"Let him tell you who he is, or let him go to the devil. Cursed bad luck.... Can't you let a fellow sleep?"

El Nacional received this answer through his master's bedroom door, and passed it on to a farm servant who was waiting on the stairs.

"Tell him to say who he is; otherwise the master won't get up."

It was eight o'clock, and the banderillero went to a window to watch the farm servant, who ran down the road in front of the grange, till he came to the end of the distant fence which bounded the property. Close to the entrance through this fence, he saw a rider, who appeared very small in the distance, both man and horse looking as if they had come out of a toy box.

A short time afterwards the labourer returned, having talked with the rider.

El Nacional, who seemed interested by these comings and goings, waited for him at the foot of the staircase.

"He says he must see the master," mumbled the shepherd, stammering. "He seems to me up to no good. He says the master must come down at once, as he has something important to tell him."

The banderillero returned to knock at his master's door, paying no attention to his grumbling. He ought to get up, it was a late hour for the country, and the man might bring some important message.

"I'm coming," said Gallardo ill-humouredly, without however moving from his bed.

El Nacional went again to the window, and saw the rider coming up the road towards the house.

The shepherd was going to meet him with the reply. The poor man seemed uneasy, and in his two dialogues with the banderillero, had stuttered with an expression of fright and doubt, but had not dared to disclose his thoughts.

After rejoining the rider, he listened to him for a few minutes and then retraced his steps, running towards the farm, but this time very quickly.

El Nacional heard him running up the stairs no less quickly, coming up to him pale and trembling.

"It is El Plumitas, SeÑo Sebastian. He says he is Plumitas and that he must see the master.... My heart beat directly I saw him."

"El Plumitas!" The shepherd's voice, in spite of being shaking and breathless, seemed to penetrate throughout the whole house as he pronounced that name. The banderillero stood dumb with surprise, and from the espada's room came a volley of oaths, the rustle of clothes, and the sound of some one throwing himself roughly out of bed. From the room occupied by DoÑa Sol other sounds also came which seemed in answer to this astounding news.

"Curse him! What does the man want? Why has he come to La Rincona? especially just now!"...

Gallardo came quickly out of his room, having only drawn his trousers and jacket over his night clothes. He ran on before the banderillero, with the blind impulsiveness of his character, throwing himself in hot haste down the stairs followed by El Nacional.

At the entrance of the farm the rider was dismounting. A shepherd held the horse's reins, and the other labourers gathered in a group at a short distance, watching the new comer with curiosity and respect.

The new comer was a man of medium stature, rather short than tall, plump faced, fair, with short strong limbs. He was dressed in a grey jacket trimmed with black braid, dark-striped breeches with a large piece of leather inside the knee, and leather gaiters wrinkled and cracked by the sun and the rain. Underneath his jacket, his waist seemed swelled out by the folds of a large silk waist sash, and a cartridge box, to which were added the thickness of a revolver, and a large knife passed through his belt. In his right hand he carried a repeating carbine. His head was covered by a sombrero which had once been white, but which was now stained and ragged by the inclemency of the weather. A red handkerchief knotted round his throat was the most showy part of his dress.

His broad chubby face had the placidity of a full moon. On his cheeks, whose whiteness showed through the coat of sunburn, sprouted a red beard, unshaven for several days. The eyes were the only disquieting things in this good-humoured face, which looked as if it must belong to a village sacristan; they were small triangular eyes, sunk in rolls of fat; little pig eyes, with a malignant dark blue pupil.

As Gallardo appeared at the door, the man recognized him at once, raising his sombrero from his round head.

"God give us a good day, SeÑo Juan ..." he said with the grave courtesy of an Andalusian peasant.

"Good day."

"Are your family quite well, SeÑo Juan?"

"Quite well, thanks. And yours?" enquired the espada automatically from habit.

"I believe they are quite well. But it is a long time since I have seen them."

The two men were standing close together, examining each other as naturally as possible, as if they were two wayfarers who had met in the country. The torero was pale, compressing his lips to hide his feelings. Did the bandit think he was going to frighten him! Possibly at another time this visit might have scared him, but now—having upstairs what he had, he felt capable of fighting him just as if he had been a bull, directly he declared his evil intentions.

