"No? Then what else will your worship give me on the day of the fiesta?"
she asked, angrily; "so as not to shame me before all these people."

"There is no shame for thee in getting nothing from thy lover for once."

"True! The shame is your worship's--my poor lover's," she flared up,
sarcastically.

Laughs were heard at her anger, at her retort. What an audacious
spitfire she was! The people aware of this scene were calling out
urgently to others in the crowd. The circle round the silver-grey mare
narrowed slowly.

The girl went off a pace or two, confronting the mocking curiosity of
the eyes, then flung back to the stirrup, tiptoeing, her enraged face
turned up to Nostromo with a pair of blazing eyes. He bent low to her in
the saddle.

"Juan," she hissed, "I could stab thee to the heart!"

The dreaded Capataz de Cargadores, magnificent and carelessly public
in his amours, flung his arm round her neck and kissed her spluttering
lips. A murmur went round.

"A knife!" he demanded at large, holding her firmly by the shoulder.

Twenty blades flashed out together in the circle. A young man in holiday
attire, bounding in, thrust one in Nostromo's hand and bounded back into
the ranks, very proud of himself. Nostromo had not even looked at him.