" This black hair parted in the middle, lay close
to her head--such a wealth and torrent of it; even with tucking it
behind her ears and gathering it in a coil in her neck it seemed
just ready to fall. The face was oval, the nose perfect, the mouth
never still for an instant, so full was it of curves and twinkles
and little quivers; the eyes big, absorbing, restful, with lazy
lids that lifted slowly and lay motionless as the wings of a
resting butterfly, the eyebrows full and exquisitely arched. Had
you met her in mantilla and high-heeled shoes, her fan half
shading her face, you would have declared, despite Miss Felicia's
protest, that only the click of the castanets was needed to send
her whirling to their rhythm. Had she tied that same mantilla
close under her lovely chin, and passed you with upturned eyes and
trembling lips, you would have sworn that the Madonna from the
neighboring church had strayed from its frame in search of the
helpless and the unhappy; and had none of these disguises been
hers, and she had flashed by you in the open some bright morning
mounted on her own black mare, face aglow, eyes like stars, her
wonderful hair waving in the wind, you would have stood stock-
still in admiration, fear gripping your throat, a prayer in your
heart for the safe home-coming of one so fearless and so
beautiful.
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