A few moments passed in silence. All the farm men (about a dozen), who had not gone out to work in the fields, were looking with almost childish wonder at this terrible personage, whose very name obsessed them with its gloomy fame.

"Can they take the mare round to the stable to rest a little?" enquired the bandit.

Gallardo signed to a man, who took the reins and walked away with her.

"Take good care of her," said Plumitas. "Mia is the best thing I have in the world and I love her more than wife or children."

A fresh personage had joined the group, standing in the midst of the amazed people.

It was Potaje, the picador, who came out half dressed and stretching himself, with all the rough strength of his athletic body. He rubbed his eyes, always bloodshot and inflamed by drink, and approaching the bandit let one huge hand fall on his shoulder with studied familiarity, as if he enjoyed feeling him squirm under his grasp and wished at the same time to express his rough sympathy.

"How are you, Plumitas?"...

He saw him for the first time. The bandit drew himself together as if he intended to resent this rough and unceremonious caress, and his right hand raised the rifle. However, fixing his little blue eyes on the picador, he seemed to recognize him.

"You are Potaje, if I am not mistaken. I saw you spear in Seville at the last fair. Good Lord how you fell! How strong you are!... One would think you were made of iron."

And as if to return the salute, he seized the picador's arm with his horny hand, feeling his biceps with admiration. The two stood looking at each other, till the picador gave a deep laugh.

"Jo! Jo! I thought you were much bigger, Plumitas. But that does not matter; for in spite of it you are a fine fellow."

The bandit turned to the espada.

"Can I breakfast here?"

Gallardo put on the look of a great nobleman.

"No one who comes to La Rincona leaves it without breakfast."

They all entered the farm kitchen, an immense room, with a large wide open chimney, which was the general gathering place.

The espada sat down in an arm-chair, and a girl, the overseer's daughter, busied herself with putting on his boots, for in his hurry he had run down in his slippers.

El Nacional, wishing to give signs of his existence, and reassured by the courteous manner of the visitor, appeared with a bottle of country wine and some glasses.

"I know you also," said the bandit, treating him as familiarly as the picador. "I have seen you fix in banderillas. When you like you can do well enough, but you must throw yourself on the bull better."

Potaje and the maestro laughed at this advice. As he took up the glass, Plumitas found himself embarrassed by his carbine, which he had placed between his knees.

"Put it down, man," said the picador. "Do you stick to your weapon when you are paying a visit?"

The bandit became suddenly serious. It was all right so, it was his usual habit. The carbine kept him company everywhere, even when he slept. This allusion to his weapon which seemed another limb of his body, made him grave. He looked all round uneasily, and suspiciously, with the habit of living constantly on the alert, trusting no one, confiding in nothing but his own endeavours, and feeling danger constantly all round him.

A shepherd crossed the kitchen going towards the door.

"Where is that man going to?"

As he asked this he sat upright in his chair, drawing his loaded carbine closer to his breast with his knees.

He was going to a large field near where the rest of the labourers were working. Plumitas seemed tranquillized.

"Listen here, SeÑo Juan. I have come here for the pleasure of seeing you and because I know you are a caballero, incapable of breathing a word.... Besides, you will have heard of Plumitas. It is not easy to catch him, and he who tries it will pay for it."

The picador intervened before his master could speak.

"Don't be a brute, Plumitas. You are here among comrades as long as you behave well and decently."

And at once the bandit seemed reassured, and began to speak of his mare, praising her qualities, and the two men hobnobbed with the enthusiasm of mountain riders who love a horse far better than a man.

Gallardo, who still seemed anxious, walked about the kitchen, where some of the farm women, swarthy and masculine, were preparing the breakfast, looking sideways at the celebrated Plumitas.

In one of his turns the espada came up to El Nacional. He must go to DoÑa Sol's room, and ask her not to come down. The bandit would most probably leave after breakfast, and why show herself to that redoubtable personage?

The banderillero disappeared, and Plumitas, seeing the maestro apart from the others, went up to him, inquiring with great interest about the remaining corridas of the year.

"I am a Gallardista, you know. I have applauded you oftener than you could imagine. I have seen you in Seville, in Jaen, in Cordoba ... in ever so many places."

