will return to his village, two days' journey on foot into the hills, and then, in time, he may even rise to be an alcalde, or headman of the village, responsible to the Government. If he were alcalde he would get a little salary. But far more important to him is the glory: being able to boss.

He has a paisano, a fellow countryman, to sleep with him in the zaguán, to guard the doors. Whoever gets into the house or patio must get through these big doors. There is no other entrance, not even a needle's eye. The windows to the street are heavily barred. Each house is its own small fortress. Ours is a double square, the trees and flowers in the first square, with the two wings of the house. And in the second patio, the chickens, pigeons, guinea pigs, and the big heavy earthenware dish or tub, called an apartle, in which all the servants can bathe themselves, like chickens in a

saucer.

By half-past nine at night Rosalino is lying on his little bench, screwed up, wrapped in his shawl, his sandals, called huaraches, on the floor. Usually he takes off his huaraches when he goes to bed. That is all his preparation. In another corner, wrapped up, head and all, like a mummy in his thin old blanket, the paisano, another lad of about twenty, lies asleep on the cold stones. And at an altitude of five thousand feet the nights can be cold.

Usually everybody is in by half-past nine, in our very quiet house. If not, you may thunder at the big doors. It is hard to wake Rosalino. You have to go close to him, and call. That will wake him. But don't touch him. That would startle him terribly. No one is touched unawares, except to be robbed or murdered.

glaring, utterly lost Rosalino. Perhaps he just has enough wit to pull the doorcatch. One wonders where he was, and what he was, in his sleep, he starts up so strange and wild and lost.

The first time he had anything to do for me was when the van was come to carry the bit of furniture to the house. There was Aurelio, the dwarf mozo of our friends, and Rosalino, and the man who drove the wagon. But there should have been also a cargador a porter. 'Help them!' said I to Rosalino. 'You give a hand to help.' But he winced away, muttering: 'No quiero! (I don't want to!)'

The fellow, I thought to myself, is a fool. He thinks it's not his job, and perhaps he is afraid of smashing the furniture. Nothing to be done but to leave him alone.

We settled in, and Rosalino seemed to like doing things for us. He liked learning his monkey tricks from the white monkeys. And since we started feeding him from our own meals, and for the first time in his life he had real soups, meat stews, or a fried egg, he loved to do things in the kitchen. He would come with sparkling black eyes: 'Hé comido el caldo. Grazias! (I have eaten the soup. Thank you!)' And he would give a strange, excited little yelp of a laugh.

Came the day when we walked to Huayapa, on the Sunday, and he was very thrilled. But at night, in the evening when we got home, he lay mute on his bench. Not that he was really tired. The Indian gloom, which settles on them like a black marsh-fog, had settled on him. He did not bring in the water- let me carry it by myself.

Monday morning, the same black, reptilian gloom, and a sense of hatred. He hated us. This was a bit flabber

At last there starts up a strange,

and happy the day before. But the revulsion had come. He did n't forgive

himself for having felt free and happy with us. He had eaten what we had eaten, hard-boiled eggs and sardine sandwiches and cheese, he had drunk out of the orange-peel taza, which delighted him so much. He had had a bottle of 'gazoosa,' fizz, with us, on the way home, in San Felipe.

And now, the reaction. The flint knife. He had been happy; therefore we were scheming to take another advantage of him. We had some devilish white-monkey trick up our sleeve, we wanted to get at his soul, no doubt, and do it the white monkey's damage. We wanted to get at his heart, did we? But his heart was an obsidian knife.

He hated us, and gave off a black steam of hate that filled the patio and made one feel sick. He did not come to the kitchen, he did not carry the water. Leave him alone.

At lunch time on Monday, he said he wanted to leave. Why? He said he wanted to go back to his village.

Very well. He was to wait just a few days, till another mozo was found.

At this a glance of pure, reptilian hate from his black eyes.

He sat motionless on his bench all the afternoon, in the Indian stupor of gloom, and profound hate. In the evening he cheered up a little, and said he would stay on, at least till Easter.

Tuesday morning. More stupor and gloom and hate. He wanted to go back to his village at once. All right! No one wanted to keep him against his will. Another mozo would be found at once.

He went off in the numb stupor of gloom and hate, a very potent hate that could affect one in the pit of one's stomach, with nausea.

Tuesday afternoon, and he thought he would stay.

Wednesday morning, and he wanted to go.

Very good. Inquiries made, another

mozo was coming on Friday morning. It was settled.

Thursday was fiesta. Wednesday, therefore, we would go to market, the Niña, that is, the mistress, -myself, and Rosalino with the basket. He loved to go to market with the patrones. We would give him money and send him off to bargain for oranges, pitahayas, potatoes, eggs, a chicken, and so forth. This he simply loved to do. It put him into a temper to see us buying without bargaining, and paying ghastly prices.

