"A cat may look at a king, but the son of a village lawyer may not venture to bare his heart to the daughter of the Duque de la Torrevieja. And yet a man of our blood was ennobled early in the wars with the Moors, while the Duke's forebears were still simple men-at-arms, knighted under a name that in itself carries the ring of the heroic deeds that earned it."

The speaker, Mauro de la Lucha-sangre (literally "Mauro of the Bloody Battle"), stood one June morning of 1874 beneath the shade of a gnarled olive-tree on the banks of the Guadaira River, rebelliously stamping a heel into the soft turf. Son of the foremost lawyer of his native town of Utrera, educated in Sevilla at the best university of his province, already at twenty-four himself a fully accredited licenciado, Mauro's future held actually brilliant prospects for a man of the station into which he was born. And yet, most envied of his classmates though he was, to Mauro himself the future loomed black, forbidding, cheerless.

Mauro's father, by legacy from his father, was the attorney and counsellor of the Duque de la Torrevieja; and so might Mauro have been for the next Duke had there not cropped out in him the daring, the love of adventure, the pride, and the confidence that had lifted the first Lucha-sangre above his fellows. It was a case of breeding back—away back over and past generations of fawning commoners to the times when Lucha-sangre swords were splitting Moorish casques and winning guerdons.

Nor in spirit alone was Mauro bred back. He was deep of chest, broad of shoulder, lithe and graceful. His massive neck upbore a head of Augustan beauty, lighted by eyes that alternately blazed with the pride and resolution of a Cid and softened with the musings of a Manrique. Mauro was a Lucha-sangre of the twelfth century, reincarnate.

Little is it to be wondered at that, as the lad was often his father's message-bearer to the Duke, he found favor in the eyes of the Duke's only daughter, Sofia; and still less is it to be wondered at that he early became her thrall. Of nights at the university he was ever dreaming of her; up out of his text-books her lovely face was ever rising before him in class.

Of a rare type was Sofia in Andalusia, where nearly all are dark, for she was a true rubia, blue of eye, fair of skin, and with hair of the wondrously changing tints of a cooling iron ingot.

And now here was Mauro, just back from Sevilla, almost within arms'-reach of his divinity, and yet not free to seek her. And as the rippling current of the Quadaira crimsoned and then reddened and darkened till it seemed to him like a great ruddy tress of Sofia's waving hair, Mauro sprang to his feet and fiercely whispered: "Mil demonios! but she shall at least know, and then I'll kiss the old padre, and his musty office good-bye and go try my hand at some man's task!"

Opportunity came earlier than he had dared hope. The very next morning the elder Lucha-sangre sent Mauro to the castle with some papers for the Duke's approval and signature. Still at breakfast, the Duke received him in the great banquet-hall of the castle, the walls covered with portraits of Torreviejas gone before, several of the earlier generations so dim and gray with age they looked mere spectres of the limner's art.

While the Duke was reading the papers, Mauro stood with eyes riveted to the newest portrait of them all, that of Sofia's mother—Sofia's very self matured—herself a native of a northern province wherein to this day red hair and blue eyes are a frequent, almost a prevailing type, that tell the story of early Gothic invasions. So absorbed in the picture, so completely possessed by it was Mauro, that when the Duke turned and spoke to him, he did not hear.

And so he stood for some moments while the Duke sat contemplating the fine lines of his face and the splendid pose of his figure; his eyes lightened with admiration, his head nodding approval.

Then gently touching Mauro's arm, the Duke queried: "And so you admire the Duchess, young man?"

With a start Mauro answered, after a dazed stare at the Duke: "A thousand pardons, Excellency! But yes, sir; who in all the world could fail to admire her?"

"Yes, yes," replied the Duke; "God never made but one other quite her equal, and her He made in her own very image—Sofia; que Dios la aguarda!"

Mauro gravely bowed, received the papers from the Duke, and withdrew.

Turning to his secretary, the Duke sighed deeply and murmured: "Dios mio! if only I had a son of my own blood like that boy! What a pity he should be tied down to paltry pettifoggery!"

Meantime Mauro, striding disconsolate past an angle of the narrow garden of the inner courtyard, was detained by a soft voice issuing from the seclusion of a bench beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient fig tree: "Buenos dias, Don Mauro. Bueno es verte revuelto."

"Buenos dias, Condesa; and it is indeed good to me to be back, good to hear thy voice—the first real happiness I have known since my ears last welcomed its sweet tones. Good to be back! ah! Condesa Sofia, for me it is to live again."

