ficant youth (I was no more), surge up
suddenly in his path. He turned where he stood at last, and contemplated
me with a sort of thoughtful surprise, as though he had tried to account
to himself for my existence.

"No," he said, to himself really, "I wonder when I look at you. How did
you manage to get that pretty reputation over there? Ramon's a fool. He
shall know it to his cost. But the craftiness of that Carlos! Or is it
only my confounded willingness to believe?"

He was putting his finger nearly on the very spot. I said nothing.

"Why," he exclaimed, "when it's all boiled down, you are only an English
beggar boy."

"I've come to a man's estate since we met last," I said meaningly.

He seemed to meditate over this. His face never changed, except,
perhaps, to an even more amused benignity of expression.

"You have lived very fast by that account," he remarked artlessly.
"Is it possible now? Well, life, as you know, can't last forever; and,
indeed, taking a better look at you in this poor light, you do seem to
be very near death."

I did not flinch; and, with a very dry mouth, I uttered defiantly:

"Such talk means nothing."

"Bravely said. But this is not talk. You've gone too fast. I am giving
you a chance to turn back."

"Not an inch," I said fiercely. "Neither in thought, in deed; not even
in semblance."

He seemed as though he wanted to swallow a bone in his throat.

"Believe me, there is more in life than you think. There is at your age,
more than..." he had a strange contortion of the body, as though in a
sudden access of internal pain; that humorous smile, that abode in the
form of his lips, changed into a ghastly, forced grin... "than one love
in a life--more than one woman."

I believe he tried to leer at me, because his voice was absolutely dying
in his throat. My indignation was boundless. I cried out with the fire
of deathless conviction:

"It is not true. You know it is not true."

He was speechless for a time; then, shaking and stammering with that
inward rage that seemed to heave like molten lava in his breast, without
ever coming to the surface of his face:

"What! Is it I, then, who have to go back? For--for you---a boy--come
from devil knows where--an English, beggarly.... For a girl's whim....
I--a man."

He calmed down. "No; you are mad. You are dreaming. You don't know. You
can't--you! You don't know what a man is; you with your calf-love a day
old. How dare you look at me