CHAPTER XI.
FAILURE.
Lucius was dizzy from want of sleep when he left the mansion of the Aguileras and went forth into the fresh morning air. But he had no time for repose. He could but partake of a simple breakfast at his lodging before beginning the week's work in the Calle San Francisco. Lepine's presence in the counting-house and factory was now more indispensable than usual, as he would, at least till a substitute could be found for Alcala, have to do the young Spaniard's work in addition to his own.
The mind of Lucius Lepine was very full of his friend. What he had seen of the interior of the fine old house in the Calle de San José had made Lucius sure of what he had long suspected, that Alcala de Aguilera, though of high lineage and aristocratic bearing, was yet exceedingly poor. Lucius doubted that the wounded man's family would be able to procure for him even the common comforts which his exhausted state required. Never had Lepine been more tempted to wish himself rich. He could give no further pecuniary help; he had cut down already to a very narrow limit his own personal expenses; his savings had been lately forwarded to England to pay for a brother's schooling. Lucius saw no way of supplying the need of Alcala, unless he could interest his employer in the behalf of his friend. Mr. Passmore had a well-filled purse, his business profits were large, and the disbursement of twenty, thirty, or fifty doubloons would not alter his style of living, or cause the absence of one dainty from his luxurious table.
But Peter Passmore was not a man from whom it was pleasant to ask a favour, or easy to draw a donation. Lucius, when he made up his mind to plead for assistance for Alcala, was doing for his friend a thing which nothing short of starvation would have induced him to do for himself.
Lepine had been for two hours in the counting-house before he heard the heavy step and puffing breathing of Mr. Passmore.
"So your friend, the picador, was yesterday carried home dead," was the first sentence with which the master of the iron-works greeted his clerk.
"Not dead, sir, I am thankful to say, but gored and sorely injured," was the reply.
"How he escaped with life is a miracle," said the manufacturer; "but of course the chulos went to his help. It was indeed a sight to make one hold one's breath! The bull, a magnificent brute, rushed on with the force of a steam-engine. The horse received the goring thrust full in his chest, so was put at once out of pain, more lucky than the wretched hacks usually are. Of all barbarous sports invented by man or by demon, bull-fighting is to my mind the most atrocious."