, twenty-eight or thirty.”

“Thees day,” said the Mexican, “ees my birthday.  I am four hundred and three years of old to-day.”

“Another proof,” said Tansey, airily, “of the healthfulness of our climate.”

“Eet is not the air.  I am to relate to you a secret of verree fine value.  Listen me, Meester Tansee.  At the age of twenty-three I arrive in Mexico from Spain.  When?  In the year fifteen hundred nineteen, with the soldados of Hernando Cortez.  I come to thees country seventeen fifteen.  I saw your Alamo reduced.  It was like yesterday to me.  Three hundred ninety-six year ago I learn the secret always to leeve.  Look at these clothes I war—­at these diamantes.  Do you theenk I buy them with the money I make with selling the chili-con-carne, Meester Tansee?”