In a gaily decorated bandstand, an excellent company of musicians played bright music, mostly airs from comic operas, and Philip was amused to hear Offenbachian frivolities sounding in this spot. They seemed out of place. The musicians had no sense of the fitness of things. They should have played boleros fandangos—the national music of Spain—instead of which they jingled the trashy airs of minor musicians.
The alameda was thronged by a motley crowd, presenting more varied features than are to be seen in any other part of the world. Indian women squatting at the corners selling fruit and pulque, beautiful señoritas with black mantillas and eloquent fans, gay young cavaliers dashing along on spirited horses, in all the bravery of the national costume, and not seldom a sour-looking duenna, jealously watching her charge. Occasionally a priest in shovel-hat and black cassock—but these were very rare. The army was also represented by a number of gaily-dressed officers who smoked cigarettes, smiled at the señoritas, and clanked their huge spurs ostentatiously together. It was a gay scene, and Philip admired it greatly.
"I have never seen such a mixed crowd anywhere," he said, lightly, "save in the Strada Reale in Valetta."
"Well!" said Maraquando, after a pause, "and what do you think of Tlatonac?"
"It is a terrestrial Paradise," replied Philip, "and Hypolito is the serpent."
CHAPTER VII.
DOLORES.
Your eyes
Are dark as midnight skies,
And bright as midnight stars,
Their glance