heerful modulations. By and by there was a slow rippling laugh from
Isabel, and the Senora's face lost its air of dismal distraction.

At length Navarro had brought his narrative of small events down to
the afternoon of that day. There had been a bull-fight, and Isabel was
making him describe to her the chulos, in their pale satin breeches
and silk waist-scarfs; the toreros in their scarlet mantles, and the
picadores on their horses.

"And I assure you," he said, "the company of ladies was very great and
splendid. They were in full dress, and the golden-pinned mantillas and
the sea of waving fans were a sight indeed. Oh, the fans alone! So many
colors; great crescents, growing and waning with far more enchantments
than the moons. Their rustle and movement has a wonderful charm,
Senorita Isabel; no one can imagine it.

"Oh, I assure you, Senor, I can see and feel it. But to be there! That,
indeed, would make me perfectly happy."

"Had you been there to-day you would have admired, above all things,
the feat of the matadore Jarocho. It was upon the great bull Sandoval--a
very monster, I assure you. He came bellowing at Jarocho, as if he meant
his instant death. His eyeballs were living fire; his nostrils steamed
with fury; well, then, at the precise moment, Jarocho put his slippered
feet between his horns, and vaulted, light as a bird flies, over his
back. Then Sandoval turned to him again. Well, he calmly waited for his
approach, and his long sword met him between the horns. As lightly as
a lady touches her cavalier, he seemed to touch Sandoval; but the brute
fell like a stone at his feet. What a storm of vivas! What clapping of
hands and shouts of 'valiente!' And the ladies flung their flowers, and
the men flung their hats into the arena, and Jarocho stepped proudly
enough on them, I can tell you, though he was watching the door for the
next bull."

"Ah, Senor, why will men fight each other, when it is so much more grand
and interesting to fight bulls?"

"Senorita Isabel, if you could only convince them of that! But then, it
is not always interesting to the matadore; for instance, it is only by
the mercy of God and the skill of an Americano that Jarocho is at this
moment out of purgatory."

The Senora raised herself from among the satin pillows of her sofa,
and asked, excitedly; "Was there then some accident, Senor? Is Jarocho
wounded? Poor Jarocho!"

"Not a hair of his head is hurt, Senora. I will tell you. Sai