but Antonia was said to be the most
beautiful woman in Venezuela. The number of
suitors she had refused was endless, and a
report had got about that she did not want
to marry any one but a foreigner. Some think
there is no better cure for a fit of the spleen
than a hard gallop, and Hayward seemed to be
of that opinion; for I no sooner turned off the
high road on to the lake, but he started at a
furious pace along a narrow winding path that
led across country. In vain I shouted to him
to keep a look-out ahead, and to rein in a little.
He did not hear me, or would not attend, and
the result was just what I expected. At a place
where the path twisted a good deal amongst
thick bushes, we plumped suddenly on an old
fellow riding a stumpy little mule, and, in a
moment, Hayward and he came together like two
knights in a tournament. Down went the mule,
and rolled over and over with the Creole among
the bushes, while Hayward's horse made a
carambole off the thicket on the other side, and
so nearly dismounted Hayward that he lost both
stirrups, and, had he not been a good rider, he
would certainly have measured his length on the
ground. As it was, he kept his seat, and went
on for several hundred yards before he could
stop his horse. I pulled up directly, and
dismounting, went to lift up the fallen rider and
catch his mule. The brute made a vicious kick
at me, and I fared little better with his master.
He was not much hurt, but so enraged that, if his
machete had not tumbled out of its sheath when
he fell, he would most likely have given me a
taste of it. As it was, he struck at my proffered
arm, and sputtered out a string of curses, winding
up with one which was quite new to me.

"May you die of the fever," said he; "and
may your wife go into a convent!"

By this time Hayward, too, had pulled up,
and was coming back to join me. His humour
was not much improved by the accident, and I
was glad to get back to Valencia. We dressed
and went to the Señora Ribera's party, arriving
very early. Presently, when all the guests had
assembled, the door opened, and in came a young
lady, who, I saw at a glance, from her extraordinary
beauty, must be Antonia. She was very
unlike the other Creole ladies I had seen. Her
dress and manner were rather those of an
aristocratic English beauty than of a Creole. Her
eyes were dark blue, her hair a rich brown,
her nose Grecian, her eyebrows arched. Only
her lips were fuller than is usual with
English women. Her figure was slender and
graceful, and her step so elastic that she
seemed to glide rather than walk into the room.

"Caballero," she asked me, without the
slightest preparation, "are you married?"

"Upon my word," thought I, "this is
too bad." I looked about for a moment, and
saw that all eyes were directed to me. I could
not say I was not married, and I did not
like to own that I was; so, hoping the answer
would be imputed to my imperfect knowledge
of Spanish, I replied, "Algunas vices"—
sometimes.

People tittered, and Antonia smiled, and gave
me a look which seemed to say, "I understand
your dilemma."

She then said, "I want to hear about
England. I have always wished to go there."

We entered into a long conversation; and the
more I listened to that singular girl, the more I
wondered. She talked like a bookworm, like a
politician, like a diplomatist, like a savant; but
so little like a señorita of eighteen years of
age, that at times I almost forgot I was speaking
to a girl. After a time I remembered that I
had brought Hayward on purpose to introduce
him to Antonia. So, making an excuse, I got
up to look for him. To my annoyance, he was
nowhere to be seen, and on asking Madame
Ribera about him, she said he had gone away,
not feeling well.

I now began to be really apprehensive about
Hayward. His behaviour seemed so odd, that I
felt sure there was something wrong. However,
I could not have left immediately without
exciting remarks, so I sat down and talked to a
German lady I knew. She began to tell me
about the Riberas. "You see Lucia, the elder
sister of Antonia?" she said; "would not you
believe her to be the gentlest creature in the
world? Well, she is anything but what she
seems. I suppose you have heard all about her
marriage?"

"Not a word," I said.

"Well, then, I will tell you. Lucia had a
cousin about her own age, who was as rich as
he was ugly. He fell in love with her, and her
mother was determined she should have him.
You know girls are not allowed to choose
husbands for themselves here. If Lopez had been
her uncle instead of her cousin, she would have
had to marry him all the same, for the sake of
his money. She held out a long time. At last,
Madame Ribera, and Lucia's brother, and her
male relatives met, and fixed everything; and, in
spite of her remonstrances, the marriage took
place, and Lucia was carried off by Lopez to
his country-house, which he had fitted up with
new and elegant furniture. But when he had
got her there, he could do nothing with her.
She behaved like a maniac. She broke the
mirrors, and cut to pieces all the beautiful
curtains; and the end of it was, that he was obliged
to send for her mother, and she was taken home,
and insisted on calling herself Lucia Ribera,
and would never acknowledge her husband at
all. As for poor Lopez, he was so chagrined
that he fell ill and died, and now she has been
a year a widow; and report says she is to
marry Diego Garcia, who has no money, and a
worse temper than she has herself; and it is likely
he will revenge Lopez, and punish her as she
deserves."

I asked about Antonia, but my German
friend declared herself quite puzzled about her,
and would only say, "She is an enigma."

As soon as I could get an opportunity, I
slipped away and went home. Hayward was
not there, and did not come in till I was asleep.
When I got up next day, I felt so vexed with