The audience was in a particularly good temper, and ready to be amused at anything. In view of the royal guests the Manager had provided several exciting novelties. There was a wonderful troupe of performing horses who did everything that a horse is popularly supposed to be incapable of doing; there was a gypsy girl from Seville with a marvellous bear, whose intelligence appeared to be of a superior quality to that of the average human being; there were new jokes, new tricks, fresh costumes.
As Arithelli rode in she heard her name called, and her state of frozen misery suddenly gave way to a hot thrill of excitement.
Her head went up like a stag, and her nostrils dilated. She inhaled again the familiar warm scent of freshly strewn tan and hay and animals. It had intoxicated her as a child of twelve, when she had been taken to see a travelling circus in Ireland, and it intoxicated her now.
The seats were a packed mass of people, and in the upper places and from the royal box, bright colours flamed, and jewels and restless fans glittered and moved. In honour of the occasion every woman had draped herself in the graceful mantilla, either black or white, and even the poorest wore a scarlet or orange silk-fringed crêpe shawl.
The usual precautions as to detectives and a guard of soldiers had been taken, but the buxom and amiable Infanta was popular among the lower orders, so that no revolutionist outbreak was feared.
Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so. She smiled graciously at Arithelli as horse and rider bowed before her, and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the ledge, threw them into the arena. As the girl looked up and the level unsmiling gaze met hers, the older woman started back.
"Santa Vierge!" she muttered, hastily crossing herself. "She looks in Purgatory already, with those strange eyes!"
CHAPTER X
"The nights that were days, and the days that were nights,
Griefs and glories and vain delights,
With Fame before us in fancy flights,
We mocked each other and cried 'All's well'!"
LOVE IN BOHEMIA.
Of her first act Arithelli had no fear. She knew that she was safe in trusting to the skill and training of her horse to accomplish successfully all the stereotyped movements of the haute école. She had only to sit still and look graceful, and guide him through his paces as he waltzed, turned or knelt. She carried a whip for show, but she had never used it. A word, a caress had always been enough, and she would have been beaten herself rather than touch the beautiful creature that carried her.