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. Saint Jago, who followed Sandoval, was a little devil. He was light and quick, and had intelligence. You could see by the gleam in his eyes that he took in the whole scene, and considered not only the people in the ring, but the people in the amphitheatre also, to be his tormentors. Perhaps in that reflection he was not mistaken. He meant mischief from the beginning; and he pressed Jarocho so close that he leaped the barrier for safety. As he leaped, Saint Jago leaped also. Imagine now the terror of the spectators! The screams! The rush! The lowered horns within an inch of Jarocho, and Fray Joseph Maria running with the consecrated wafer to the doomed man! At that precise moment there was a rifle-shot, and the bellowing brute rolled backward into the arena—dead.”
“Oh, Maria Purissima! How grand! In such moments one really lives, Senor. And but for this absurd rebellion I and my daughters could have had the emotion. It is indeed cruel.”
“You said the shot was fired by an American?”
“Senorita Antonia, it was, indeed. I saw him. He was in the last row. He had stood up when Saint Jago came in, and he was watching the man and the animal with his soul in his eyes. He had a face, fine and thin as a woman’s—a very gentle face, also. But at one instant it became stern and fierce, the lips hard set, the eyes half shut, then the rifle at the shoulder like a flash of light, and the bull was dead between the beginning and the end of the leap! The sight was wonderful, and the ladies turned to him with smiles and cries of thankfulness, and the better part of the men bowed to him; for the Mexican gentleman is always just to a great deed. But he went away as if he had done something that displeased himself, and when I overtook him at the gates of the Alamo, he did not look as if he wished to talk about it.
“However, I could not refrain myself, and I said: ‘Permit me, Colonel Crockett, to honor you. The great feat of to-day’s fight was yours. San Antonio owes you for her favorite Jarocho.’”
“‘I saved a life, young man,’ he answered and I took a life; and I’ll be blamed if I know whether I did right or wrong.’ ‘Jarocho would have been killed but for your shot.’ ‘That’s so; and I killed the bull; but you can take my hat if I don’t think I killed the tallest brute of the two. Adjourn the subject, sir’; and with that he walked off into the fort, and I did myself the pleasure of coming to see you, Senora.”
He rose and bowed to the ladies, and, as the Senora was making some polite answer, the door of the room opened quickly, and a man entered and advanced towards her. Every eye was turned on him, but ere a word could be uttered he was kneeling at the Senora’s side, and had taken her face in his hands, and was kissing it. In the dim light she knew him at once, and she cried out: “My Thomas! My Thomas! My dear son! For three years I have not seen you.”
He brought into the room with him an atmosphere of comfort and strength. Suddenly all fear and anxiety was lifted, and in Antonia’s heart the reaction was so great that she sank into a chair and began to cry like a child. Her brother held her in his arms and soothed her with the promise of his presence and help. Then he said, cheerfully:
“Let me have some supper, Antonia. I am as hungry as a lobos wolf; and run away, Isabel, and help your sister, for I declare to you girls I shall eat everything in the house.”