Faster and faster beat the drum, and the sobbing, rhythmic sound thrilled my senses and filled my heart with an indescribable weird, fierce longing.  I saw a maiden approach taller and finer than the rest.  One glance of her soft, wild eyes and I flew to her arms.  “Back, Indians!” I shouted, “honor your queen!” and entered the lists of the frolicsome dance.  Wilder beat the drum and faster.  As the old Indian warmed to his work, he broke out in a doleful, monotonous song, the words of which I did not understand.  It sounded to me like this: 

Anna-Hannah—­
Anna-Hannah—­
May-Ah!-
Anna-Hannah-Sarah-Wah! 
Moolow-Hoolow, Ji-Hi-Tlack! 
Anna-Hannah—­
May-Ah-Ha!

So it went on indefinitely.

To lay this troubled spirit I tossed him a handful of coins, with the unfortunate result that his guttural song became, if anything, more loud and boisterous.  I had no thought of exchanging my partner, as the Aztec maiden clung to me.  With closed eyes and parted lips she moved as in a blissful dream.  I have known Christian people become frantic under the impetus of great religious excitement and I have seen them act very strangely, also have I seen Indians similarly affected during their medicine-ghost dances.  Now I, who had not thought it possible of myself, had become more savage and uncontrollable than any one.  I suppose it was the irritating, monotonous sound of the war drum that did it, jarring my nerves, and the peculiar Indian odor in the stifling hot air of the close room, enhanced by the exhilarating sensation of threatening danger, and that in the presence of the adored sex.  Assuredly all this was more than enough to set me off, as I am naturally impulsive and of a high-strung nervous temperament.

I must say that considering the modest costumes of these Indian ladies and their bashful and shrinking disposition, it does seem strange that they should fascinate one like myself of the Saxon race.  To be sure the sight of the bared shoulders and necks of society belles when undressed in the decollete fashion of their ball gowns ravishes and gluts our sensuality, but a momentary glimpse of the Indian maid’s brown knee flashing by during the excitement of the fandango is just as suggestive, and the inch of hand-made embroidery on the edge of their short skirts is as effective as priceless lace on gowns of worth.  And the Indian fashion has this to recommend it, that it is the less expensive of the two costumes.  Ever watchful, ever on the alert, I saw the sheen of a knife flash from its scabbard in the hazy air, and my beautiful partner shivered and moaned in my arms.  “Dog of an Indian, dare and die,” shouted I, angrily.  Four times I made the circuit of the room, and when again opposite the entrance of this man-kennel, I heard the voice of my faithful friend, Don Reyes Alvarado, calling me anxiously.  I gave my lovely partner in charge of her tender-hearted sisters, for the poor wild thing had fainted and lay limply in my arms.  The strong arm of my companion grasped me and drew me out into the fresh air, where I almost collapsed, overcome.