ll as he. Double the amount if you please."

"Name your man!" said Vizcarra.

"Carlos the cibolero."

"Enough--I accept your wager. Any one else may have their trial,"
continued Vizcarra, addressing the crowd. "I shall replace the dollar
whenever it is taken up--only one attempt, remember!"

Several made the attempt and failed. Some touched the coin, and even
drew it from its position, but no one succeeded in lifting it.

At length a dragoon mounted on a large bay appeared in the list, who was
recognised as the Sergeant Gomez. He was the same that had first come
up with the bull, but failed to fling him; and no doubt that failure
dwelling still in his thoughts added to the natural gloom of his very
sallow face. He was a man of large size, unquestionably a good rider,
but he lacked that symmetrical shape that gives promise of sinewy
activity.

The feat required little preparation. The sergeant looked to his
saddle-girths, disencumbered himself of his sabre and belts, and then
set his steed in motion.

In a few minutes he directed his horse so as to shave past the shining
coin, and then, bending down, he tried to seize it. He succeeded in
lifting it up from the ground; but, owing to the slight hold he had
taken, it dropped from his fingers before he had got it to the height of
the stirrup.

A shout, half of applause and half of disapprobation, came from the
crowd. Most were disposed to favour him on Vizcarra's account. Not
that they loved Colonel Vizcarra, but they _feared_ him, and that made
them loyal.

The cibolero now rode forth upon his shining black. All eyes were
turned upon him. His handsome face would have won admiration, but for
its very _fairness_. Therein lay a secret prejudice. They knew _he was
not of their race_!

Woman's heart has no prejudice, however; and along that line of
dark-eyed "doncellas" more than one pair of eyes were sparkling with
admiration for the blond "Americano," for of such race was Carlos the
cibolero.

Other eyes than woman's looked favourably on the cibolero, and other
lips murmured applause. Among the half-brutalised Tagnos, with bent
limbs and downcast look, there were men who dreamt of days gone by; who
knew that their fathers were once free; who in their secret assemblies
in mountain cave, or in the deep darkness of the "estufa," still burned
the "sacred fire" of the god Quetzalcoatl--still talked of Moctezuma and
Freedom.

These, though darker than