During breakfast they were at opposite ends of the long table in the dining room, but neither took part in the songs and speeches, the toasts and laughter.  Both had done some manoeuvring to get out of sight of the old people, and sit at one of the many other tables in the sala, on the corridor, in the court; but Elena had to go with the bridesmaids, and Joaquin insisted upon doing honour to the uninvited guest.  The Indian servants passed the rich and delicate, the plain and peppered, dishes, the wines and the beautiful cakes for which Dona Jacoba and her daughters were famous.  The massive plate that had done duty for generations in Spain was on the table; the crystal had been cut in England.  It was the banquet of a grandee, and no one noticed the silent lovers.

After breakfast the girls flitted to their rooms and changed their gowns, and wound rebosos or mantillas about their heads; the men put off their jackets for lighter ones of flowered calico, and the whole party, in buggies or on horseback, started for a bull-fight which was to take place in a field about a mile behind the house.  Elena went in a buggy with Santiago, who was almost as pale as she.  Dario, on horseback, rode as near her as he dared; but when they reached the fence about the field careless riders crowded between, and he could only watch her from afar.

The vaqueros in their broad black hats shining with varnish, their black velvet jackets, their crimson sashes, and short, black velvet trousers laced with silver cord over spotless linen, looked very picturesque as they dashed about the field jingling their spurs and shouting at each other.  When the bulls trotted in and greeted each other pleasantly, the vaqueros swung their hissing reatas and yelled until the maddened animals wreaked their vengeance on each other, and the serious work of the day began.

Elena leaned back with her fan before her eyes, but Santiago looked on eagerly in spite of his English training.

“Caramba!” he cried, “but that old bull is tough.  Look, Elena!  The little one is down.  No, no!  He has the big one.  Ay! yi, yi!  By Jove! he is gone—­no, he has run off—­he is on him again!  He has ripped him up!  Brava! brava!”

A cheer as from one throat made the mountains echo, but Elena still held her fan before the field.

“How canst thou like such bloody sport?” she asked disgustedly.  “The poor animals!  What pleasure canst thou take to see a fine brute kicking in his death-agony, his bowels trailing on the ground?”

“Fie, Elena!  Art thou not a Californian?  Dost thou not love the sport of thy country?  Why, look at the other girls!  They are mad with excitement.  By Jove!  I never saw so many bright eyes.  I wonder if I shall be too stiff to dance to-night.  Elena, she gave me a beating!  But tell me, little one, why dost thou not like the bull-fight?  I feel like another man since I have seen it.”

“I cannot be pleased with cruelty.  I shall never get used to see beasts killed for amusement.  And Don Dario Castanares does not like it either.  He never smiled once, nor said ‘Brava!’”