Gallardo was astounded. How could he, who had a real army of soldiers after him, go quietly to a corrida of bulls? Plumitas smiled with superiority.

"Bah! I go wherever I like. I am everywhere."

Then he spoke of the occasions on which he had met the espada on the way to the farm, sometimes accompanied, at other times alone, passing close to him on the road, and taking no notice of him, thinking him probably some poor shepherd riding to deliver a message at some hut close by.

"When you came from Seville to buy those two mills down there, I met you on the road. You had then five thousand duros on you. Had you not? Tell the truth. You see I was well informed.... Another time I saw you in one of those animals they call automobiles, with another gentleman from Seville, your manager I believe. You were going to sign the papers for the Oliver del Cura, and you had a much larger pot of money with you that time."

Little by little Gallardo recalled the exactitude of those facts, looking with wonder at this man, who seemed to be informed about everything. The bandit, in order to show his generosity to the torero on those occasions, spoke of the ease with which he surmounted difficulties.

"You see, about those automobiles,—it is a trifle! I can stop one of those 'bichos' with only this," showing his carbine. "Once in Cordoba I had some accounts to settle with a rich gentleman who was my enemy. I drew up my mare on one side of the road, and when that 'bicho' came along in a cloud of dust and stinking of petroleum, I shouted 'Halt!' He did not choose to stop, so I put a ball into one of his wheels. To cut it short, the automobile stopped a little further on and I galloped up and settled my accounts with the fellow. A man who can put a ball wherever he chooses, can stop anything on the road."

Gallardo felt more and more astonished as he heard Plumitas tell of his exploits on the road, with quite professional simplicity.

"I did not wish to stop you. You are not one of those rich men. You are a poor man like myself, only you have better luck, more than enough in your profession; if you have made money you have earned it well. I like you because you are a fine matador, and I have a weakness for brave men. The two of us are like comrades; we both live by exposing our lives. For this reason, although you did not know me, I was there, seeing you pass without even asking a cigarette from you, for fear that some rascal should take advantage by going on the highway and saying he was Plumitas; stranger things have happened...."

An unexpected apparition cut short the bandit's speech, and the torero's face changed to a look of extreme annoyance. "Curse it! DoÑa Sol! Had not El Nacional given his message?"... The banderillero followed the lady, making various signs from the kitchen door, which meant that all his prayers and advice had been useless.

DoÑa Sol came down in her travelling coat, her golden hair combed and knotted hurriedly. El Plumitas in the farm: What joy! Part of the night she had been thinking of him, proposing on the following morning to ride about the solitudes around La Rinconada, in the hopes that good luck would make her run against the interesting bandit. And as if her thoughts exercised a far distant influence in attracting people, the bandit had obeyed her wishes and had appeared early in the grange.

El Plumitas! The name alone called up the full figure of the bandit before her imagination. She scarcely needed to know him; she would scarcely feel any surprise. She saw him tall, slim, of dark complexion, a pointed hat placed over a red handkerchief, from under which appeared curls of hair as black as jet. She saw an active man, dressed in black velvet, his slim waist encircled by a purple silk sash, and his legs in gaiters of a fine date colour—a veritable knight errant of the Andalusian steppes.

Her eyes, wide open with excitement, wandered over the kitchen, without seeing either a pointed hat or a blunderbus. She saw an unknown man, standing up, a kind of keeper with a carbine, just like any of those she had so often seen on estates belonging to her family.

"Good day, SeÑora Marquesa.... Your uncle, the Marquis, is he quite well?"

The looks of every one converging on that man, told her the truth. "Ay! And that was Plumitas!"...

He had taken off his hat with clumsy courtesy, abashed by the lady's presence, and continued standing with his carbine in one hand, and the old felt hat in the other.

Gallardo was fairly astounded at the bandit's address. That man seemed to know every one. He knew who DoÑa Sol was, and by an excess of respect, extended to her the titles belonging to her family.

The lady, recovering from her surprise, signed to him to sit down and cover himself, but though he obeyed the first, he left the felt hat on a chair close by.

