Part 4

The soul of old Spain still lived in the land. The click of castanettes was heard daily in her plazas and streets where the fandango and jotta were gayly danced; while at night the soft sounds of guitars and voices issued from out the deep shadow of her walls. Soft hands drew the latches of casements, and slender figures stepped out upon moonlit balconies or beneath purple black heavens studded with myriads of golden stars, and passionate words and vows were exchanged under the cover of night.

Having passed the day at the Inn of the Stars, where they had been resting after the fatigues of the long night's ride, the Captain and José again directed their steps toward the town in the cool of the evening; José making for Pedro Romero's gambling-hall, the Captain for Carlos Moreno's theater, the Theatro Mexicano.

Owing to the tardiness of his arrival, he found the house packed to the doors. The performance, vaudeville in character, had already begun, and it was only after much elbowing and crowding that he finally succeeded in making his way to Carlos' private box where the latter awaited him.

A tall, dark woman had just ceased dancing, and as she paused before the footlights amid a burst of musical accompaniment, the audience with one impulse rose to its feet and gave vent to prolonged salvos of applause. Showers of glittering gold and silver coins, bouquets and wreaths of flowers were flung upon the stage, burying her feet in a wealth and suffusion of color as she stood smiling and bowing before the audience, vainly endeavoring to still the tumultuous applause which continued with deafening uproar until she consented to repeat the performance.

"Delicious--divine--'tis the Chiquita, amigo mio!" cried Carlos; pausing in the midst of his vivas to greet the Captain.

"You shall know her and fall in love with her like all the rest of the world--" but his speech was cut short by a fresh burst of applause from the audience. The floral tributes that had been showered upon her were hastily removed to one side of the stage and piled high against the wings. The musicians struck up their accompaniment and the dance began again.

It was evident that she was a favorite of the audience which perhaps partially accounted for the remarkable demonstration with which her performance was received. But be this as it may, Captain Forest felt that he had never witnessed such a remarkable exhibition of subtle grace and beauty and extraordinary execution and dash as she displayed in the dance. He recalled the names of the famous dancers he had known, but none of them had risen to such heights--succeeded in vitalizing and inspiring their art with so much poetry and life.

To all appearance she was either Spanish or of Indian extraction, and yet there was a foreign touch about her that seemed to set her apart from the women of Santa Fé.

Who was she, this unknown genius, this master of the terpsichorean art, living in this far away Mexican town? Such talent could not remain in obscurity for long. Another great Spanish dancer was about to burst unheralded upon the world. It only remained for her to dance into it--to captivate and conquer it.

This then, was the surprise Carlos had promised him if he came to the theater that evening. His curiosity was aroused, and he turned to him for an explanation, but he was no longer by his side; he had rushed behind the scenes to felicitate the dancer on her remarkable success.

The air was hot and stifling, and not caring to witness the remaining numbers on the programme, he took advantage of the intermission that followed the dance and left the theater.

Outside the air was deliciously cool. The moonlight and myriads of artificial lights strung across the streets and on the façades of the houses, together with the flaming torches in front of the many booths, lent the appearance of day to night as he slowly made his way through the surging crowds in the direction of Pedro Romero's gambling-hall where Carlos had agreed to join him after the performance.

Pedro's establishment was the chief and only respectable place of its kind of which the town could boast. It was the resort of the better element of Santa Fé, and if one were looking for a friend or acquaintance, he was usually to be found there. The hall was spacious and well lighted with electricity and resplendent in gilt and mirrors.

The gay strains of a string band enlivened the scene as he entered. Clouds of tobacco smoke hung over the throngs that crowded round the gaming-tables to try their luck with the Goddess Chance.

José was playing roulette, and judging by the satisfied expression of his face which the Captain noted in passing, he rightly conjectured that luck was on his side.

Like Carlos, Pedro had taken a great fancy to the Captain, and had generously placed his private stock of wines and cigars at the latter's disposal. Many an evening had the three passed together smoking and drinking and chatting; Pedro and Carlos listening with rapt attention to the Captain's anecdotes and adventures of which he seemed to possess an inexhaustible store. The hall was greatly overcrowded, rendering it difficult to find an acquaintance, but as the Captain paused in the midst of the tables in order to obtain a better view of the faces about him, he felt a touch on the shoulder from behind and turning, saw Pedro, the object of his search.

"Por Dios! but I'm glad to see you again, amigo!" exclaimed the proprietor, a dark little man with a kindly face pitted by the smallpox. He grasped and shook the Captain warmly by the hand.

"How are you--when did you return?" he inquired; leading him to a table in one corner of the hall around which were seated a number of his friends who, on the appearance of the Captain, rose and greeted him effusively.

"Mozo--mozo!" shouted Pedro to the waiter, "a glass for the Captain!"

The others also had been to the theater, and like him, had left during the intermission following the dance. Naturally the dancer formed the sole topic of conversation.

"Had the Señor Capitan seen the Chiquita--had he ever seen such dancing before--what did he think of her?" And by the time Carlos appeared on the scene, all agreed that the latter's fortune was made--that he would soon desert the sleepy old town for a tour of the world with his newly found star of the footlights.

"A tour of the world--with the Chiquita?" echoed Carlos, a fat, broad-shouldered little man of mixed blood, pausing and pulling back a chair in the act of seating himself at the table.

"Dios! if such a thing were possible," he exclaimed, pushing his hat on the back of his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes, "I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, mis amigos. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance for a living."

To this last remark the company agreed.

"Caramba--how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of pulque. "Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the spectators."

"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at the doors."

"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a cigarillo between the tips of his stubby fingers.

"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos Moreno," continued Miguel, his head cocked knowingly on one side, while he squinted over the rim of his glass between puffs of cigarette smoke.