On
the highest part of the mountain they lit up a bonfire, according to
an old custom of the country handed down from the Moors. The
inhabitants of the surrounding country were keeping a similar vigil,
and bonfires, here and there in the Vega, and along the folds of the
mountains, blazed up palely in the moonlight.
The evening was gayly passed in dancing to the guitar of Lope
Sanchez, who was never so joyous as when on a holiday revel of the
kind. While the dance was going on, the little Sanchica with some of
her playmates sported among the ruins of an old Moorish fort that
crowns the mountain, when, in gathering pebbles in the fosse, she
found a small hand curiously carved of jet, the fingers closed, and
the thumb firmly clasped upon them. Overjoyed with her good fortune,
she ran to her mother with her prize. It immediately became a
subject of sage speculation, and was eyed by some with superstitious
distrust. "Throw it away," said one; "it's Moorish- depend upon it,
there's mischief and witchcraft in it." "By no means," said another;
"you may sell it for something to the jewellers of the Zacatin."
In the midst of this discussion an old tawny soldier drew near,
who had served in Africa, and was as swarthy as a Moor. He examined
the hand with a knowing look. "I have seen things of this kind,"
said he, "among the Moors of Barbary. It is a great virtue to guard
against the evil eye, and all kinds of spells and enchantments.
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