Leaning unconsciously from the box, enamored, forgetful of the audience, spellbound, he snatched from his coat the rose that Mariposilla had given him. Pressing it to his lips, he flung it at the feet of the trembling child.
It was enough. The dancer's response told passionately, without words, what she never could have said.
Her form seemed suddenly enveloped in translucent light. She was oblivious to everything but the rapturous moment.
Clad in the fatal satin skirt of the Doña Maria's little dead sister; about her throat, the coveted necklace of opals, and, draping her beautiful head, the filmy yellow wedding lace of her mother, she danced as she never danced before. She seemed a marvelous apparition, freed from a haunted chamber of the Alhambra. With every step, with every movement of the palpitating figure, with every droop of the deep-fringed eyelids and every fling of the glancing arms, the ecstatic passion of her young life was manifest.
Unconsciously she imparted to the dance of her nation the tragic possibilities of her nature.
Forgetting all restraint, all method, she abandoned her liberated body to the emotions of her throbbing soul.
Long afterward, all remembered how she had swayed the great house into irresistible tumult; then suddenly had floated mysteriously away, lost in the dazzling retreat of the señoritas.
The pageant terminated with a superb tableau, symbolizing the end of the prolific rose season.
At Easter, and for a number of weeks after, nature grows prodigal. Then comes a lull. The roses have exhausted themselves. The brilliant carnival is over, and a number of weeks must now elapse before the vines and bushes gather strength to flower again.