Clouds from the south-west were mounting higher, but the moon still shone brilliantly. Under the trees a lazy guitarist went on strumming his thin, moonlight music, as crisp as hoar-frost and tinkling like icicles. Whenever the pot was flung high, fifty bright eyes saw, up above it, the planets and the stars; but the players were too young and too happy to moralize. In their unstudied attitudes they made up a picture full of rhythmic grace. Four times the pot hurtled its way to José; and four times he caught it before it touched the ground. At the fourth catch, he turned it like lightning to Emilio; and Emilio spun it slowly and gracefully into the hands of Margarida. Margarida paused, clasping the red clay in fingers which were less slender than Rosalina Saldanha's, but whiter. Every eye was fixed upon her. She knew that she ought to toss the bowl to one of her brothers, or to a young woman, or to one of the older men. But an irresistible impulse moved her another way; and, with glowing cheeks and radiant eyes, she sent it curving across the space which separated her from Antonio. Had it dashed like a stone from the catapult-hand of José or flashed like a meteor from the palm of Emilio the monk could have caught the pot. But Margarida's action took him unawares. What was he to do? When the pot was in his hand, how was he to treat her public act of favor? If he should-- His thinking was over in a flash; but it was too late. He plunged at the pot clumsily and missed his catch. The pot struck the hard floor and broke into a hundred pieces. As a rule the smashing of the pot was the signal for a burst of mocking merriment. But instead of a light-hearted uproar there was an awe-struck silence. Everybody seemed to recoil from a sinister omen. Two more pots stood on a log, in readiness for the second and third rounds of the game; but no one stirred a step to fetch them. Antonio's gaze involuntarily followed the general movement and rested on the face of Margarida. The glow was gone from her cheeks, the light from her eyes. Very pale, she turned away. A weak gust of wind rattled two or three dead leaves across the threshing-floor and a few cold drops fell from the darkening sky. "The lamps are lighted in the barn," cried the voice of Senhor Jorge. "Come in, all of you, before the rain." VII Senhor Jorge's lamps were not as bright as full moons. Their smoky flames lit up the vast barn so feebly that candles had to be set at the elbows of the knitters and stitchers and spinners. The spattering of the rain against the dusty windows made a dreariful sound.