To the _bailes_ of New Spain came young and old, rich and poor, peon, Indian, trapper, and the proudest Castilian blood. A long, low room--one of those in the rear of the Governor’s palace, now inhabited by Colonel Viscarra--with whitewashed walls and few windows, warm and crowded on this gala night of the arrival of the caravan. The matrons in their black mantillas sat against the wall on one side of the room; the younger women sat beside them or in chattering clusters in the corners, while the young girls preened, and coquetted across the bare floor at the men and boys lounging and smoking on the other side. The music had not yet begun, but the fiddler and the mandolin-player were tuning up, and the _guitaro_ was being lovingly scraped by the blind musician whose magic would set the feet of the town moving to irresistible accompaniment. Ah, that guitar! deep, full as a ’cello, that could weep, and make lovers set their wedding date on the morrow; that turned the knives of trappers to cutting fringes and posies instead of throats and scalp locks, over cards or a girl. Now, with a tentative last plucking of strings, suddenly it swept full into a valse, rollicking, tender, sensuous. The young men stepped forth on the floor. No introductions were necessary here. It was customary to ask whomsoever one liked. Strangely enough, the formality of Spanish etiquette laid no ban on a dance with a stranger. True, there were those, like Don Anabel Lopez, whose pride would not permit such condescension, especially when it came to Americans. And now came Ceran St. Vrain, with the men of the caravan in his wake, and at his side a tall youth whose face was suspiciously clean shaven, even flecked with blood here and there. He wore a dark suit that caused even Luis Lopez to pause with interest and to regard with envy, though he flecked the ash from his cigarette disdainfully and folded his arms comfortably over his own scarlet-and-gold bolero, settling a crimson sash more snugly about a trim waist. The last of the caravaners entered the hall; they spread out, and in the center appeared a girl. Blonde, Santa Maria but she was blonde! like the white gold of a sacred chalice. And her faded blue dress, over which a white silk fringed shawl was thrown, but made her fairer. The girl took her seat beside an elderly woman who had come in with them, and looked about timidly, almost apprehensively, yet with a certain delight. It was the first dance of any kind that Hope Bragdon had ever seen. She would never have dared suggest going, but her father was occupied, Doren was already sleeping safely, and Mrs. Trenour, the only white woman then in the Villa, had persuaded her to come. “My father will not like it, Mrs. Trenour,” Hope protested, “I have never looked upon dancing, or cards, or any sinfulness. My father does not tolerate it.”