He bargained away, silent almost, muttering darkly. It took him a long time, but he had far greater success than even Natividad, the cook. And he came back in triumph, with much stuff and little money spent.

So again that afternoon he was staying on. The spell was wearing off.

The Indians of the hills have a heavy, intense sort of attachment to their villages. Rosalino had not been out of the little city for two years. When he suddenly found himself in Huayapa, a real Indian hill village, the black Indian gloom of nostalgia must have made a crack in his spirits. But he had been perfectly cheerful- perhaps too cheerful-till we got home.

Again, the Señorita had taken a photograph of him. They are all crazy to have their photographs taken. I had given him an envelope and a stamp, to send a photograph to his mother. Because in his village he had a widow mother, a brother, and a married sister. The family owned a bit of land, with orange trees. The best oranges come from the hills, where it is cooler. Seeing the photograph, the mother, who had completely forgotten her son, as far as any keen remembering goes, suddenly, like a cracker going off inside her, wanted him: at that very moment. So she sent an urgent message.

But already it was Wednesday after

noon. Arrived a little fellow in white clothes, smiling hard. It was the brother from the hills. Now, we thought, Rosalino will have someone to walk back with. On Friday, after the fiesta, he would go.

Thursday, he escorted us with the basket to the fiesta. He bargained for flowers, and for a serape which he did n't get, for a carved jicara which he did get, and for a number of toys. He and the Niña and the Señorita ate a great wafer of a pancake with sweet stuff on it. The basket grew heavy. The brother appeared, to carry the hen and the extra things. Bliss.

He

He was perfectly happy again. did n't want to go on Friday. He did n't want to go at all. He wanted to stay with us, and come with us to England when we went home.

So, another trip to the friend, the Mexican who had found us the other mozo. Now to put off the other boy again: but then they are like that.

Again the Mexican, who had known Rosalino when he first came down from the hills and could speak no Spanish, told us another thing about him.

In the last revolution a year ago the revolutionaries of the winning side wanted more soldiers, from the hills. The alcalde of the hill village was told to pick out young men and send them down to the barracks in the city. Rosalino was among the chosen.

But Rosalino refused, said again, 'No quiero!' He is one of those like myself, who have a horror of serving in a mass of men, or even of being mixed up with a mass of men. He obstinately refused. Whereupon the recruiting soldiers beat him with the butts of their rifles till he lay unconscious, apparently dead.

Then, because they wanted him at once, and he would now be no good for some time, with his injured back, they left him, to get the revolution over without him.

This explains his fear of furniture carrying, and his fear of being 'caught.'

Yet that little Aurelio, the friend's mozo, who is not above four feet six in height, a tiny fellow, fared even worse. He too is from the hills. In his village a cousin of his gave some information to the losing side in the revolution. The cousin wisely disappeared.

But in the city the winning side seized Aurelio, since he was the cousin of the delinquent. In spite of the fact that he was the faithful mozo of a foreign resident, he was flung into prison. Prisoners in prison are not fed. Either friends or relatives bring them food, or they go very, very thin. Aurelio had a married sister in town, but she was afraid to go to the prison, lest she and her husband should be seized. The master, then, sent his new mozo twice a day to the prison with a basket: the huge, huge prison, for this little town of a few thousands.

Meanwhile the master struggled and struggled with the 'authorities' friends of the people for Aurelio's release. Nothing to be done.

One day the new mozo arrived at the prison with the basket to find no Aurelio. A friendly soldier gave the message Aurelio had left. 'Adiós á mi patrón. Me llevan.' Oh, fatal words: me llevan (they are taking me off). The master rushed to the train: it had gone, with the dwarf, plucky little mozo, into the void.

Months later, Aurelio reappeared. He was in rags, haggard, and his dark throat was swollen up to the ears. He had been taken off, two hundred miles into Vera Cruz State. He had been hung up by the neck, with a fixed knot, and left hanging for hours. Why? To make the cousin come and save his relative: put his own neck into a running noose. To make the absolutely innocent fellow confess: what? Everybody knew he was innocent. At any rate, to

teach everybody better next time. Oh, brotherly teaching!

Aurelio escaped, and took to the mountains. Sturdy little dwarf of a fellow, he made his way back.

To-morrow is another day. The master nursed Aurelio well, and Aurelio is a strong if tiny fellow, with big, brilliant black eyes that for the moment will trust a foreigner, but none of his own people. A dwarf in stature, but perfectly made, and very strong, and very intelligent.

