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The monastery of Miraflores, a rich and prosperous establishment before the suppression of religious communities in Spain, is now quite deserted, but of considerable interest as containing the famous tomb of Juan II. and Isabella of Portugal.
Once more we rumbled through Miraflores tunnel through a mole-hill, past her concrete light-house among the astonished palms, and her giant hose of water wiping away the rock hills, across the trestleless bridge with its photographic glimpse of the canal before and behind for the limber-necked, and again I found myself in the metropolis of the Canal Zone.
His death was outright murder. After the retreat to Miraflores, a truce was declared and an effort made to arrange terms of peace. The foreign diplomats, among whom was United States Minister Christiancy, and high military officers were holding a conference, while the two armies faced each other. During the peace conference, a gun was fired.
As I had made all the arrangements, I engaged the servants for the reception of the bride and groom at the Villa Miraflores. I was able to retain a small room at the back of the house for my own use. On the day of their arrival, I concealed myself, without difficulty, in the apartment where Mr. Orange and the Archduchess had their déjeuner.
The devil is never embarrassed, and where virtue is found superhuman, he takes every care to keep it on a sour if ethereal diet. You will beg for less comment and more facts. Let me give them. Orange himself, pale, restrained, haggard but superb, met us at the station on our arrival. He had been waiting for us at the hotel; Mrs. Parflete was at the Villa Miraflores.
Our last day at Tezcuco was spent in packing up antiquities to be sent to England, the express orders of the Government against such exportation to the contrary notwithstanding. Next morning we rode off to Miraflores, passing on our way the curious stratum of alluvial soil containing pottery, &c., which I have described already.
Nor was I especially averse to the transfer. The room-mate with whom fate had cast me in House 81 was a pleasant enough fellow, a youth of unobjectionable personal manners even though his "eight-hour graft" was in the sooty seat of a steam-crane high above Miraflores locks. But he had one slight idiosyncrasy that might in time have grown annoying.
I wish I had thought of looking among the papers of the Miraflores' captain; they might have contained the key to this private signal." "Well, senor," replied the lieutenant, "we must delay making a signal of any sort until the very last moment. Then, when he shows signs of becoming suspicious and sheering off, we will hoist, very slowly, a string of flags meaning nothing in particular.
But the rain whipped our faces as with thousands of stinging lashes. We crawled out and dashed blindly up the bank toward the saw-mill, the rain beating on our all but bare skins, feeling as it might to stand naked in Miraflores locks and let the sand pour down upon us from sixty feet above.
Down in a box-car camp between the railroad and the canal the boy called for "Jose" and there presented himself immediately a tall, studious, solemn-faced Spaniard of spare frame, about forty, dressed in overalls and working shirt. Here was even less a criminal type than the boy. "Senor," I asked, "did you go to the dance in Miraflores last Saturday night with this youth?" "Si, senor."
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