As if he guessed the question in DoÑa Sol's eyes, which were fixed on him, he added:

"The SeÑora Marquesa must not be surprised at my knowing her. I have seen her very often with the Marquis and others going to the trial of the calves. I have seen also from afar how the SeÑora attacked the young bulls with her garrocha. The SeÑora is very brave and the handsomest woman I have seen on God's earth. It is a pure delight to see her on horseback. And men ought to fight for her heavenly blue eyes!"

The bandit was drawn on quite naturally by his southern warmth to seek fresh expressions of admiration for DoÑa Sol.

She had grown paler, and her eyes were wide open with half pleased terror; she began to find the bandit decidedly interesting. Had he come to the farm only for her? Did he propose to carry her off to his hiding places in the mountains?...

The torero grew alarmed hearing these expressions of rough admiration. Curse him! In his own house ... before his very face! If he went on like this he would go up and fetch his gun, and even though Plumitas were the other one, they would see which one would carry her off.

The bandit seemed to understand the annoyance his words had caused, and went on most respectfully.

"Your pardon, SeÑora Marquesa. It is idle talk and nothing more. I have a wife and four children, who weep for me more than the Virgin of Sorrows. I am an unhappy man, who is what he is because bad luck has pursued him."

As if he were endeavouring to make himself agreeable to DoÑa Sol, he broke out into praises of her family. The Marquis de Moraima was one of the most honourable men in the world.

"If only all rich men were like him. My father worked for him and often spoke of his kindness. I spent one hot weather in the hut of one of his shepherds. He knew it and never said a word. He has given orders on all his farms to give me what I want and to leave me in peace.... These things are never forgotten. There are so many rich rascals in the world!... Very often I have met him alone, riding his horse like a young man, as if years had stood still for him. 'Go with God, SeÑo Marque.' 'Your health, my lad.' He did not know me; and could not guess who I was because my companion (touching his carbine) was hidden under my blanket. And I should have wished to stop him to take his hand, not to shake it—that no—how could so good a man shake hands with me, who have so many deaths and mutilations on my soul, but to kiss it as if he were my father, and to thank him for what he has done for me."

The vehemence with which he spoke of his gratitude did not move DoÑa Sol. And so that was the famous Plumitas!... A poor sort of man, a good country rabbit whom every one looked on as a wolf, deceived by his fame.

"There are very bad rich men," went on the bandit. "What some of them make the poor suffer!... Near my village lives one who lends money on usury and who is more perverse than Judas. I sent him a notice that he should not cause trouble to the people, and he, the thief, gave information to the civil guards to search for me. Result, that I burnt his hay-rick, and did a few other little things, and he was more than a year without ever daring to go into Seville for fear of meeting Plumitas. Another man was going to evict a poor old woman from the house in which her parents had lived, because she had not paid any rent for a year. I went to see the gentleman one evening, when he was sitting at table with his family. 'My master, I am El Plumitas, and I want a hundred duros.' He gave them to me, and I took them to the old woman. 'Here, granny, take these—pay that Jew what you owe him, and keep the rest for yourself, and may they bring you luck.'"

DoÑa Sol looked at the bandit with more interest.

"And dead men?" she enquired. "How many have you killed?"

"Lady, we will not speak of that," said the bandit gravely. "You would take a dislike to me, and after all I am only an unhappy man, whom they are trying to trap, and who defends himself as best he can."

There was a long silence.

"You cannot imagine how I live, SeÑora Marquesa," he went on. "The wild beasts are better off than I am. I sleep where I can, or not at all. I rise on one side of the province and lie down to rest on the other. I have to keep my eyes well open and a heavy hand, so that they may respect me and not sell me. The poor are good, but poverty is a thing that turns the best bad. If they had not been afraid of me they would have betrayed me to the civil guards again and again. I have no true friends but my mare and this (touching his carbine). Now and then I feel the longing to see my wife and little ones, and I go by night into my village. All the neighbours who see me shut their eyes. But some day this will end badly.... There are times when I am weary of solitude and feel I must see people. I have thought for a long time of coming to La Rincona. 'Why should I not pay a visit to SeÑo Juan Gallardo, I who admire him and who have so often clapped him?' But I have always seen you with so many friends, or your wife and your mother and the children who have been at the farm. I know what that means. They would have died of fright at the very sight of Plumitas. But now it is different. When I saw you come with the SeÑora Marquesa, I said to myself: 'Let us go and salute these SeÑores and have a chat with them.'"

