the bronze! but no! no! Ay! Ay! Ay!" A roar went up that ended in a
shriek. The black had won.

Roldan looked at the priest. His skin was livid, his nostrils twitching.
But his mouth and eyes told nothing.

The crowd rode home, still excited, gay, cheerful. Their losses mattered
not. Were not their acres numbered by the hundred thousand? Did they not
have more horses and cattle than they would ever count? In those days of
pleasure and plenty, of luxury and unconsidered generosity, a rancho, a
caponara the less, meant a loss neither to be felt nor remembered.

After the bountiful supper the guests loitered for a time in the
courtyard, then the sala was cleared and the dance began. Several of the
girls danced alone, while the caballeros clapped and shouted. Then all
waltzed or took part in their only square dance, the contradanza. They
kept it up until morning. Needless to say, our heroes went to bed at an
early hour.

They were up the next morning with the dawn, and in company with Rafael
and the other guests of their own age, went for their canter. This time
they avoided the hills behind the Mission, as they had no wish to share
their secret, and a chance word might divulge all. They rode toward the
hills at the head of the valley. Roldan was still the hero of the hour,
and Rafael, although the most generous of boys, resented it a little. He
was not without ambitions of his own, and determined to seize the first
opportunity to remind his companions that the son of Don Tiburcio
Carillo, the greatest ranchero of that section of the Californias, had
not the habit to occupy the humble position of tag-behind even to so
brilliant and adventurous a guest as Roldan Castanada.