A. L. O. E.

I must report my return to Mr. Passmore, and procure a few necessaries from my lodgings, before I start for the Posada de Quesada," said Lucius to himself, as he emerged from the richly sculptured gateway of the house of the Aguileras.

Making this detour necessarily occupied a considerable time, and took the young Englishman through some of the most thickly populated parts of Seville. It seemed to Lucius as if all the world were abroad,—except, perhaps, the priests and monks, who were rather conspicuous by their absence. Lucius had sometimes difficulty in making his way along the narrow crowded streets. In many places knots of people were collected together, conversing in subdued tones, but with more animation of gesture than is common with the stately and solemn Spaniard. The beggar seemed to forget to beg; the muleteer let the heavily-laden beast on which he was mounted pick his own way, unguided, over the large rough stones which paved the road, while the rider eagerly listened to words exchanged between men who to him were strangers. Had not the mind of Lepine been preoccupied with forming plans, and revolving his chances of success in his coming adventure, he must have noticed that on that Saturday afternoon in September one topic of common interest engaged the attention of the inhabitants of Seville, whether of high or low degree. It might be a bull-fight announced for the morrow, or some grand ceremonial of the Romish Church which was to come off on the following day.

The air was still sultry, though the greatest heat of the afternoon was over. Lucius, feeling thirsty, stopped to buy a few oranges of an old woman who sat with her basket before her at the corner of one of the streets. Another old crone who crouched close to her neighbour, with a covered basket on her knee, watched the Englishman, as he made his trifling purchase, with keen black eyes which glittered like beads from a face bronzed by sun and wind to almost African darkness.

"Will you not buy my wares too, seÑor?" she said in deep guttural tones, raising the cover of her basket, in which Lucius saw several knives. The appearance of the scimitar-shaped clasp-knife, so commonly used among Spaniards whether for purposes peaceful or warlike, was of course familiar to Lucius; but the knives in the basket were of a size which he had never seen before. They were nearly a foot in length, making allowance for the curve, and such a knife when unclasped looked a truly formidable weapon.

"Thanks; I need not such wares," said Lucius.

"You will need one, my goodly youth, and that ere twenty-four hours be over," muttered the dark-visaged woman, whose appearance and voice reminded Lucius of those of the witches who met Macbeth on the blasted heath. "Better the sharp than the sweet; better the steel at the side than the fruit at the lip! There is wild work before thee."

The words of the old crone sounded like a prophecy of evil to come; but Lucius, who was no Spaniard, and little troubled with superstition, only smiled and passed on.

"Perhaps, after all, I might as well have taken the old gipsy's advice," thought Lucius, "and had something sharper and stronger than a pencil-case upon me before going to pass the night in that lone Spanish posada." The young man was half disposed to retrace his steps and make the purchase; he might have done so, had not the state of his funds been so low that it would have inconvenienced him to expend even a few dollars on a long Spanish knife.

Lepine found Mr. Passmore at his private residence, his business hours closing earlier on Saturdays than on other days of the week.

"Glad to see you back, Lepine," said the manufacturer, extending to Lucius a thick flabby hand, which never closed with a kindly pressure.

"I have returned earlier—"

"Oh, you need not explain; I know why you are at Seville instead of Madrid," interrupted Mr. Passmore. "Tasco has been with me for an hour, and all that affair is settled. I have never been so bothered with business in all my life as during these two days of your absence. As for that Miguel, whom I've got in place of the bull-fighting don, what with his bad Spanish" (that was to say, Spanish unintelligible to his English employer), "his stupidity, and his laziness, he has almost driven me crazy. I don't know whether Miguel is most ignorant, superstitious, or idle. I had determined not to have a hidalgo again as a clerk, so was content to try the son of a barber; but I soon found out my mistake. Don Alcala de Aguilera, though he might wear his sombrero with the air of a prince, had at least brains under the brim. I've half a mind," continued Passmore, lolling back in his easy-chair, "I've half a mind to ascertain whether the don is likely soon to get over the effects of his poke from the bull, and would like to come back to his desk. His fall may have brought down his pride a bit, and made him more willing to do my work and pocket my pay, like a sensible man. I'd sooner take Aguilera back to my office than endure longer this oily-fingered, garlic-scented mule of a Miguel."

"You are not aware then," said Lucius, "that Don Alcala has unhappily been arrested and taken to prison."

Passmore received the intelligence with a whistle of surprise. "Arrested for debt?" he inquired.

"No; not for debt," replied Lucius.

"If not for debt, what then?" cried Passmore. "What new prank of folly has the don managed to play when one thought him safe on a sick-bed? I bet Aguilera has been meddling with politics and burning his fingers, as every one must do who tries to fish raisins out of such a seething caldron as is always fizzing and boiling over in Spain. What was Aguilera's offence? Was it drinking in physic a health to Prim?"

"No, sir," replied the clerk; "my friend was arrested in his sick-room for merely reading the Scriptures to his household!"

I will not say that Peter Passmore sprang to his feet, for the manufacturer's bulky frame was never very quick in its movements, but he rose from his easy-chair with an exclamation by no means reverential. "He's insane, utterly insane!" cried the irritated man, "and may as well be shut up in prison as in a lunatic asylum. Was it not enough for this Spaniard narrowly to escape throwing away life by acting the picador, that he must throw away liberty also by acting the preacher?"

"I hope, sir, that you do not compare the two acts," said Lucius, with spirit.

"Both have the same root, I warrant you; both spring out of pride, the desire to be talked of," said Passmore. "Reading the Scriptures indeed! Don Alcala may make a fine clerk, he may make a superb picador (though an unlucky one, by the way), but nothing can persuade me that he can ever make a quiet, sober, matter-of-fact Protestant, like myself;" and Passmore subsided into his chair.

No; assuredly nothing could have transformed Alcala into the self-complacent worshipper of Mammon, who assumed to himself the title of a Protestant Christian.

"I cannot see why Spaniards should not be again what their fathers were," said Lepine. "This land has had many martyrs."

"I've no doubt of it, no doubt of it, my lad. Martyrs presuppose murderers, and Spain has never been lacking in them. I'm a Briton, and have no fancy to be either murderer or martyr. That reminds me," continued Passmore, "of what Tasco has been telling me of the state of affairs in Madrid. Clouds are gathering there pretty thick, and wise men will get under shelter when they hear the thunder rumbling. If I were not tied to a business like this, I'd be off to old England; but an ironware manufactory is a pretty heavy anchor to drag. It's just as well to be armed, however; I've to-day bought a brace of revolvers. The proverb says that an Englishman's house is his castle, so I'll have artillery for mine. Ho, ho, ho! And while I think of it, Lepine, you can have my old pistol if you like, as I am provided with others." Here Passmore opened a drawer in his table, and took out rather a rusty-looking weapon, with gunpowder-flask, and bag of bullets. "You go to and fro day and night through these streets of Seville, where ruffians think no more of sticking a knife into a man than of paring a turnip; it's just as well to have with you a friend who can speak for you, if need be, in a language even Spaniards can understand. Take the pistol; you may need it before twenty-four hours are over."

Lepine could not help noting as a curious coincidence that the warning of the dark woman should be repeated in almost the same words by his English employer. The young man, bound on a dangerous mission, gladly accepted the proffered weapon.

"Now mind that you neither blow out your own brains nor those of any one else without necessity," said Peter Passmore, as he handed the pistol to Lepine. "I'd not have made such a present," he added, with his explosive laugh, "to Don Alcala de Aguilera."