The big bronze had quite
dropped out of it and was lagging homeward, hardly greeted by a hiss.
The others were almost neck and neck, the little bronze slightly in the
lead. "She wins," thought Roldan, "No! No! The black! the black! Ay, no,
the bronze! but no! no! Ay! Ay! Ay!" A roar went up that ended in a
shriek. The black had won.
Roldan looked at the priest. His skin was livid, his nostrils twitching.
But his mouth and eyes told nothing.
The crowd rode home, still excited, gay, cheerful. Their losses mattered
not. Were not their acres numbered by the hundred thousand? Did they not
have more horses and cattle than they would ever count? In those days of
pleasure and plenty, of luxury and unconsidered generosity, a rancho, a
caponara the less, meant a loss neither to be felt nor remembered.
After the bountiful supper the guests loitered for a time in the
courtyard, then the sala was cleared and the dance began. Several of the
girls danced alone, while the caballeros clapped and shouted. Then all
waltzed or took part in their only square dance, the contradanza. They
kept it up until morning. Needless to say, our heroes went to bed at an
early hour.
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