As Arithelli rode in she heard her name called, and her state of frozen
misery suddenly gave way to a hot thrill of excitement.
Her head went up like a stag, and her nostrils dilated. She inhaled
again the familiar warm scent of freshly strewn tan and hay and
animals. It had intoxicated her as a child of twelve, when she had
been taken to see a travelling circus in Ireland, and it intoxicated
her now.
The seats were a packed mass of people, and in the upper places and
from the royal box, bright colours flamed, and jewels and restless fans
glittered and moved. In honour of the occasion every woman had draped
herself in the graceful mantilla, either black or white, and even the
poorest wore a scarlet or orange silk-fringed _crepe_ shawl.
The usual precautions as to detectives and a guard of soldiers had been
taken, but the buxom and amiable Infanta was popular among the lower
orders, so that no revolutionist outbreak was feared.
Her charities were famous, her diamonds and Paris toilettes equally so.
She smiled graciously at Arithelli as horse and rider bowed before her,
and pulling out a few blossoms from the bouquet that rested on the
ledge, threw them into the arena.
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