sat down upon the second chair. Militona stood at the window,
pulling a flower to pieces; the old woman fanned herself more rapidly
than ever: an awkward silence reigned in the apartment. Aldonsa was the
first to break it.

"Does your arm hurt you, Juancho?"

"No," replied the bull-fighter, fixing his deep gaze upon Militona.

"You should bandage it, and apply salt and water," said the old woman,
determined not to let the conversation drop.

Juancho made no reply, but addressed himself to Militona.

"Who was the young man who sat beside you at the bull-fight?"

"I do not know him. I never saw him before."

"But you would like to know him?"

"The supposition is polite. Well, and what if I should?"

"I would kill him, the dainty gentleman in polished boots and white
gloves."

"You talk like a madman, Juancho. What right have I given you to be
jealous of me? You love me, you say--is that my fault? Am I obliged to
adore you, because you have taken it into your head to find me pretty?"

"True enough," interposed the old woman, "she is not obliged.
Nevertheless, you would make a handsome couple. Prettier hand never
rested on more vigorous arm; and if you danced a cachuca together at the
garden of the Delicias, people would stand on the chairs to look at
you."

"Have I played the coquet with you, Juancho? Have I sought, by word, or
look, or smile, to engage your affections?"

"No," replied the torero in a gloomy voice.

"I never promised you any thing, or gave you any hope: I always bade you
forget me. Why torment and offend me by your unjustifiable violence? You
crippled poor Luca, an honest fellow, who amused me and made me laugh,
and you wounded your friend Gines almost to death, because he happened
to touch my hand. Do you think such conduct advances you in my good
opinion? And to-day at the circus you behaved absurdly; whilst watching
me, you let the bull come upon you, and gave a miserable thrust."

"But I love you, Militona!" exclaimed the bull-fighter passionately. "I
love you with all my heart and soul; I see but you in the world, and a
bull's horn entering my breast would not make me turn my head when you
smile upon another man. True, my manners are not gentle, for I have
passed my life in contests with savage beasts, in slaying and exposing
myself to be slain. I cannot be soft and simpering like those delicate
young gentlemen who pass their time in reading the papers and having
their hair curled! B