Once a bull, seeing his chance, darted from his herd and down the valley.  A vaquero started after him; but Reinaldo, anxious to display his skill in horsemanship, and being still mounted, called to the vaquero to stop, dashed after the animal, caught it by its tail, spurred his horse ahead, let go the tail at the right moment, and, amidst shouts of “Coliar!” “Coliar!” the bull was ignominiously rolled in the dust, then meekly preceded Reinaldo back to the rodeo-ground.

After the dinner under the trees most of the party returned to the platform, but Estenega, Adan, Chonita, Valencia, and myself strolled about the rancho.  Adan walked at Chonita’s side, more faithful than her shadow.  Valencia’s black eyes flashed their language so plainly to Estenega’s that he could not have deserted her without rudeness; and Estenega never was rude.

“Adan,” said Chonita, abruptly, “I am tired of thee.  Sit down under that tree until I come back.  I wish to walk alone with Eustaquia for awhile.”

Adan sighed and did as he was bidden, consoling himself with a cigarito.  Taking a different path from the one the others followed, we walked some distance, talking of ordinary matters, both avoiding the subject of Diego Estenega by common consent.  And yet I was convinced that she carried on a substratum of thought of which he was the subject, even while she talked coherently to me.  On our way back the conversation died for want of bone and muscle, and, as it happened, we were both silent as we approached a small adobe hut.  As we turned the corner we came upon Estenega and Valencia.  He had just bent his head and kissed her.

Valencia fled like a hare.  Estenega turned the hue of chalk, and I knew that blue lightning was flashing in his disconcerted brain.  I felt the chill of Chonita as she lifted herself to the rigidity of a statue and swept slowly down the path.

“Diego, you are a fool!” I exclaimed, when she was out of hearing.

“You need not tell me that,” he said, savagely.  “But what in heaven’s name—­Well, never mind.  For God’s sake straighten it out with her.  Tell her—­explain to her—­what men are.  Tell her that the present woman is omnipotently present—­no, don’t tell her that.  Tell her that history is full of instances of men who have given one woman the devoted love of a lifetime and been unfaithful to her every week in the year.  Explain to her that a man to love one woman must love all women.  And she has sufficient proof that I love her and no other woman:  I want to marry her, not Valencia Menendez.  Heaven knows I will be true to her when I have her.  I could not be otherwise.  But I need not explain to you.  Set it right with her.  She has brain, and can be made to understand.”

I shook my head.  “You cannot reason with inexperience; and when it is allied to jealousy—­God of my soul!  Her ideal, of course, is perfection, and does not take human weakness into account.  You have fallen short of it to-day.  I fear your cause is lost.”