We had no difficulty about their entrance into the country, with the proviso that we paid five hundred dollars of “Alcavala” tax upon each waggon. This was a greater extortion than usual; but the traders were compelled to accept the impost.
Santa Fé is the entrepôt of the province, and the chief seat of its trade. On reaching it we halted, camping without the walls.
Saint Vrain, several other propriétaires, and myself, took up our quarters at the Fonda, where we endeavoured, by means of the sparkling vintage of El Paso, to make ourselves oblivious of the hardships we had endured in the passage of the plains.
The night of our arrival was given to feasting and making merry.
Next morning I was awakened by the voice of my man Gode, who appeared to be in high spirits, singing a snatch of a Canadian boat-song.
“Ah, monsieur!” cried he, seeing me awake, “to-night—aujourd’hui—une grande fonction—one bal—vat le Mexicain he call fandango. Très bien, monsieur. You vill sure have grand plaisir to see un fandango Mexicain?”
“Not I, Gode. My countrymen are not so fond of dancing as yours.”
“C’est vrai, monsieur; but von fandango is très curieux. You sall see ver many sort of de pas. Bolero, et valse, wis de Coona, and ver many more pas, all mix up in von puchero. Allons! monsieur, you vill see ver many pretty girl, avec les yeux très noir, and ver short—ah! ver short—vat you call em in Americaine?”
“I do not know what you allude to.”
“Cela! Zis, monsieur,” holding out the skirt of his hunting-shirt; “par Dieu! now I have him—petticoes; ver short petticoes. Ah! you sall see vat you sall see en un fandango Mexicaine.