"But, Don Mauro—"

"A thousand pardons, Condesa, but thy duenna may join thee at any moment, and my heart has long guarded a message for thee it can no longer hold and stay whole,—a message thou mayest well resent for its gross presumption, and yet a message I would here and now deliver if I knew I must die for it the next minute.

"From childhood hast thus possessed me. Never a night for the last ten years have I lain down without a prayer to the Virgin for thy safety and happiness; never a day but I have so lived that my conduct shall be worthy of thee. Though I am the son of thy father's licenciado, thou well knowest the blood of a long line of proud warriors burns in my veins. Hope that thou mightst ever even deign to listen to me I have never ventured to cherish—"

"But Don Mauro—"

"Again a thousand pardons, Condesa, but I must tell thee thou art the light of my soul. Without thee all the world is a valley of bitterness; with thee its most arid desert would be an Eden. The birds are ever chanting to me thy name. Every pool reflects thy sweet face. Every breeze wafts me the fragrance of thy dear presence. Every thunderous roll of the Almighty's war-drums calls me to attempt some great heroic deed in thine honor, some deed that shall prove to thee the lawyer's son, in heart and soul if not in present station, is not unworthy to tell to thee his love. And—"

"But, Mauro, Mauro m—mio!" And with a sob she arose and actually fled through the shrubbery.

Two days later the betrothal of the Countess Sofia to the Count Leon, the eldest son and heir to the Duke de Oviedo, was announced by her father. And that, indeed, was what she had tried but lacked the heart to tell him—that, wherever her heart might lie, her father had already promised her hand!

It was a bitter night for Mauro, that of the announcement, and a sad one for his father. Their conference lasted till near morning. The son pleaded he must have a life of action and hazard; his country at peace, he would train for the bull ring.

"Why not the opera, my son?" the thrifty father replied. "Thou hast a grand tenor voice; indeed the Bishop has asked that thou wilt lead the choir of the Cathedral. With such a voice thou wouldst have action, see the world, gain riches, while all the time playing the parts, fighting the battles of some great historic character."

"But no, father," answered Mauro; "such be no more than sham fights. Not only must I wear a sword as did the early Lucha-sangres, but I must hear it ring and ring against that of a worthy foe, feel it steal within the cover of his guard, see the good blade drip red in fair battle. True, there be no Moors or French to fight, but what soldier on reddened field ever took greater odds than a lone espada takes every time he challenges a fierce Utrera bull? And I swear to thee, padre mio, whatever my calling, I shall ever be heedful of and cherish the motto that Lucha-sangre swords have always borne: 'No me sacas sin razon; no me metes sin honor.'" (Do not draw me without good cause; do not sheath me without honor!)

The less strong-minded of the two, the father yielded, and even furnished funds sufficient for a year's private tutoring by Frascuelo, then the greatest matador in all Spain.

Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a public assembly was a chief espada of a cuadrilla of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil from the start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extraordinary strength and activity, utterly fearless but cool headed, a natural general, at the close of his first corrida he was acclaimed the certain successor of the great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time christened El Tigre (the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of his movements and the ferocity of his attacks.

The next eight years were for El Tigre fruitful of fame and riches but utterly arid and barren of even the most casual feminine attachment. Well educated, clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with physical beauty and personal charm few men equalled, he was invited by the nobility often, received as an equal by the men and literally courted by the women. But the attentions of women were all to no purpose. For El Tigre only one woman existed—Sofia, now the Duchess de Oviedo—though he had never again set eyes on her from the hour of their parting beneath the fig tree.

Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley of Cuautla, the Duke and Sofia divided their time between Paris and Mexico. Their marriage was far from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had brought Count Leon rumors of her admiration for Mauro, rousing suspicions that were not long crystallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful, honest wife, he could never win of her the affection he gave and craved. Obviously proud of her, always devoted and kind, he received from her respect and consideration in return, which indeed was all she had to give, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an ever-gnawing grief.

Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of Mauro and Sofia should be worked out far afield from their burning Utreran plains, high up on the cool plateau of Central Mexico.

For several years most generous offers had been made El Tigre to bring his cuadrilla to Mexico, but, surfeited with fame and rolling in riches, he had declined them. At last, however, in 188-, an offer was made him which he felt forced to accept—six thousand dollars a performance for ten corridas, to be given on successive Sundays in the Plaza Bucareli in the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his cuadrilla to be paid by the management. And so, late in April of that year El Tigre arrived in Mexico with his cuadrilla and (as stipulated in his contract) sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera are famed in toreador history and song as the fiercest, most desperate fighters espada ever confronted.

