WHOEVER has been in Havana, that strange and peculiar city, whose
every association and belonging seem to bring to mind the period of
centuries gone by, whose time-worn and moss-covered cathedrals
appear to stand as grim records of the past, whose noble palaces and
residences of the rich give token of the fact of its great wealth
and extraordinary resources--whoever, we say, has been in this
capital of Cuba, has of course visited its well-known and far-famed
Tacon Paseo. It is here, just outside the city walls, in a beautiful
tract of land, laid out in tempting walks, ornamented with the
fragrant flowers of the tropics, and with statues and fountains
innumerable, that the beauty and fashion of the town resort each
afternoon to drive in their volantes, and to meet and greet each
other.

It was on the afternoon subsequent to that of the accident recorded
in the preceding chapter, that a young officer, off duty, might be
seen partially reclining upon one of the broad seats that here and
there line the foot-path of the circular drive in the Paseo. He
possessed a fine manly figure, and was perhaps of twenty-four or
five years of age, and clothed in the plain undress uniform of the
Spanish army. His features were of that national and handsome cast
that is peculiar to the full-blooded Castilian, and the pure olive
of his complexion contrasted finely with a moustache and imperial as
black as the dark flowing hair that fell from beneath his foraging
cap. At the moment when we introduce him he was playing with a
small, light walking-stick, with which he thrashed his boots most
immoderately; but his thoughts were busy enough in another quarter,
as any one might conjecture even at a single glance.