The man fell back; and a little further on Nostromo had to pull up. From the doors of the dance hall men and women emerged tottering, streaming with sweat, trembling in every limb, to lean, panting, with staring eyes and parted lips, against the wall of the structure, where the harps and guitars played on with mad speed in an incessant roll of thunder. Hundreds of hands clapped in there; voices shrieked, and then all at once would sink low, chanting in unison the refrain of a love song, with a dying fall. A red flower, flung with a good aim from somewhere in the crowd, struck the resplendent Capataz on the cheek.
He caught it as it fell, neatly, but for some time did not turn his head. When at last he condescended to look round, the throng near him had parted to make way for a pretty Morenita, her hair held up by a small golden comb, who was walking towards him in the open space.
Her arms and neck emerged plump and bare from a snowy chemisette; the blue woollen skirt, with all the fullness gathered in front, scanty on the hips and tight across the back, disclosed the provoking action of her walk. She came straight on and laid her hand on the mare’s neck with a timid, coquettish look upwards out of the corner of her eyes.
“_Querido_,” she murmured, caressingly, “why do you pretend not to see me when I pass?”
“Because I don’t love thee any more,” said Nostromo, deliberately, after a moment of reflective silence.
The hand on the mare’s neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head before all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the terrible, the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita.
Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face.
“Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?” she whispered. “Is it true?”
“No,” said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. “It was a lie. I love thee as much as ever.”
“Is that true?” she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears.
“As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna that stands in thy room.” And the Capataz laughed a little in response to the grins of the crowd.
She pouted--very pretty--a little uneasy.
“No, I will not ask for that. I can see love in your eyes.” She laid her hand on his knee. “Why are you trembling like this? From love?” she continued, while the cavernous thundering of the gombo went on without a pause. “But if you love her as much as that, you must give your Paquita a gold-mounted rosary of beads for the neck of her Madonna.”