It was Sunday afternoon, and fairly cool, for the almost vertical Venezuelan sun was screened by the drab clouds of a gathering storm. So the womankind of the San Jacinto _hacienda_ were before their low houses, some with men beside them, others alone but gossiping volubly to whomever chanced near. Manuelita bent her pretty head to survey the slipper-like _alpargatas_ Ricardo had just bought her, and the new skirt, bright-figured, and of a length that left the leg bare from dimpled knee to foot. Then, smoothing her little jacket, and putting her wide straw hat at its jauntiest angle, she set off slowly down the narrow, dirty street. At some distance from it was Antonia Toro, slouching, hands on hips, in her own door. When she saw Manuelita advancing, she straightened, and let her bony hands fall, clinched, against her petticoat. Small eyes half closed in hate, frowzy head thrust forward, she began to call out, addressing a neighbour, but aiming her words at her successful rival. “Bah!” she cried, with a laugh. “Look how our parrot’s new feathers stick out!” Manuelita heard, and walked more slowly. Her brown eyes sparkled delightedly, her round chin went up, her red mouth parted in a smile over even, white teeth. “Bah!” snorted Antonia again, and put out her tongue. “Let her strut now. But--ha! ha!--Ricardo is a man that likes change. Who knows?” There was a threat in the hoarse voice. It stung Manuelita. She paused. “When did a man choose a rotten instead of a ripe banana?” she inquired sweetly, and raised her plump shoulders. At that, a laugh ran from hut to hut. Antonia’s wrath grew. “How long does the ripe stay ripe?” she cried. “Ricardo will go. Ha! ha!” Manuelita was proceeding gracefully. Now she stopped once more, turning her full, girlish throat to look round. “Yes,” she answered, “when Rio Tuy flows back to the mountains.” Ricardo came by Antonia’s a little later, just as the last scattered drops of a heavy downpour were falling. He was mud to the waist, muddy of face, and dripping. One hand was busy with a cigarette; from a finger of the other, by their heel straps, hung his _alpargatas_. He had been out since noon, walking across the ditches of the _hacienda_. Again Antonia was slouching in her door. “Loan me your fire, Ricardo?” she asked. He glanced up the street uneasily, then halted and lit the long cigar she was preparing. “Ah, but you are tired,” she went on, with a great show of concern, “and wet to the skin. Come, will you enter? Juan is gone, and for good--_á Dios gracias!_ I never liked him. He was stingy and ugly and old. Come----” “Where is he gone?” asked Ricardo, making no move toward accepting her invitation. “Where?” she repeated, between puffs. “To join the Revolutionists at Rio Chico. He is anxious to fight, he said. _He_ fight!” Ricardo’s pale face widened in a grin.