"Si, maestro!"
With the emission of the waste steam through the chimney, the engine of the Seville-to-Madrid commenced puffing slowly; the cars began shuddering and groaning as though about to start. Jacques Ferou held open the door of a second-class coach for Felicidad. But it was already packed full of men and she hesitated to enter.
"Come, hurry!" roughly ordered the Frenchman. "The train in another minute will start. You do not wish to be left behind, do you?"
"But this is not our coach! The coach we rode in thus far is up forward." Almost it seemed as if the girl were sparring for time.
"Enter, it is no importa, señora dona!" said, with kindness, one of the men within—a man in a yellow bullfighter's costume, one of the picadores of Morales' cuadrilla.
"Yes, enter, please," spoke up another in a green costume, the great Morales himself. "You are most welcome here, I assure you!" And he reached down, seeking to help her climb aboard.
"Quick, or the train will start without you!" cried another, the blue-eyed American. Then in English, for suddenly the train had commenced to bang back and forth, and he had become beside himself with excitement:
"Make haste, girl! The accursed slow freight is about to move. Gad! here it goes."
Just as the train puffed rapidly and, with a roar and a tremendous yank started off, he crowded between the knees of the cuadrilla of bullfighters, pushed aside Morales, and leaped through the door. Staggering from the precipitant leap, he made toward the girl, intending to lift and fling her into the moving train.
A man came between them.