markable steadfastness, a loyalty of
friendship, admiration, for his more brilliant companions. Tirso
Labrador was very strong, and it was his boast, when they were alone,
that he intended to choke a Spaniard slowly to death with his naked
hands.

Except, however, for the evening, Charles was rarely idle; upheld by
his fervor he studied Spanish with an instructor through most of the
morning, and rode or fenced in the sala in the afternoon. His
knowledge of Spanish, supplemented by his friends, grew rapidly; he
had, his teacher declared, a very special aptitude for the language.
Domingo Escobar got great delight from throwing sentences, queries, at
him with inconceivable rapidity, and in pretending that every reply
Charles attempted was senseless.

Narcisa, when he was present, contrived to sit with her gaze on her
hands folded in her ruffled lap and to lift her widely opened eyes for
breathless interrogations. She was, Charles was forced to admit,
notably pretty; in fact, for a little girl, she was a beauty. Now if
she had been thirty he might have had a hopeless passion for her,
hopeless not because she failed to return it, but for the reason that
he was a man without a future--some day, they both knew, he would
desert love for stark death.

They went, Charles and Andres, Tirso and Remigio and Jaime, to the
Tacon Theatre for every play, where they occupied a box in the first
row, the primer piso, and lounged, between the acts, on the velvet
rail with their high silk hats and canes and boutonnieres. At times
there were capital troupes of players and dancers from Andalusia, and
the evening was well spent. They liked, too, the zarzuelas, the
operettas of one act, largely improvised with local allusions. But
they most warmly applauded the dancers.

One, La Clavel, from Seville, had been announced by posters all over
the city; and, at the moment she appeared on the Tacon stage, Tirso
had his heavy arm about Remigio's shoulders, Jaime's gloved hands were
draped over his cane, and Charles was sitting in the rear of the box
with Andres. The orchestra began a sharply accented dance measure--it
was a jota--and a lithe figure in a manton of blazing silks and a
raked black felt hat made a sultry bow.

La Clavel was indolent; she tapped a heel and sounded her castanets
experimentally; a reminiscent smile hovered on the sombre beauty of
her face. Suddenly Charles' attention was wholly captured by the
dancer; he leaned forward