ke a panther, upon his enemy.
Andres fell backwards, and, in his fall, burst open the
imperfectly-fastened door of Militona's house, in front of which the
duel occurred. Juancho walked quietly away. The _sereno_, who just then
passed the end of the street, uttered his monotonous cry;--"_Las once y
media, y sereno._"[13]

In an agony of anxiety, Militona had listened from her window to the
noise of this conflict; she would have called for help, but her tongue
clove to her palate, and terror compressed her throat with its iron
fingers. At last, half frantic, and unconscious of what she did, she
staggered downstairs, and reached the door just as it was forced open by
the weight of Andres' inanimate body.

The next morning, soon after day-break, when the torero, in cloak and
slouched hat, walked into the neighbourhood of the Plaza de Lavapies to
hear what was said of the night's events, he learned, to his intense
horror, that Andres, severely but not mortally wounded, had been
conveyed to Militona's room, and placed in her bed, where he now lay,
carefully tended by the manola, of whose humane and charitable conduct
the gossips of the quarter were loud in praise. When Juancho heard this,
his knees shook, and he was forced to support himself against the wall.
His rival in the chamber, and on the bed, of Militona! He could scarcely
refrain from rolling on the ground, and tearing his breast with his
nails. Recovering himself, he entered the house and ascended the stairs
with a heavy and sinister-sounding step. "In her chamber! In her
chamber!" he muttered. And, as he spoke, he instinctively opened and
shut his long Albacete knife. On reaching the top of the stairs, he
knocked violently at the manola's door.

Andres started on his bed of suffering; Militona, who was seated near
him, turned deadly pale, and rose to her feet as if impelled by springs.
Tia Aldonsa looked horribly frightened, and devoutly crossed herself.
The blow was so imperative as to command attention; a repetition of the
summons would have forced the door from its hinges. With trembling hand
Aldonsa opened the wicket, and beheld Juancho's face at the aperture.
Medusa's mask, livid amidst its grim and snaky locks, could hardly have
produced a more terrible effect upon the poor old woman. Speechless and
petrified, she stood with fixed eyeballs, open mouth, and hands
extended. True it was, that the torero's head, seen through the grating,
had no very amiable an