baric; it was, I fear, vulgar. As I remembered it--as he
sang it--it recounted the adventures of one Don Francisco, a provincial
gallant and roisterer of the most objectionable type. It had one hundred
and four verses, which Enriquez never spared me. I shuddered as in a
pleasant, quiet voice the correct Miss Mannersley warbled in musical
praise of the PELLEJO, or wineskin, and a eulogy of the dicebox came
caressingly from her thin red lips. But the company was far differently
affected: the strange, wild air and wilder accompaniment were evidently
catching; people moved toward the piano; somebody whistled the air from
a distant corner; even the faces of the geologist and doctor brightened.

"A tarantella, I presume?" blandly suggested the doctor.

Miss Mannersley stopped, and rose carelessly from the piano. "It is a
Moorish gypsy song of the fifteenth century," she said dryly.

"It seemed sorter familiar, too," hesitated one of the young men,
timidly, "like as if--don't you know?--you had without knowing it, don't
you know?"--he blushed slightly--"sorter picked it up somewhere."

"I 'picked it up,' as you call it, in the collection of medieval
manuscripts of the Harvard Library, and copied it," returned Miss
Mannersley coldly as she turned away.

But I was not inclined to let her off so easily. I presently made my way
to her side. "Your uncle was complimentary enough to consult me as to
the meaning of the appearance of a certain exuberant Spanish visitor
at his house the other night." I looked into her brown eyes, but my
own slipped off her velvety pupils without retaining anything. Then she
reinforced her gaze with a pince-nez, and said carelessly:

"Oh, it's you? How are you? Well, could you give him any information?"

"Only generally," I returned, still looking into her eyes. "These people
are impulsive. The Spanish blood is a mixture of gold and quicksilver."

She smiled slightly. "That reminds me of your volatile friend. He was
mercurial enough, certainly. Is he still dancing?"

"And singing sometimes," I responded pointedly. But she only added
casually, "A singular creature," without exhibiting the least
consciousness, and drifted away, leaving me none the wiser. I felt that
Enriquez alone could enlighten me. I must see him.

I did, but not in the way I expected. There was a bullfight at San
Antonio the next Saturday afternoon, the usual Sunday performance being
changed in deference to the Sabbatical habit