A huge bonfire was throwing its flames up towards the sky and there was the gay throbbing melody of several guitars and concertinas and with them the curious rhythm of the cabaca, only beans rattling in a gourd, but wielded with a skill that made exciting harmony of every movement.

They walked towards the flames and as they grew nearer Skye saw that a great crowd of people was sitting round the fire. It lit their faces – white, bronze and black, giving a strange impression of glinting eyes and flashing teeth and of a people ecstatically happy.

They had evidently already eaten for the bones of the bullock, which had been cooked in its hide over a wood fire, still swung above the red ashes. The wine was passing from hand to hand and it was obvious that the entertainments of the evening were now to begin, for people were being pushed back further from the fire, leaving a big sandy space in front of them.

Two chairs had been set facing the improvised stage and covered with Indian blankets. They looked like thrones and, as she and El Diablo walked towards them, Skye had a sudden desire to laugh.

There was no doubt that his people looked on him, as Neengai had said, as a great Chief and she was his squaw.

On their arrival there was a great murmur of approval and pleasure as if the people had been waiting for this moment and it was clear that El Diablo’s presence was the signal for the entertainment to begin.

Boys threw some more wood on the fire, the flames leapt higher and there was colour everywhere. For now Skye could see that everyone was wearing their best. The Indian women’s wide skirts over voluminous petticoats were trimmed with gold and tinsel with ribbons and embroidery.

Many of the gauchos were wearing the loose flowing white bombachas with wide pleated seams known as brasileños and their boots were of soft brown calf hide. They wore leather belts with massive silver buckles round their waists and their short capes were every colour of the rainbow – yellow, purple, blue, green, orange and, of course, in every known shade of red from the dark rich ruby, which came from a small crocus-like plant to the vivid pink of the flamingo’s breast.

“Danza! Danza!” the crowd began to cry, beating their hands together.

And, before Skye had time to absorb more, an Indian sprang into the centre of the cleared space and started to dance.

There was music such as Skye had never heard before, strange wailing notes that seemed in their weirdness exactly what was needed for the strange pattern of the dance steps, advancing and retreating, the body turning and twisting like some wild animal and yet seeming to tell a story in every gesture and every movement.