his head and surveying his companions with critical eyes,
"I would not exchange it for the richest gold mine in Mexico! But," he
added, seating himself at the table, "you don't know the Chiquita, _mis
amigos_. She is made of different stuff than that of the women who dance
for a living."

To this last remark the company agreed.

"_Caramba_--how she danced!" he continued, taking a sip of _pulque_.
"Had the house been as large as the plaza and the price of the seats
doubled, there would not have been standing room left to accommodate the
spectators."

"Aye!" broke in Miguel Torreno, a dark, wizened old Mexican with a face
resembling a monkey's, "they say a thousand people were turned away at
the doors."

"A thousand? Half the town, you mean!" returned Carlos, rolling a
_cigarillo_ between the tips of his stubby fingers.

"A pretty penny this dance of the Chiquita's must have cost you, Carlos
Moreno," continued Miguel, his head cocked knowingly on one side, while
he squinted over the rim of his glass between puffs of cigarette smoke.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_," answered Carlos. "But by the Virgin, it
was worth it!"

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" ejaculated his auditors with one breath.
Old Miguel dropped his glass which fell with a crash, scattering its
contents and fragments over the floor.

"Three thousand _pesos d'oro_!" he gasped. "_Alma de mi vida!_ Soul of
my life! 'tis the salary of a Bishop! Are you mad, Carlos Moreno?"

"Perhaps. But only Carlos Moreno can afford to pay such salaries during
the _Fiesta_," he answered complacently, taking a fresh sip of
_pulque_.

"How did you ever persuade her to dance?" asked Pedro. "It's not the
first time you have made overtures to her."

"Ah, that's the mystery! I'd give something to know why she danced. You
know," he continued, "it's the first time she has ever appeared in
public."

"The first time?" interrupted the Captain in surprise. "Why--she
possesses the composure of a veteran of the footlights."

"Just so," rejoined Carlos. "Nothing is more characteristic of her;
she's at home everywhere. When I first saw her dance three years ago in
the garden of the old _Posada_ at the birthday fete of Senora Fernandez,
I knew instantly that she was either possessed of the devil or the
ancient muse of dance; also, why Don Felipe Ramirez went mad over her.

"_Dios!_ she's a strange woman--almost mysterious at times!" he added
reflectively, with a shrug of the