The Indian was followed by another dancer. There was no need for the guitars and concertina to begin a Spanish tune to know his origin. The olive skin, the deep-fringed eyes and thick lips were as characteristic as the grace of his body and the slim strength of his hips.

He was a handsome young man and undoubtedly proud of his appearance, for his suit was of spotless black cloth, the tight braided trousers widening from the knee. He wore a wide red fada and his short bolero swung high above his narrow waist.

Then, as he waited, his partner swept onto the soft floor to meet him. Her full many-tiered skirts raised a little cloud of dust as she moved and the flames rising high from the fire showed the warm voluptuousness of her heavy-lidded eyes and the sensuality of her generously curved body.

They began to dance, the ageless story of a man’s pursuit of woman told in the terms of the dance.

The Fandango began slowly and tenderly, the rhythm marked by the click of castanets, the snapping of fingers and the stamping of feet, then the speed gradually increased.

The dancers teased, entreated and pursued each other until their subtle swaying began to fill the spectators with ecstasy and the strange throbbing notes of the music were curiously intoxicating.

There was the rustle of silk, the sparkle of dark eyes flashing, dropping, flashing up again, until quivering with passion the dance came to an end on a note of exaltation.

“That was wonderful!” Skye cried aloud, the breath coming quickly through her parted lips.

El Diablo smiled as the Fandango had done what it was intended to do.

Skye no longer asked him for explanations or for facts and figures. She was feeling that she was living and she was one with the people and their fiesta.

And now, as dancer succeeded dancer, the music grew wilder and not only Skye but the whole audience was lost to everything but their own emotions.

Wine was passing continuously from hand to hand, but there was a magic in the air that seemed to come from the twinkling stars above and from the warm red earth beneath. There was something passionate and primitive and spiritual and lovely in it, all rolled into one.

The dancers were whirling, twisting, bending, a pattern of movement against the gold and scarlet of the flames. The colours of their costumes and the colours of those who watched seemed to become intermingled. It was an unforgettable picture, a picture that Skye seemed to feel with her heart rather than see with her eyes.

The music with its low thrumming and deep underlying rhythm was awakening a response in her that her blood responded to.