Is it any wonder that Aurelio and Rosalino, when they see the soldiers with guns on their shoulders marching toward the prison with some blanched prisoner between them, and one sees it every few days,- stand and gaze in a blank kind of horror, and look at the patrón, to see if there is any refuge?

Not to be caught! Not to be caught! It must have been the prevailing motive of Indian-Mexican life since long before Montezuma marched his prisoners to sacrifice.

[ABOUT the time the Puritans were fleeing from persecution in England to New England, the Old Believers, or defenders of the unreformed Orthodox Church in Russia, were suffering a similar persecution, and their leaders were sent into exile in Siberia. This article records some of the experiences of one of those leaders, who was thus driven to the remotest confines of the Tsar's dominions because he was loyal to his faith. It is extracted from his autobiography written in prison during the last years of his life, and begins when he was already at Tobolsk, en route to the mountainous region of Dauria, situated between Lake Baikal and the Chinese border.]

THEN came a decree ordering me from Tobolsk to the Lena for preaching the

1From Viorsty (Paris quarterly of Russian culture and literature), No. 1

Scripture and revealing the heresies of Nikon, the reforming Patriarch. Simultaneously a letter came from Moscow, reporting that two of the Tsaritza's brothers, who lived with her, had both died of the pestilence, together with their wives and children and many other friends and relatives. Thus had God emptied the cup of His wrath upon the land. But the poor benighted creatures did not recognize it. They still continued to trifle with the Church. . . . So back I went into my boat, as I was ordered to journey toward the Lena. But when I reached Yeniseisk another edict came, ordering me to be taken to Dauria, twenty thousand versts and more from MosCOW. Here they gave me into the hands of Colonel Afanasii Pashkov. He had a regiment of about six hundred men, and for my sins he was a cruel commander who never ceased

flogging, torturing, and burning people. I had reprimanded him much in my preaching, and lo, here I fell into his very hands. And orders had come from Nikon at Moscow for him to treat me with the utmost harshness.

After we left Yeniseisk, as we proceeded up the Big Tunguzka River, the water filled my boat in the middle of the stream and the sails were torn. Only the deck remained above water. My wife somehow managed to pull the children out from the water, her head uncovered, and I looked up at the heavens and cried: 'Lord, save! Lord, help!' And with God's help the current carried us back to the shore. But from another boat two people were swept away and drowned. After we had put things to rights on the bank of the river, we again proceeded on our way. When we reached the rapids of Shamanski upon this river, people came out in boats to meet us, among them two widows, one about sixty years old, and the other even older. Both were going to a convent to take the veil, but Colonel Pashkov ordered them to go back home and to get married. Thereupon I protested that according to the rules of the Church it was not right to order them to marry. But instead of listening to me and letting the widows proceed, he fell into a great anger and began to persecute me. At another rapid he tried to keep me out of the boat, saying: "This boat is in constant trouble because thou art a heretic. Go and walk along the shore and keep away from my Cossacks.' Whereupon I was in great distress. For there were high mountains, impenetrable forests, and rocky precipices along the bank, so high that to look up at them cramped one's neck. In those mountains live huge serpents; geese and ducks fly there, red feathers, black ravens, and gray daws. In the same mountains are eagles and

falcons and gyrfalcons, and Indian pheasants, and swans, and other wild things, and a great multitude of different birds; and in these mountains roam many wild beasts, goats and deer, moose and wild sheep and wild boars and wolves. We saw them often, but we could not capture them. It was in those mountains that Colonel Pashkov wanted me to go, to keep company with the beasts and to fly with the birds.

Therefore I sent a note to the Colonel, beginning thus: 'Man! Fear thy God who sits among the cherubim and looks down into the abyss, before whom the heavenly armies tremble, as well as all creatures and man himself; and whom thou alone contemnest.' A good deal more I wrote, and sent it to him where he was in his boat. And, behold, fifty men came running toward me. They seized my boat and dragged it away to where he was, about three versts distant. I cooked gruel for these Cossacks and fed them, but they, poor creatures, sat and trembled, and some wept with pity as they looked at me. Thus they brought the boat with me in it to the Colonel. Torturers seized me and dragged me before him. He stood there with his drawn sword, and shook with wrath, and spake thus:

'Art thou a priest in orders, or an unfrocked priest?'

And I answered him: 'I am Avvakum, an archpriest. Speak what thou willest to me.'

For an answer he roared like a wild beast and struck me on one cheek and then on the other and then on the head, and knocked me down. Then, seizing his sword, he struck me thrice with the flat side thereof as I lay on the ground. Still raging with wrath, he afterward caused me to be given seventy-two strokes of the knout on the back. During all this time I kept crying, over and over again, 'Lord Jesus Christ,