And the cunning smile which accompanied these words at once established a difference between the torero's family and that woman, giving them to understand that Gallardo's relations with DoÑa Sol were no secret to him. In the bottom of this rough peasant's heart was a deep respect for legitimate marriage, and he thought himself free to take greater liberties with the torero's aristocratic friend than with the poor women who formed his family.

DoÑa Sol took no notice, but she pressed the bandit with questions as to how he had come to be what he was.

"It was injustice, SeÑora Marquesa, one of those misfortunes which fall upon us poor people. I was one of the sharpest in my village, and the labourers always put me as spokesman when they had anything to ask from the rich people. I can read and write, for I became sacristan when I was quite a boy, and I gained my name of Plumitas from running after the hens and plucking out their tail feathers for pens."

A thump from Potaje interrupted him.

"ComparÉ, I had already thought since I saw you that you were a church rat, or something similar."

El Nacional was silent, without daring to remark on these confidences, but he smiled slightly. A sacristan turned into a bandit! What would Don Joselito say when he told him this!

"I married my wife and our first child was born. One night two civil guards came to our house, and carried me out of the village, to the threshing floors. Some one had fired some shots at the door of a rich man, and those good gentlemen made up their minds it was I. I denied it and they beat me with their carbines. I denied it again, and again they beat me. To cut it short, till dawn they beat me all over the body, sometimes with the ramrods, sometimes with the butt-ends, till they got tired and I became unconscious. They had tied both my hands and my feet, and beat me as if I were a bundle, saying: 'Are you not the bravest in your village? Get up and defend yourself, let's see how far your fists can reach.' It was their mockery I felt the most. My poor wife cured me as best she could, but I could not rest, I could not live remembering the blows and the mockery.... To cut it short again: one day one of those civil guards was found dead on the threshing floor, and I, to save myself annoyance, fled to the mountains ... and up to now...."

"Gacho, you did well," said Potaje admiringly. "And the other one?"

"I know not; I think he must still be alive. He fled from the village; with all his valour he begged to be removed, but I have not forgotten him. Some day I shall settle with him. Sometimes I am told he is at the other end of Spain, and there I go. I would go if it were to hell itself. I leave the mare and the carbine with some friend to keep for me and I take the train like a gentleman. I have been in Barcelona, in Valladolid, in many other places. I stand near the prison and watch the civil guards who go in and out. 'This is not my man, neither is this one.' My informants must have been mistaken, but it does not signify. I have searched for him for years and some day I shall meet him—unless he be dead, which would be a real pity."

DoÑa Sol followed this story with great interest. What an original figure was Plumitas! She had been mistaken in thinking him a rabbit.

The bandit was silent. He frowned as though he was afraid of having said too much, and wished to avoid further confidences.

"With your permission," he said to the espada. "I will go to the stables and see how they are treating the mare. Are you coming, comrade?... You will see something good."

Potaje accepting the invitation, they left the kitchen together.

When the lady and the torero were left alone his ill humour broke out. Why had she come down? It was imprudent to show herself to a man like that: a bandit whose name was the terror of every one.

But DoÑa Sol, delighted with the good luck of the meeting, laughed at the espada's fears. The bandit seemed a good sort of fellow, an unfortunate man whose evil deeds were exaggerated by the popular imagination.

"I had fancied him different, but in any case I am delighted to have seen him. We will give him some alms when he goes. What an original country this is! What types!... And how interesting his chase after that civil guard all over Spain!... With this material one might write a most delightful feuilleton."

The farm women were taking the great frying-pans off the fire, which spread the most excellent smell of pork sausages.

"To breakfast, caballeros!" shouted El Nacional, who took upon himself the functions of majordomo, when he was at the matador's farm.

