We drank pulque at the sign of _The Cacique_, and liked it, for we had now quite got over our aversion to its putrid taste and smell.

I wonder that our new faculty of pulque-drinking did not make us able to relish the suspicious eggs that abound in Mexican inns, but it had no such effect, unfortunately.
Our canoe took us back to the Promenade of Las Vigas, which is a long drive, planted with rows of trees, and extends along the last mile or two of the canal.

Indeed, its name comes from the beam (Viga) which swings across the canal at the place where the canoes pay toll.

This was the great promenade, once upon a time; but the new Alameda has taken away all the promenaders to a more fashionable quarter, except on certain festival days, three or four times in the year, when it is the correct thing for society to make a display of itself--on horseback or in carriages--in this neglected Indian quarter.

We had happened upon one of these festival days; so, as we crawled along the side-path, tired and dusty, we had a good opportunity of seeing the Mexican beau monde.