"Hooraw for you! Come along! Let's licker fust! You're the gal for my beaver. What'll yer drink? Agwardent or vino?" "Copitita de vino, senor." (A small glass of wine, sir.) "Hyar, yer darned greaser! Set out yer vino in a squ'll's jump! Now, my little un', hyar's luck, and a good husband!" "Gracias, Senor Americano!" "What! you understand that? You intende, do yer?" "Si, senor!" "Hooraw, then! Look hyar, little 'un, kin yer go the b'ar dance?" "No entiende." "Yer don't understan' it! Hyar it is; thisa-way;" and the clumsy hunter began to show off before his partner, in an imitation of the grizzly bear. "Hollo, Bill!" cries a comrade, "yer'll be trapped if yer don't look sharp." "I'm dog-gone, Jim, if I don't feel queery about hyar," replies the hunter, spreading his great paw over the region of the heart. "Don't be skeert, man; it's a nice gal, anyways." "Hooray for old Missouri!" shouts a teamster. "Come, boys! Let's show these yer greasers a Virginny break-down. `Cl'ar the kitchen, old folks, young folks.'" "Go it hoe and toe! `Old Virginny nebir tire!'" "Viva el Gobernador! Viva Armijo! Viva! viva!" An arrival at this moment caused a sensation in the room. A stout, fat, priest-like man entered, accompanied by several others, it was the Governor and his suite, with a number of well-dressed citizens, who were no doubt the elite of New Mexican society. Some of the new-comers were militaires, dressed in gaudy and foolish-looking uniforms that were soon seen spinning round the room in the mazes of the waltz. "Where is the Senora Armijo?" I whispered to Saint Vrain. "I told you as much. She! she won't be out. Stay here; I am going for a short while. Help yourself to a partner, and see some tun. I will be back presently. _Au revoir_!" Without any further explanation, Saint Vrain squeezed himself through the crowd and disappeared.