“You know, my father,” said Eulogia, coolly; “and if you have any doubt, wait until to-morrow.”

The ball was given in the long sala of Dona Antonia Ampudia, on the edge of the rambling town.  As the night was warm, the young people danced through the low windows on to the wide corridor; and, if watchful eyes relaxed their vigilance, stepped off to the grass and wandered among the trees.  The brown old women in dark silks sat against the wall, as dowagers do to-day.  Most of the girls wore bright red or yellow gowns, although softer tints blossomed here and there.  Silken black hair was braided close to the neck, the coiffure finished with a fringe of chenille.  As they whirled in the dance, their full bright gowns looked like an agitated flower-bed suddenly possessed by a wandering tribe of dusky goddesses.

Eulogia came rather late.  At the last moment her mother had wavered in her part of the contract, and it was not until Eulogia had sworn by every saint in the calendar that she would not leave the sala, even though she stifled, that Dona Pomposa had reluctantly consented to take her.  Eulogia’s perfect little figure was clad in a prim white silk gown, but her cold brilliant eyes were like living jewels, her large mouth was as red as the cactus patches on the hills, and a flame burned in either cheek.  In a moment she was surrounded by the young men who had been waiting for her.  It might be true that twenty girls in the room were more beautiful than she, but she had a quiet manner more effective than animation, a vigorous magnetism of which she was fully aware, and a cool coquetry which piqued and fired the young men, who were used to more sentimental flirtations.

She danced as airily as a flower on the wind, but with untiring vitality.

“Senorita!” exclaimed Don Carmelo Pena, “thou takest away my breath.  Dost thou never weary?”

“Never.  I am not a man.”

“Ay, senorita, thou meanest—­”

“That women were made to make the world go round, and men to play the guitar.”

“Ay, I can play the guitar.  I will serenade thee to-morrow night.”

“Thou wilt get a shower of ashes for thy pains.  Better stay at home, and prepare thy soul with three-card monte”

“Ay, senorita, but thou art cruel!  Does no man please thee?”

“Men please me.  How tiresome to dance with a woman!”

“And that is all the use thou hast for us?  For us who would die for thee?”

“In a barrel of aguardiente?  I prefer thee to dance with.  To tell the truth, thy step suits mine.”

“Ay, senorita mia! thou canst put honey on thy tongue.  God of my life, senorita—­I fling my heart at thy feet!”

“I fear to break it, senor, for I have faith that it is made of thin glass.  It would cut my feet.  I like better this smooth floor.  Who is that standing by the window?  He has not danced to-night?”

“Don Pablo Ignestria of Monterey.  He says the women of San Luis are not half so beautiful nor so elegant as the women of Monterey; he says they are too dark and too small.  He does not wish to dance with any one; nor do any of the girls wish to dance with him.  They are very angry.”