and I found an advantage in having the company of Fray Serapio while traversing in security those suburbs which surround Mexico in a formidable belt. The neighborhood of the Necatitlan Square is more dreaded than any, and it is almost always dangerous to appear there in a European garb; indeed, I never passed through it alone without uneasiness. The cowl of the monk would be a safeguard to me in my European dress. I accepted his offer with pleasure, and we set out. For the first time, I viewed with a tranquil mind the narrow, dirty, and unpaved streets, the blackened houses full of cracks running over the walls in all directions, lurking-places of the thieves and robbers who ply their calling on the streets, and who sometimes even break into houses in the city. Swarms of one-eyed léperos, their faces cut and scarred with the knife, were drinking, whistling, and shouting in the taverns, clad in dirty cotton clothes, or enveloped in their frazadas.[1] Their wives, dressed in tatters, stood in the doorways, watching their naked children, who were sporting in the mud, and laughing and shouting merrily. In passing through these haunts of cut throats, the terror of the police, the judge mutters a prayer, the alcalde crosses himself, the corchete (bailiff) and the regidor shuffle humbly along with downcast eye but watchful look, and the honest man shudders, but the monk stalks along with lofty brow and serene face, and the creak of his sandals is more respected there than the clink of the celador's sabre; sometimes, even, like tame tigers who recognize their master, the bandits emerge from their lurking-places, and come and kiss his hand.
- ↑ A blanket of common wool, differing in that respect only from the serape.
