Each performance filled the house as closely as it could
be packed. Then the music-mad people fought for

room in the open doors and windows, and crowded about,
hundreds deep, on the outside. Those audiences formed

a brilliantly diversified patch of colour. The hue of their
faces ranged from the clear olive of the pure-blood Span-

iards down through the yellow and brown shades of the
Mestizos to the coal-black Carib and the Jamaica Negro.

Scattered among them were little groups of Indians with
faces like stone idols, wrapped in gaudy fibre-woven

blankets -- Indians down from the mountain states of
Zamora and Los Andes and Miranda to trade their gold

dust in the coast towns.
The spell cast upon these denizens of the interior

fastnesses was remarkable. They sat in petrified ecstasy,
conspicuous among the excitable Macutians, who wildly

strove with tongue and hand to give evidence of their
delight. Only once did the sombre rapture of these

aboriginals find expression. During the rendition of
"Faust," Guzman Blanco, extravagantly pleased by the

"Jewel Song," cast upon the stage a purse of gold pieces.
Other distinguished citizens followed his lead to the extent

of whatever loose coin they had convenient, while some
of the fair and fashionable se锟給ras were moved, in imita-

tion, to fling a jewel or a ring or two at the feet of the
Marguerite -- who was, according to the bills, Mlle.

Nina Giraud. Then, from different parts of the house
rose sundry of the stolid hillmen and cast upon the stage

little brown and dun bags that fell with soft "thumps"
and did not rebound. It was, no doubt, pleasure at the

tribute to her art that caused Mlle. Giraud's eyes to
shine so rightly" target="_blank" title="ad.明亮地；聪明地">brightly when she opened these little deerskin

bags in her dressing room and found them to contain
pure gold dust. If so, the pleasure was rightly hers, for

her voice in song, pure, strong and thrilling with the feeling
of the emotional artist, deserved the tribute that it earned.

But the triumph of the Alcazar Opera Company is not
the theme -- it but leans upon and colours it. There

happened in Macuto a tragic thing, an unsolvable mystery,
that sobered for a time the gaiety of the happy season.

One evening between the short twilight and the time
when she should have whirled upon the stage in the red

and black of the ardent Carmen, Mlle. Nina Giraud dis-
appeared from the sight and ken of 6,000 pairs of eyes

and as many minds in Macuto. There was the usual
turmoil and hurrying to seek her. Messengers flew to

the little French-kept hotel where she stayed; others of
the company hastened here or there where she might be

lingering in some tienda or unduly prolonging her bath
upon the beach. All search was fruitless. Mademoi-

selle had vanished.
Half an hour passed and she did not appear. The

dictator, unused to the caprices of prime donne, became
impatient. He sent an aide from his box to say to the

manager that if the curtain did not at once rise he would
immediately hale the entire company to the calabosa,

though it would desolate his heart, indeed, to be com-
pelled to such an act. Birds in Macuto could be made

to sing.
The managerabandoned hope for the time of Mlle.

Giraud. A member of the chorus, who had dreamed
hopelessly for years of the blessed opportunity, quickly

Carmenized herself and the opera went on.
Afterward, when the lost cantatrice appeared not, the

aid of the authorities was invoked. The President at
once set the army, the police and all citizens to the search.

Not one clue to Mlle. Giraud's disappearance was found.
The Alcazar left to fill engagements farther down the

coast.
On the way back the steamer stopped at Macuto and

the manager made anxiousinquiry. Not a trace of the
lady had been discovered. The Alcazar could do no

more. The personal belongings of the missing lady were
stored in the hotel against her possible later reappearance

and the opera company continued upon its homeward
voyage to New Orleans.

On the camino real along the beach the two saddle
mules and the four pack mules of Don Se锟給r Johnny

Armstrong stood, patiently awaiting the crack of the whip
of the arriero, Luis. That would be the signal for the

start on another long journey into the mountains. The
pack mules were loaded with a variedassortment of hard-

ware and cutlery. These articles Don Johnny traded to
the interior Indians for the gold dust that they washed

from the Andean streams and stored in quills and bags
against his coming. It was a profitable business, and

Se锟給r Armstrong expected soon to be able to purchase
the coffee plantation that he coveted.

Armstrong stood on the narrow sidewalk, exchanging
garbled Spanish with old Peralto, the rich native merchant

who had just charged him four prices for half a gross of
pot-metal hatchets, and abridged English with Rucker,

the little German who was Consul for the United States.
"Take with you, se锟給r," said Peralto, "the blessings

of the saints upon your journey."
"Better try quinine," growled Rucker through his pipe.

"Take two grains every night. And don't make your
trip too long, Johnny, because we haf needs of you. It is

ein villainous game dot Melville play of whist, and dere
is no oder substitute. Auf wiedersehen, und keep your

eyes dot mule's ears between when you on der edge of
der brecipices ride."

The bells of Luis's mule jingled and the pack train
filed after the warning note. Armstrong, waved a good-

bye and took his place at the tail of the procession. Up
the narrow street they turned, and passed the two-story

wooden Hotel Ingles, where Ives and Dawson and Rich-
ards and the rest of the chaps were dawdling on the broad

piazza, reading week-old newspapers. They crowded to
the railing and shouted many friendly and wise and foolish

farewells after him. Across the plaza they trotted slowly
past the bronzestatue of Guzman Blanco, within its fence

of bayoneted rifles captured from revolutionists, and out
of the town between the rows of thatched huts swarming

with the unclothed youth of Macuto. They plunged
into the damp coolness of banana groves at length to

emerge upon a bright stream, where brown women in
scant raiment laundered clothes destructively upon the

rocks. Then the pack train, fording the stream, attacked
the sudden ascent, and bade adieu to such civilization as

the coast afforded.
For weeks Armstrong, guided by Luis, followed his

regular route among the mountains. After he had col-
lected an arroba of the precious metal, winning a profit

of nearly $5,000, the heads of the lightened mules were
turned down-trail again. Where the head of the Guarico

River springs from a great gash in the mountain-side,
Luis halted the train.