Now the murmur rises to a shout of devout acclaim: the Queen of the festive night, Our Lady, passes on.
Thus, through every street, winds the brilliant procession under the lighted arches, returning finally to the village-court, whence it started. Here the priest pronounces a benediction, and with a clash of triumphant music the participants are dismissed.
The Entertainment at Home.
Again we accompany our host back to his hospitable mansion, where a generous meal has been prepared for us. We partake heartily of the good things: roast-pig, chicken, many kinds of native fruits, and rice. At the close, cigarettes are passed round,—both men and women smoking,—and we soon enter into conversation while the newer arrivals are being served.
It is our host’s grand reception night. A hundred guests have partaken of his bounty, and the veranda and the sitting-room are crowded with friends and neighbors,—invited and uninvited; all are equally welcome. Cigars and cigarettes are passed round, and now the fun begins. A girl—a wonderfully sweet and pretty creature—with glowing black eyes and long, loose black hair—advances to the centre of the room, and croons a low, plaintive air, reminiscent of unrequited love. She accompanies her music with a weird dance, impressive through its very simplicity. Gradually her tones grow louder and her movements quicker, signifying all the varying degrees of advance and refusal. Her supple body glides into a thousand graceful curves, each eloquent of beauty. Her pale olive face becomes mantled with a rich crimson tide as she lashes herself into a fury of passion. She feigns anger, and, stamping her pretty feet, now in petulant disdain, now in a paroxysm of wrath, stands the incarnation of beautiful rage. It is a picture full of tragic power, of deep significance.
Square of Cervantes: Fashionable Quarter of Manila.
She is approaching the climax of her passion. Her voice is sharp and shrill as it trembles with scorn or defiance. Forward and backward her body sways with a rhythmic swing that compels the attention of every beholder. Many, in fact, accompany her every motion with the sympathetic movement of unconscious imitation: their faces mirror the feelings of the dancer.
And now a note of triumph rings out, and the singer’s face glows with an expression of ecstasy; while, bounding forward, her splendid hair trailing its waves of ebony, she seems transformed,—the apotheosis of joy. Then slowly decreasing in volume, her voice sinks to a low whisper of serene content, and, blushing modestly at the applause, she retires to give place to others.