"True, my father, but look at the muscles of the little bronze. How they
swell! And the fire in the nostrils!"

"True, Don Jaime; and if she wins, the skins are yours."

As the horses darted down the track almost neck to neck, the excitement
routed Spanish dignity. The dons stood up in their saddles, shouting and
betting furiously. The women clapped their white idle hands, and
cheered, and bet--but with less recklessness: a small jewel or a second-
best mantilla. As they could not remember what they had bet when the
excitement was over, these debts were never paid; but it pleased them
mightily to make their little wagers. The men were betting ranchitas,
horses, cattle, and, finally, their jewels and saddles and serapes. For
each horse represented a different district of the Department, and there
was much rivalry.

The priest did not shout, and he made no more bets, but his eyes never
left those figures speeding like arrows from the bow, the riders
motionless as if but the effigies of men strapped to the creatures of
fire beneath. Sometimes the black gained then the little bronze; once
the white dashed a full three yards beyond his fellows, and Roldan saw
the great hands of the priest, which had been clinched against his
shoulders, open spasmodically, then close harder than ever as the white
quickly dropped back again.

It was a very close race. The excitement grew tense and painful. Even
Roldan felt it finally, and forgot the priest. The big bronze had quite
dropped out of it and was lagging homeward, hardly greeted by a hiss.
The others were almost neck and neck, the little bronze slightly in the
lead. "She wins," thought Roldan, "No! No! The black! the black! Ay, no,