how to have larger and more angular proportions than the delicate ones one expects to find in a girl. Her hips, for instance, were larger than necessary. Some of our athletic girls these days look that way, at times.
Even so, I am not sure that I am not permitting ensuing experiences to superimpose later impressions on that first impression. After all, I was only a lad at the time, just out of college and not yet twenty.
As she ordered her wine, her voice sounded melodious, but throaty, with a curious huskiness.
I'll admit she interested me and I could hardly keep my eyes off her. The rest felt the same way, so they told me later. In fact, almost everyone in the patio seemed to feel like that.
She drank silently, her brilliant eyes darting hither and thither. Then the music struck up, and with a sudden jerk she arose and swept into a dance in the center of the court. It was one of those rapid Castilian melodies, which later changed into a slower movement.
This girl danced with marvelous grace, doing the intricate steps with the assurance of long practise. She seemed to vibrate life. Then as the music took up the slower air, she changed. She twisted and turned, and swayed and shook. Her gestures seemed to beckon, her body seemed on fire with life.
From somewhere I caught the remark, "It is the fair Bonita."
Of course that meant nothing to me. What got me was her dancing. I had seen some pretty passionate stuff in those hot-blooded countries. But this was more than passion, it was invitation.
Bonita stopped with a final whirl. At once there was a torrent of applause in which we joined, calls for more, and offers of drink. Someone reached over to seize her arm. And again I was startled. With a quick move she thrust the hand aside. But the force of that blow was sufficient to hurl the man clear to the wall, breaking down intervening tables and chairs.
Around us the people spoke. "Bonita is very strong. She is stronger than a man," they murmured.
Surely strange, I thought. Beyond a momentary angry flash in her eyes Bonita gave no further sign of displeasure. She smiled and nodded to the people. Then she caught sight of us—evident strangers in that village.
Her eyes widened, then grew small with sudden resolution.
She came toward us with a feline swagger, the mantilla draped over her shoulder, hands on her swaying hips, eyes flashing, and lips curled in a fascinating smile. She moved slowly, each step an alluring swagger, till she reached our table and stopped before Don Ramon.
There she fastened her eyes on him, and he seemed to be held as if hypnotized. They stared at each other, Bonita with her head tilted invitingly, Don Ramon apparently irresolute. Not a word was spoken between them. But Don Ramon began to flush a slow red; he got up, muttered an excuse to us, and left with the girl.
"So Don Ramon likes women, too," Darrell remarked cynically.
"This woman, this Bonita," said Arnheimer, "where does she come from?"
We inquired, and someone said. "She lives in a cottage on a small farm at the edge of the forest, a little. way above the Peninsula del Circule, opposite the rapids of the Brazo Occidental."
"Where the demon is?" Darrell asked.
The man looked startled. "By the wounds of Christ, Señor, do not mention that! We are all of us afraid of it, of that thing, whatever it may be.
