Then came
the _volante_, and with heartfelt thanks and regrets we suffered it to
take us away.
And who had been the real hero of this day? Who but Roque, fresh from
town, with his experience of Carnival, and his own accounts of the
masked ball, the Paseo, and the Senorita's beaux? All that durst
followed him to the gate, and kissed hands after him. _"Adios, Roque!
Roque, adios!"_ resounded on all sides; and Roque, the mysterious one,
actually smiled in conscious superiority, as he nodded farewell, and
galloped off, dragging us after him.
As we drove back to Matanzas in the moonlight, a sound of horses' feet
made us aware that Don Antonito, the young friend who had planned and
accompanied our day's excursion, was to be our guard of honor on the
lonely road. A body-servant accompanied him, likewise mounted. Don
Antonito rode a milk-white Cuban pony, whose gait was soft, swift, and
stealthy as that of a phantom horse. His master might have carried a
brimming glass in either hand, without spilling a drop, or might have
played chess, or written love-letters on his back, so smoothly did he
tread the rough, stony road. All its pits and crags and jags, the pony
made them all a straight line for his rider, whose unstirred figure and
even speech made this quite discernible.
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