One danced with his head under his arm, and another with one leg around his neck; all eliciting more or less laughter, as the feat was more or less comical. During the dance every species of deformity was imitated and caricatured, for this is the tagarota. It was a series of grotesque and repulsive pictures. Some of the dancers, flinging themselves flat, would roll across the open space without moving hand or foot. This always elicited applause, and we could not help remarking its resemblance to the gymnastics we had lately been practising ourselves.
“Och, be me sowl! we can bate yez at that!” cried Chane, who appeared to be highly amused at the tagarota, making his comments as the dance went on.
I was sick of the scene, and watched it no longer. My eyes turned to the portale, and I looked anxiously through the half-drawn curtains.
“It is strange I have seen nothing of them! Could they have turned off on some other route? No—they must be here. Narcisso’s promise for to-night! He at least is here. And she?—perhaps occupied within—gay, happy, indifferent—oh!”
The pain shot afresh through my heart.
Suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, and a brilliant picture appeared within—brilliant, but to me like the glimpse which some condemned spirit might catch over the walls of Paradise. Officers in bright uniforms, and amongst these I recognised the elegant person of Dubrosc. Ladies in rich dresses, and amongst these—. Her sister, too, was there, and the Dona Joaquiana, and half a dozen other ladies, rustling in silks and blazing with jewels.
Several of the gentlemen—young officers of the band—wore the picturesque costume of the guerilleros.
They were forming for the dance.
“Look, Captain!” cried Clayley; “Don Cosmé and his people, by the living earthquake!”
“Hush! do not touch me—do not speak to me!”