The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

fountains, brilliant flower-beds, and, over all, the violet tints of the twilight, Philip found the scene sufficiently charming. He was walking beside Jack, in default of Eulalia, who, in company with Dolores, marched demurely beside Doña Serafina. This was a public place, the eyes of Tlatonac gossips were sharp, their tongues were bitter, so it behoved discreet young ladies, as these, to keep their admirers at a distance. In the patio it was quite different.

      Tim had gone off with Don Miguel, to attach himself to the personal staff of the President, and take shorthand notes of the speech. It had been the intention of Peter to follow his Irish friend, but, unfortunately, he lost him in the crowd, and therefore returned to the side of Philip, who caught sight of him at once.

      “Where’s Tim?” asked the baronet, quickly; “gone off with Don Miguel?”

      “Yes; to the Palacio Nacional.”

      “I thought you were going?”

      “I lost sight of them.”

      “An excuse, Peter,” interposed Jack, with a twinkle in his eye. “You remained behind to look at the Señoritas.”

      Peter indignantly repudiated the idea.

      “His heart is true to his Poll,” said Philip, soothingly; “thereby meaning Doña Serafina. Darling!”

      Philip mimicked the old lady’s pronunciation of the word, and Jack laughed; not so Peter.

      “How you do go on about Doña Serafina?” he said fretfully. “After all, she is not so very ugly, though she may not have the thirty points of perfection.”

      “Eh, Peter, I didn’t know you were learned in such gallantries; and what are the thirty points of perfection?”

      The doctor was about to reply, when Cocom, wrapped in his zarape, passed slowly by, and took off his sombrero to the party.

      “A dios, Señores,” said Cocom, gravely.

      “Our Indian friend,” remarked Jack, with a smile. “Ven aca Cocom! Have you come to hear the assurance of peace.”

      “There will be no peace, Señor Juan. I am old—very old, and I can see into the future. It is war I see—the war of Acauhtzin.”

      “Ah! Is that your own prophecy or that of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

      “I know nothing of the Chalchuih Tlatonac, Don Juan,” replied Cocom, who always assumed the role of a devout Catholic; “but I hear many things. Ah, yes, I hear that the Chalchuih Tlatonac is glowing as a red star.”

      “And that means war!”

      “It means war, Señor, and war there will be. The Chalchuih Tlatonac never deceives. Con dios va usted Señor.”

      “Humph!” said Jack, thoughtfully, as Cocom walked slowly away; “so that is the temper of the people, is it? The opal says war. In that case it is no use Gomez saying peace, for they will not believe him.”

      During this conversation with the Indian, Philip had gone on with Peter, so as to keep the ladies in sight. Jack pushed his way through the crowd and found them seated near the bandstand, from whence the President was to deliver his speech. As yet, His Excellency had not arrived, and the band were playing music of a lively description, principally national airs, as Gomez wished to arouse the patriotism of the Tlatonacians.

      The throng of people round the bandstand was increasing every moment. It was composed of all sorts and conditions of men and women, from delicate señoritas, draped in lace mantillas, to brown-faced Indian women, with fat babies on their backs; gay young hidalgos, in silver-buttoned buckskin breeches, white ruffled shirts, and short jackets, and smart military men in the picturesque green uniform of the Republic. All the men had cigarettes, all the women fans, and there was an incessant chatter of voices as both sexes engaged in animated conversation on the burning subject of the hour. Here and there moved the neveros with their stock of ice-creams, grateful to thirsty people on that sultry night, the serenos keeping order among the Indians with their short staves, and many water-carriers with their leather clothes and crocks. Above the murmur of conversation arose the cries of these perambulating traders. “Tortillas de cuajuda,” “Bocadillo de Coco,” and all the thousand and one calls announcing the quality of their goods.

      Many of the ladies were driving in carriages, and beside them rode caballeros, mounted on spirited horses, exchanging glances with those whom they loved. The air of the alameda was full of intrigue and subtle understandings. The wave of a fan, the glance of a dark eye, the dropping of a handkerchief, the removal of a sombrero, all the mute signs which pass between lovers who dare not speak, and everywhere the jealous watching of husbands, the keen eyes of vigilant duennas.

      “It is very like the Puerta del Sol in Madrid,” said Philip in a low whisper, as he stood beside Eulalia; “the same crowd, the same brilliance, the same hot night and tropic sky. Upon my word, there is but little difference between the Old Spain and the New.”

      “Ah!” sighed Eulalia, adjusting her mantilla; “how delightful it must be in Madrid!”

      “Not more delightful than here, Señorita. At least, I think so—now.”

      Eulalia cast an anxious glance at her duenna, and made a covert sign behind her fan for him to be silent.

      “Speak to my aunt, Don Felipe!”

      “I would rather speak to you,” hinted Philip, with a grimace.

      “Can young ladies speak to whom they please in your country?”

      “I should rather think so. In my country the ladies are quite as independent as the gentlemen, if not more so.”

      “Oh, oh! El viento que corre es algo fresquito.”

      “The wind which blows is a little fresh,” translated Philip to himself; “I suppose that is the Spanish for ‘I don’t believe you.’ But it is true, Señorita,” he added quickly, in her own tongue; “you will see it for yourself some day.”

      “I fear not. There is no chance of my leaving Tlatonac.”

      “Who knows?” replied Philip, with a meaning glance.

      Eulalia cast down her eyes in pretty confusion. Decidedly this Americano was delightful, and remarkably handsome; but then he said such dreadful things. If Doña Serafina heard them—Eulalia turned cold at the idea of what that vigorous lady would say.

      “Bueno!” chattered the duenna at this moment; “they are playing the ‘Fandango of the Opal!’”

      This was a local piece of music much in favour with the Tlatonacians, and was supposed to represent the Indian sacred dance before the shrine of the gem. As the first note struck their ears, the crowd applauded loudly; for it was, so to speak, the National Anthem of Cholacaca. Before the band-stand was a clear space of ground, and, inspired by the music, two Mestizos, man and woman, sprang into the open, and began to dance the fandango. The onlookers were delighted, and applauded vehemently.

      They were both handsome young people, dressed in the national costume, the girl looking especially picturesque with her amber-coloured short skirt, her gracefully draped mantilla, and enormous black fan. The young fellow had castanets, which clicked sharply to the rhythm of the music, as they whirled round one another like Bacchantes. The adoration of the opal, the reading of the omen, the foretelling of successful love, all were represented marvellously in wonderful pantomime. Then the dancers flung themselves wildly about, with waving arms and mad gestures, wrought up to a frenzy by the inspiriting music. Indeed, the audience caught the contagion, and began to sing the words of the opal song—

      Breathe not a word while the future divining,

       True speaks the stone as the star seers above,

       Green as the ocean the opal is shining,

       Green is prophetic of hope and of love.

      Kneel at the shrine while the future discerning,

       See how the crimson ray