“There must be some mistake,” said Senor Perkins gently.  “I will inquire.”

He was absent but a few moments.  When he returned, his face was beaming.

“It’s a ridiculous misapprehension.  Our practical friend Banks, in his zealous attempts to impress the Comandante’s secretary, who knows a little English, with the importance of Mr. Brimmer’s position as a large commission merchant, has, I fear, conveyed only the idea that he was a kind of pawnbroker; while Mr. Markham’s trade in hides has established him as a tanner; and Mr. Banks’ own flour speculations, of which he is justly proud, have been misinterpreted by him as the work of a successful baker!”

“And what idea did he convey about you?” asked Crosby audaciously; “it might be interesting to us to know, for our own satisfaction.”

“I fear they did not do me the honor to inquire,” replied Senor Perkins, with imperturbable good-humor; “there are some persons, you know, who carry all their worldly possessions palpably about with them.  I am one of them.  Call me a citizen of the world, with a strong leniency towards young and struggling nationalities; a traveler, at home anywhere; a delighted observer of all things, an admirer of brave men, the devoted slave of charming women—­and you have, in one word, a passenger of the good ship Excelsior.”

For the first time, Miss Keene noticed a slight irony in Senor Perkins’ superabundant fluency, and that he did not conceal his preoccupation over the silent saluting gun he was still admiring.  The approach of Don Miguel and Padre Esteban with a small bevy of ladies, however, quickly changed her thoughts, and detached the Senor from her side.  Her first swift feminine impression of the fair strangers was that they were plain and dowdy, an impression fully shared by the other lady passengers.  But her second observation, that they were more gentle, fascinating, child-like, and feminine than her own countrywomen, was purely her own.  Their loose, undulating figures, guiltless of stays; their extravagance of short, white, heavily flounced skirt, which looked like a petticoat; their lightly wrapped, formless, and hooded shoulders and heads, lent a suggestion of dishabille that Mrs. Brimmer at once resented.

“They might, at least, have dressed themselves,” she whispered to Mrs. Markham.

“I really believe,” returned Mrs. Markham, “they’ve got no bodices on!”

The introductions over, a polyglot conversation ensued in French by the Padre and Mrs. Brimmer, and in broken English by Miss Chubb, Miss Keene, and the other passengers with the Commander’s secretary, varied by occasional scraps of college Latin from Mr. Crosby, the whole aided by occasional appeals to Senor Perkins.  The darkness increasing, the party reentered the courtyard, and, passing through the low-studded guard-room, entered another corridor, which looked upon a second court, enclosed on three sides, the fourth opening upon a