Immediately after supper the bride and groom led the way to the sala, the musicians tuned their violins and guitars, and after an hour’s excited comment upon the events of the day the dancing began.  Dona Jacoba could be very gracious when she chose, and she moved among her guests like a queen to-night, begging them to be happy, and electrifying them with her brilliant smile.  She dispelled their awe of her with magical tact, and when she laid her hand on one young beauty’s shoulder, and told her that her eyes put out the poor candles of Los Quervos, the girl was ready to fling herself on the floor and kiss the tyrant’s feet.  Elena watched her anxiously.  Her father petted her in his harsh abrupt way.  If she had ever received a kiss from her mother, she did not remember it; but she worshipped the blinding personality of the woman, although she shook before the relentless will.  But that her mother was pleased to be gracious tonight was beyond question, and she gave Dario a glance of timid encouragement, which brought him to her side at once.

“At your feet, senorita,” he said; “may I dare to beg the honour of the contradanza?”

She bent her slender body in a pretty courtesy.  “It is a small favour to grant a guest who deigns to honour us with his presence.”

He led her out, and when he was not gazing enraptured at the graceful swaying and gliding of her body, he managed to make a few conventional remarks.

“You did not like bull-fighting, senorita?”

“He watched me,” she thought.  “No, senor.  I like nothing that is cruel.”

“Those soft eyes could never be cruel.  Ay, you are so beautiful, senorita.”

“I am but a little country girl, senor.  You must have seen far more beautiful women in the cities.  Have you ever been in Monterey?”

“Yes, senorita, many times.  I have seen all the beauties, even Dona Modeste Castro.  Once, too—­that was before the Americans came—­I saw the Senorita Ysabel Herrera, a woman so beautiful that a man robbed a church and murdered a priest for her sake.  But she was not so beautiful as you, senorita.”

The blood throbbed in the girl’s fair cheeks.  “He must love me,” she told herself, “to think me more beautiful than Ysabel Herrera.  Joaquin says she was the handsomest woman that ever was seen.”

“You compliment me, senor,” she answered vaguely.  “She had wonderful green eyes.  So has the Senora Castro.  Mine are only brown, like so many other girls’.”

“They are the most beautiful eyes in California.  They are like the Madonna’s.  I do not care for green eyes.”  His black ones flashed their language to hers, and Elena wondered if she had ever been unhappy.  She barely remembered where she was, forgot that she was a helpless bird in a golden cage.  Her mate had flown through the open door.

The contradanza ends with a waltz, and as Dario held her in his arms his last remnant of prudence gave way.