He made a low bow to Señora Valentino, who laughingly extended her hand to him. He bent sweepingly over it, barely touching the ends of her fingers with his.
"The Señor Captain Morando!" a man's voice called at his elbow. It was Abelardo Peralta. The music and dancing had stopped. The guests were assembling around the dais on which was seated Doña Carmelita.
"Our queen demands your presence, Señor Captain," Peralta went on.
The Captain was shortly before her majesty the queen of the fiesta.
"The games are about to begin, Captain Morando. Do you not remember that I appointed you and Don Abelardo to define the boundaries of the racing course, and to determine the various goals? Also please to remind the Señora Valentino that she is requested to crown the victors."
As the afternoon waned the interest in the athletic events increased. The footraces for young men showed that the sons of the province were nimble of limb, and won the approbation of Pedro Zelaya himself, whose swiftness was credited with being only less than a fast-galloping horse.
The señoritas ran a shorter course very creditably.
Then came a contest of knife-throwing in which the men of the period were wonderfully proficient. The knife was flung, blade extended, from the palm of the hand with such force that the point of the weapon would sink several inches into a wooden target placed twenty, thirty, or more, paces away.
"Hoop-la! Hoop-la!" came through a cloud of dust. A number of vaqueros had driven a wild steer from the mountains to the race course. The picnickers looked at the animal from their safe position on the platform. Again and again the creature charged at the vaqueros, who deftly swung their horses out of harm's way.
"Send him here!" some young fellow called to one of the herdsmen.