Her little feet tapped time to the music; she whirled her body with utmost grace, holding her head so motionless that she could have balanced a glass of water upon it.  She was inspired that night; and when, in the midst of the dance, De la Vega entered the room, a sort of madness possessed her.  She invented new figures.  She glided back and forth, bending and swaying and doubling until to the eyes of her bewildered admirers the outlines of her lovely body were gone.  Even the women shouted their approval, and the men went wild.  They pulled their pockets inside out and flung handfuls of gold at her feet.  Those who had only silver cursed their fate, but snatched the watches from their pockets, the rings from their fingers, and hurled them at her with shouts and cheers.  They tore the lace ruffles from their shirts; they rushed to the next room and ripped the silver eagles from their hats.  Even Pio Pico flung one of his golden ropes at her feet, a hot blaze in his old ugly face, as he cried:—­

“Brava! brava! thou Star of Monterey!”

Guido Cabanares, desperate at having nothing more to sacrifice to his idol, sprang upon a chair, and was about to tear down the Mexican flag, when the music stopped with a crash, as if musicians and instruments had been overturned, and a figure leaped into the room.

The women uttered a loud cry and crossed themselves.  Even the men fell back.  Ysabel’s swaying body trembled and became rigid.  De la Vega, who had watched her with folded arms, too entranced to offer her anything but the love that shook him, turned livid to his throat.  A friar, his hood fallen back from his stubbled head, his brown habit stiff with dirt, smelling, reeling with fatigue, stood amongst them.  His eyes were deep in his ashen face.  They rolled about the room until they met De la Vega’s.

General Castro came hastily forward.  “What does this mean?” he asked.  “What do you wish?”

The friar raised his arm, and pointed his shaking finger at De la Vega.

“Kill him!” he said, in a loud hoarse whisper.  “He has desecrated the Mother of God!”

Every caballero in the room turned upon De la Vega with furious satisfaction.  Ysabel had quickened their blood, and they were willing to cool it in vengeance on the man of whom they still were jealous, and whom they suspected of having brought the wondrous pearls which covered their Favorita to-night.

“What?  What?” they cried eagerly.  “Has he done this thing?”

“He has robbed the Church.  He has stripped the Blessed Virgin of her jewels.  He—­has—­murdered—­a—­priest of the Holy Catholic Church.”

Horror stayed them for a moment, and then they rushed at De la Vega.  “He does not deny it!” they cried.  “Is it true?  Is it true?” and they surged about him hot with menace.

“It is quite true,” said De la Vega, coldly.  “I plundered the shrine of Loreto and murdered its priest.”