At the first performance El Tigre took the Mexican public by storm. No such execution, daring, and grace had ever been seen in either Bucareli or Colon. El Tigre was the toast in every club and cafe of the city. Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung his praises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him. El Tigre's coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joy overflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill.

Where she was at the time El Tigre had no idea. And yet, wholly unsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but both had attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last, inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box.

Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments of peril for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes during his moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke's jealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of her bearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning of the last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon with his attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements for attendance at the last corrida.

And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too high above, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of the seats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-foot barrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she could catch every shifting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and—where he could scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking in any way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she had been more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to deny herself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance, a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro mio" had plainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So it naturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofia rushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benches immediately beneath the box of the Presidente, directly in front of which Mauro must come, at the head of his cuadrilla, to salute the Presidente.

The city was thronged with visitors come to see El Tigre. Hotels and clubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had for months stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough tlacos to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the greatest and most magnificent it could ever be their good fortune to witness. The day was perfect, as indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours before the performance the principal thoroughfares leading to the Plaza Bucareli were packed solid with a moving throne all dressed en fete.

In no country in the world may one see such great picturesqueness, variety, and brilliancy of color in the costumes of the masses as then still prevailed in Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood, come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics and head-dresses brilliant as the plumage of parrots, great lovers of flowers, three and a half centuries of contact with civilization had not served to deprive them of any of their fondness for bright colors. Thus with the horsemen in the graceful traje de chorro—sombreros and tight fitting soft leather jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver ornaments, the footmen swaggering in serapes of every color of the rainbow, the women wrapped in more delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers, the winding streets looked like strips of flower garden ambulant.

Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all standing-room had been filled and the gates closed, thousands of late comers were shut out.

The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was surrounded by a six-foot solid-planked barrier. Behind and above the barrier rose the benches of the auditorium, the "bleachers" of the populace; they rose to a height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while above the uppermost line of benches were the private boxes of the elite. Within the ring were five heavily planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, behind which a hard pressed toreador might find safety from a charging bull. These refuges were little used, however, except by the underlings, the capadores, or by capsized picadores; espadas and banderilleros disdained them. On the west of the ring was the box of the Presidente of the corrida (in this instance, the Governor of the Federal District); on the east the main gate of the ring through which the cuadrilla entered; on the north the gate of the bull pen.

At a bugle call from the Presidente's box, the main gate swung wide and the cuadrilla entered, a band of lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, in slippers, white stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk ornamented with silver, each wearing the little queue and black rosette attached thereto that from time immemorial Andalusian toreadores have sported.

El Tigre headed the squad, followed by two junior matadores, three banderilleros, three capadores, and two mounted picadores, while at the rear of the column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing, dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other white, each composed of three mules harnessed abreast as for a chariot race, but dragging behind them nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the dead of the day's fight might be attached and dragged out of the arena.

Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black cloak passed over the left shoulder and beneath the right, the loose end of the cloak draped gracefully over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free. The picadores were mounted (as usual) on old crowbaits of horses, mere bags of skin and bones, so poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot; a broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls. Each rider was seated in a saddle high of cantle and ancient of form as those Knights Templar jousted in. The breast of each horse was guarded by a great side of sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the right leg of each rider was incased in such a stiff and heavy leather leg-guard as to render him afoot almost helpless; and he was further guarded by still another side of sole leather swung from the saddle horn and covering his left leg and much of his horse's barrel. On the right stirrup of each picador rested the butt of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tipped with a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch and hold in the bull's hide.

As the cuadrilla entered, a regimental band played El Hymno Nacional, the National Anthem, while the vast audience roared and shrieked a welcome to the gladiators.

Marching to the time of the music in long tragic strides, heads proudly erect, right arms swinging and shoulders slightly swaying in the challenging swagger which toreadores affect, the cuadrilla crossed the arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the Presidente's box, bared their heads, gracefully saluted the Presidente, and received the key to the bull pen and his permission to begin the fight. And as El Tigre's eyes fell from the salute to the Presidente they rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtle telepathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he confronted. There she sat on the second bench-row above the top of the barrier, matured and fuller of figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting; there she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips trembling, her great blue eyes pouring into his messages of a love so deep and pure that it needed all his self-command to keep from leaping the barrier and falling at his feet.

For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered, almost overcome with surprise and delight again to see her, thrilled with the joy of her message, blazing with revolt at the painful consciousness that she was and must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh stopped the beating of his heart. And so he stood gazing into Sofia's eyes until, self-possession recovered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men to their posts.

Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were tossed to attendants, each footman received a red cape, the two picadores took position one on either side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up a tune, the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull bounded into the arena, maddened with the pain of a short banderilla, with long streaming ribbons, stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendant perched above the gate.

His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull ring. While typical of his Utreran brothers, all princes of bovine fighting stock, this coal-black monster was by the spectators voted their King. Relatively light of quarters and shallow of flank and barrel, he was unusually high and humped of withers, broad and deep of chest and heavy of shoulders—indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finely trained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly straight-upstanding horns that were long and almost as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by his build, he was of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood. For his great weight, his activity was phenomenal—his leaps like a panther's, his turns as quick.

Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and the brilliant banks of color about him, he stood angrily lashing his tail and pawing up the sand in clouds—"digging a grave," as Texas cowboys used to call it—his eyes blazing and head tossing, but only for a moment. Then he charged the nearest picador, literally leaped so high at him that head and cruel horns crossed above the horse's neck, his own great chest striking the horse just behind the shoulder with such force that man and mount hit the ground stunned and helpless.

Barely were they down when he was upon them and with a single twitch of his mighty neck, had ripped open the horse's barrel and half amputated one of the rider's legs. Then, diverted by the capadores, he whirled upon the second picador and in another ten seconds had left his horse dead and the rider badly trampled. Next the banderilleros tackled him, but such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked the work, and not one of them fastened his flag in the black shoulders.

When the bull had entered the ring, El Tigre left the arena—a most unusual proceeding. Now he returned, clad in snow-white from head to foot, a white cap covering head and hair, his face heavily powdered. He slipped in behind and unseen by the bull to the centre of the arena, and there stood erect, with arms folded, motionless as a graven image.

Presently the bull turned, saw El Tigre, and charged him straight. El Tigre was not even facing him, for the bull was approaching from his left. But there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the flicker of an eye lid, still as a figure of stone.

A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned and passed him. Once more the bull so charged and passed. Whether because it mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spirit mightier than its own, only the bull knew.

Before the audience had well caught its breath, El Tigre, wearing again his usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the bull, a show banderilla, no more than six inches long, held in his teeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actual arm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body quick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck the teeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past.

Now was the time for the kill.

El Tigre received his sword, muleta, and cape. The muleta is a straight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the matador's left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body. Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-red cape, and not the matador. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined to make this the fight of his life, El Tigre tossed aside the muleta, wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting the bull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into heart or lungs.

With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal, but El Tigre smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the matador must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until the third may he strike. On the first charge El Tigre stood like a rock until the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonally across his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after the first, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftly side-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leap aimed at his elusive enemy.

It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits while hats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena—all of which, by toreador etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier to their owners.

Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; the ugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the second bull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three more bulls were fought and killed.

The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff he did, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount the barrier directly in front of the box of the Presidente. And mount it he did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a moment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain his feet.

Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points of his deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat as if frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, for escape into or through the dense mass of spectators about them was utterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless.

But at the bull's very start for the barrier, El Tigre, realized Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it was early in this the last corrida and he did not have his sword,

Leaping the wreckage, El Tigre landed directly in front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right hand seizing the bull by the nose—his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well within its nostrils—and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, with a mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn until he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarily helpless.

But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also El Tigre fell, the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him to the ground.

Before the bull could rise, the men of the cuadrilla had it safely bound and El Tigre released. El Tigre, however, did not know it. With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted.

When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his head pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearful eyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: "Mauro mio!"

Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence.

White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked:

"Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes. Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired toreador and purveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless blood once noble is in your veins. And so as noble it suits me now to count you. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you my second."

"Most happy, Duke," answered Mauro; "mine shall be ready to meet him."

One evening a week later, while the Duke de Oviedo and two Mexican army officers were having drinks at the bar of the Cafe Concordia, General Delmonte, a Cuban long resident in New York and a distinguished veteran of three wars, entered with two American friends. Delmonte was describing to his friends El Tigre's last fight, lauding his prowess, extolling his noble presence and high character. Infuriated by the ardent praise of his enemy, the Duke grossly insulted General Delmonte—and was very promptly slapped in the face.

They fought at daylight the next morning, beneath an arch of the ancient aqueduct, just outside the city. Encountering in Delmonte one of the best swordsmen of his time, early in the combat the Duke received a mortal wound. And as he there lay gasping out his life, he murmured a phrase that, at the moment, greatly puzzled his seconds:

"Gana El Tigre." (The Tiger Wins!)