The Blood of the Conquerors | Page 9

bodies in time to
the tune. The old and the fat danced with pathetic joyful earnestness,
going round and round the hall with red and perspiring faces, as though
in this measure they might recapture youth and slimness if only they
worked hard enough. Now and then a girl sang a snatch of the tune in a
clear young voice, full of abandon, and sometimes others took up the
song and it rose triumphant above the music of the orchestra for a
moment, only to be lost again as the singers danced apart.
Ramon had been looking forward so long and with such intense
anticipation to his dance with Julia Roth that he was a little
self-conscious at its beginning, but this feeling was abolished by the
discovery that they could dance together perfectly. He danced in silence,
looking down upon her yellow head and white shoulders, the odour of
her hair filling his nostrils, forgetful of everything but the sensuous
delight of the moment.
This mood of solemn rapture was evidently not shared by her, for
presently the yellow head was thrown back, and she smiled up at him a

bit mockingly.
"Just like on the train," she remarked. "Not a thing to say for yourself.
Are you always thus silent?"
Ramon grinned.
"No," he countered, "I was just trying to get up the nerve to ask if you'll
let me come to see you."
"That doesn't take much nerve," she assured him. "Practically every
man I've danced with tonight has asked me that. I never had so many
dates before in my life."
"Well; may I follow the crowd, then?"
"You may," she laughed. "Or call me up first, and maybe there won't be
any crowd."
CHAPTER V
His mother and sister had left early, for which fact he was thankful. He
walked home alone with his hat in his hand, letting the cold wind of
early morning blow on his hot brow. Punch and music and dancing had
filled him with a delightful excitement. He felt glad of life and full of
power. He could have gone on walking for hours, enjoying the rhythm
of his stride and the gorgeous confusion of his thoughts, but in a
remarkably short time he had covered the mile to his house in Old
Town.
It was a long, low adobe with a paintless and rickety wooden verandah
along its front, and with deep-set, iron-barred windows looking upon
the square about which Old Town was built. Delcasars had lived in this
house for over a century. Once it had been the best in town. Now it was
an antiquity pointed out to tourists. Most of the Mexicans who had
money had moved away from Old Town and built modern brick houses
in New Town. But this was an expensive proceeding. The old adobe
houses which they left brought them little. The Delcasars had never

been able to afford this removal. They were deeply attached to the old
house and also deeply ashamed of it.
Ramon passed through a narrow hallway into a courtyard and across it
to his room. The light of the oil lamp which he lit showed a large
oblong chamber with a low ceiling supported by heavy timbers,
whitewashed walls and heavy old-fashioned walnut furniture. A large
coloured print of Mary and the Babe in a gilt frame hung over the
wash-stand, and next to it a college pennant was tacked over a
photograph of his graduating class. Several Navajo blankets covered
most of the floor and a couple of guns stood in a corner.
When he was in bed his overstimulated state of mind became a torment.
He rolled and tossed, beset by exciting images and ideas. Every time
that a growing confusion of these indicated the approach of sleep, he
was brought sharply back to full consciousness by the crowing of a
rooster in the backyard. Finally he threw off the covers and sat up,
cursing the rooster in two languages and resolving to eat him.
Sleep was out of the question now. Suddenly he remembered that this
was Sunday morning, and that he had intended going to the mountains.
To start at once would enable him to avoid an argument with his
mother concerning the inevitability of damnation for those who miss
early Mass. He rose and dressed himself, putting on a cotton shirt, a
faded and dirty pair of overalls and coarse leather riding boots; tied a
red and white bandana about his neck and stuck on his head an old felt
hat minus a band and with a drooping brim. So attired he looked
exactly like a Mexican countryman--a poor ranchero or a woodcutter.
This masquerade was not intentional nor was he conscious of it. He
simply wore for his holiday the kind of clothes