The hand on the mare’s neck trembled suddenly. She dropped her head before all the eyes in the wide circle formed round the generous, the terrible, the inconstant Capataz de Cargadores, and his Morenita. Nostromo, looking down, saw tears beginning to fall down her face. “Has it come, then, ever beloved of my heart?” she whispered. “Is it true?” “No,” said Nostromo, looking away carelessly. “It was a lie. I love thee as much as ever.” “Is that true?” she cooed, joyously, her cheeks still wet with tears. “It is true.” “True on the life?” “As true as that; but thou must not ask me to swear it on the Madonna that stands in thy room.” And the Capataz laughed a little in response to the grins of the crowd. She pouted--very pretty--a little uneasy. “No, I will not ask for that. I can see love in your eyes.” She laid her hand on his knee. “Why are you trembling like this? From love?” she continued, while the cavernous thundering of the gombo went on without a pause. “But if you love her as much as that, you must give your Paquita a gold-mounted rosary of beads for the neck of her Madonna.” “No,” said Nostromo, looking into her uplifted, begging eyes, which suddenly turned stony with surprise. “No? Then what else will your worship give me on the day of the fiesta?” she asked, angrily; “so as not to shame me before all these people.” “There is no shame for thee in getting nothing from thy lover for once.” “True! The shame is your worship’s--my poor lover’s,” she flared up, sarcastically. Laughs were heard at her anger, at her retort. What an audacious spitfire she was! The people aware of this scene were calling out urgently to others in the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare narrowed slowly. The girl went off a pace or two, confronting the mocking curiosity of the eyes, then flung back to the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged face turned up to Nostromo with a pair of blazing eyes. He bent low to her in the saddle. “Juan,” she hissed, “I could stab thee to the heart!” The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public in his amours, flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering lips. A murmur went round. “A knife!” he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder. Twenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday attire, bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo’s hand and bounded back into the ranks, very proud of himself. Nostromo had not even looked at him. “Stand on my foot,” he commanded the girl, who, suddenly subdued, rose lightly, and when he had her up, encircling her waist, her face near to his, he pressed the knife into her little hand. “No, Morenita! You shall not put me to shame,” he said. “You shall have your present; and so that everyone should know who is your lover to-day, you may cut all the silver buttons off my coat.”