After the Malaga singer had finished, a gipsy youth with a chocolate
complexion got up and executed a tango and a negro dance; he twisted
himself in and out, thrust his abdomen forward and his arms back. He
wound up with effeminate undulations of his hips and a most
complicated intertwining of arms and legs.
"That's what you call art!" commended! the horse-dealer.
"See here, I'm going," grumbled Manuel.
"Wait a minute; we'll have another drink."
"No. I'm going."
"All right; let's come. Too bad!"
At that moment a corpulent singer with a powerful neck, and the
cross-eyed guitarist with the assassin's face, came forward to the
public, and while the one strummed the guitar, suddenly muting the
strings by placing his hands over them, the other, his face flushed,
the veins of his neck standing out tensely, and his eyes bulging from
their sockets, poured forth a guttural wail that was doubtless of most
difficult execution, for it reddened him to the very forehead.
CHAPTER VIII
Leandro's Irresolution--In Blasa's Tavern--The Man With The Three
Cards--The Duel With Valencia.
Some nights Manuel would hear Leandro tossing about in his bed and
heaving sighs as deep as a bull's roar.
"Things are going rotten with him," thought Manuel.
The break between Milagros and Leandro was definitive.
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