“I never saw a bull fight before.”
“Wonderful!”
She still wore the gay dress of the bull ring. Over this she had thrown a cloak. As he looked at her now he wondered more than ever that this beautiful girl, who appeared so refined and gentle, should be the “Queen of the Bull Fighters.”
She seemed to read his thoughts, and her face, which had been somewhat pale on entering, slowly became crimson, while the long, dark lashes drooped over those eyes of pellucid black.
“Do not look at me like that!” she entreated. “I know it must seem strange to you—an American. My father was a bull fighter, and, when he was crippled, he taught me to become a picadore. Thus I have been able to support him. He is dead now, and I am alone. I must live. With one exception, I am the only female bull fighter in Spain. It pays so very well that I have thought I might soon be able to leave the ring forever.”
“If you are not killed.”
“To-day came my first accident. But for you the bull must have finished me. Villasca lost his head; Barbastro would not come to my aid. I was stunned. Then you came.”
“Who is Barbastro?”
“He is one of the espadas.”
“Why wouldn’t he come to your rescue?”