I counted the moments, till heavy footsteps were heard upon the escalera, and a shining black face rose over the roof.
There was no letter, no message beyond “mil gracias.”
I felt a pang of chagrin. I had expected thanks more formal than this mere phrase of compliment.
My man appeared better satisfied. A gold onza gleamed in his purple palm—a handsome perquisite.
“By whom given?” I inquired.
“Golly, mass cap’n, a gal guv it! De handsomest quaderoom gal dis nigga ever see.”
Beyond a doubt, Isolina herself was the donor!
I could have broken the rascal’s thick skull, but that the queenly douceur gave proof of the satisfaction with which my offering had been received. Even on this trivial circumstance, I built my hopes of yet receiving a fuller meed of thanks.
Absorbed in these hopes, I continued to pace the azotea alone.
It was a dia de fiesta in the rancheria. Bells had already commenced their clangour, and other notes of rejoicing fell upon the ear. The poblanas appeared in their gayest attire—the Indians in bright naguas, with red and purple threads twisted in their black hair; the denizens of the ranchitos were pouring into the piazza, and processions were being formed by the church; jararas were twanging their guitar-like music; and pyrotechnic machines were set up at the corners of the streets. Tinsel-covered saints were carried about on the shoulders of painted maskers; and there were Pilate and the Centurion, and the Saviour—a spectacle absurd and unnatural; and yet a spectacle that may be witnessed every week in a Mexican village, and which, with but slight variation, has been exhibited every week for three centuries!