[CHAPTER XX.]
THE ANGELITO.
The hall into which the strangers were ushered by the host offered a most strange and striking aspect.
It was magnificently furnished, and gorgeously illuminated by numerous crystal chandeliers, crowded with rose wax tapers, and hung from the ceiling. The walls had been covered with rare and thick old tapestry of exquisite work. The richness of the sculptured furniture in oak, mahogany, black walnut, and ebony, surpassed in solidity anything seen abroad. The very catches, bolts, hinges, and locks, were in cut silver. The whole floor was covered with very fine palm matting, or petate.
Two carpet covered platforms were erected, one at each end of this hall, wherein some three hundred persons were looking at the principal stage, and the sole one tenanted since, at a command from don Benito, the musicians had vacated the other, intended only for them.
This second dais was arranged as an alcove, curtained in. Religious emblems, in gold and jewels, decorated the depths. The poor little child, victim of the Apache's missiles, powdered and rouged, was propped up in a draped chair, clad in white satin and lace, and covered with flowers, many more fading blooms strewing the floor.
The mother of this grandchild of don Benito was seated near her little one.
She was a very young wife, of scarcely more years than doña Perla; of equally rare beauty, but of corpselike pallor from her vigils and sorrow, which, was rendered the more palpable by her cheeks being thickly reddened with paint. Her fixed eyes, circled with black, gazed into vacancy with wild feverishness. She tried to wear a calmly joyful smile; but often a painful spasm convulsed her features, set her lips quivering, her limbs shivering, and shook muffled sobs from her bosom.
About her were seated ladies, mostly young and fair, who were attempting not to console the poor mother, but to cheer her up, as their belief dictated.