’’He arrived here, as I have already had the honor of saying, about three months since.  He appears very sickly and exhausted, and from the look of his clothing I judge he had just returned from a long journey in the interior.  ‘Senora,’ said he, when paying his bill in advance, ’I wish you to speak to no one of my residence in this house.  I have no family, no country, and no name; I hate the world; I do not know a soul in this city, and I do not want to.  I expect two inquiries to be made for me, one by a man, the other will be by a woman.  I will not see any others.  Should either of them call, their first salutation to you will be:  ‘The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.’  Without that pass-word, I forbid you to allow any one to have access to my room.’’

’’Well, Senora Lopez, have these folks with the eternal pass-word turned up yet?’

’’No, Excellency, during the whole three months he has not had a single visitor.  Every morning when I take him his chocolate, he promises a dollar if I can find him a letter at the post-office.  So every day I go, but unfortunately I have only found two for him in all that time.’

’’But, of course, if you go for his letters, you must know his name, and surely you noticed where the two came from, which you received for him.’

’’They were addressed to Albert Pride, and bore the stamp, ‘New-Orleans.’  But who knows whether that is his real name?’

‘’How does he spend his time?’

’’He alone can answer that question.  Since the first hour of his entering the house he has shut himself up in that room, and no one has seen him quit it.  Between you and me, I confess candidly, that my opinion of him is by no means favorable.  Why, would you believe, that though he is as thin as a rail and as pale as a ghost, he won’t admit that he is even slightly indisposed.  If I ask him about his symptoms, he gets angry; and if I offer him any of my specifics, he has the ill-manners to exclaim:  ’Bosh!  Oh! that man is a wicked fellow; I have no confidence in him!’

‘’Many thanks, Senora Lopez, for your information,’ said I, handing her the promised reward’—­vaya vm; con Dios!’

’After her departure I began to reflect that my own conduct had not been much less dishonorable than hers.  What right had I to tear aside the vail of mystery in which my neighbor wished to wrap himself?  I owned to myself that I was very clearly in the wrong.  And yet, having made this concession to the claims of conscience, my fancy was busy putting together the scraps I had gleaned.  The field of speculation was so vast and unbounded that I knew not where to stop.  The starting-point was easy.  Curiosity began by asking, Why the deuce, Albert Pride was so carefully hiding himself away in the city of Mexico?  He must be a fellow-countryman; because an Englishman, no matter how branded at home, by fraud or dishonor, could boldly strut about New-Orleans or