In the centre of the kitchen stood a large table spread with cloths, round loaves and bottles of wine. Potaje and Plumitas arrived at the summons, and various employÉs of the farm, the steward, the overseer, and all those fulfilling the more confidential functions. They proceeded to sit down on two benches placed alongside the table, while Gallardo looked undecidedly at DoÑa Sol. She ought to breakfast upstairs in the family's rooms. But the lady, laughing at this invitation, sat down at the head of the table. She enjoyed this rustic life, and she thought it very interesting to breakfast with these people. She had been born for a soldier. With masculine free and easiness she made the espada sit down, sniffing the delicious smell of the sausages with her pretty nose. What a delicious meal. How hungry she was!

"This is all right," said Plumitas sententiously, as he looked at the table. "The masters and the servants eating together, as they are said to have done in ancient times. But this is the first time I have seen it."

He sat down by the picador, still holding his carbine, which he placed between his knees.

"Get along further up, my lad," said he, pushing Potaje with his body.

The picador, who treated him with rough comradeship, replied by another push, and the two men laughed as they pushed each other, amusing the whole table with their rough horseplay.

"But curse you!" said the picador. "Put your gun away from between your knees. Don't you see it is pointing at me, and an accident might happen?"

Certainly the bandit's carbine, standing between his legs, was pointing its black muzzle towards the picador.

"Put it down, man!" insisted the latter. "Do you want it to eat with?"

"It is all right as it is. There is no fear," replied the bandit shortly, frowning, as if he would not admit of any remark as to his precautions.

He seized a spoon, took a large piece of bread and looked round at the others, to make sure, with his rural courtesy, if the proper time for beginning had arrived.

"Your health, SeÑores!" and without more ado he attacked the enormous dish which had been placed in the middle of the table for him and the toreros. Another equally large dish smoked further down for the farm people.

He soon seemed ashamed of his voracity, and after a few spoonsful stopped, thinking an explanation necessary.

"Since yesterday morning I have touched nothing but a scrap of bread and a drop of milk which they gave me in a shepherd's hut. Good appetite, gentlemen!"...

And he again attacked the dish, acknowledging Potaje's jests as to his voracity by winking and the continued working of his jaws.

The picador wished to make him drink. Intimidated by his master's presence, who was afraid of his drunkenness, he looked anxiously at the flasks of wine placed within reach of his hand.

"Drink, Plumitas. Dry food is bad; you must wet it."

But before the brigand could accept his invitation, Potaje drank and drank again hurriedly. Plumitas only now and then touched his glass, and even then with great hesitation. He was afraid of wine, and also he had lost the habit of drinking it. In the country he could not always get it. Besides, wine was the worst enemy for a man like himself, who had to live constantly wide awake and on guard.

"But you are here among friends," said the picador. "Think, Plumitas, that you are in Seville, beneath the very mantle of the Virgin de la Macarena. No one would touch you here. And if by any unlucky chance the civil guards did come, I should place myself by your side, seizing a garrocha, and we would not leave one of the blackguards alive.... It would take very little to make me a rider of the mountain! ... that has always attracted me!"

"Potaje!" ... roared the espada from the other end of the table, fearing his loquacity and his propinquity to the bottles.

Although the bandit drank little, his face was flushed and his blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. He had chosen his seat opposite the kitchen door, a place from which he enfiladed the entrance of the grange, seeing also part of the lonely road. Now and again, a cow or a pig or a goat would cross over the strip of road, their shadows projected by the sun in front of them. This was quite enough to startle Plumitas, who would drop his spoon and clutch his rifle.

He talked with his neighbours at table without ever diverting his attention from outside, with the habit of always living ready at any time for resistance or flight, feeling it a point of honour never to be surprised.

When he had done eating, he accepted another glass from Potaje, the last, and remained with his chin on his hand looking out silently and sleepily.

Gallardo offered him an Havana cigar.

"Thanks, SeÑo Juan. I do not smoke, but I will keep it for a companion of mine who is also out on the mountain, a poor fellow who appreciates a smoke even more than food. He is a young fellow who had a misfortune, and who now helps me when there is work for two."

He put the cigar away under his jacket, and the remembrance of that companion, who at that time was certainly wandering not very far off, made him smile with ferocious glee. The wine had warmed Plumitas, and his face had become quite different. His eyes had an alarming metallic lustre, and his chubby face was contracted by a spasm which seemed to alter his usual good-natured expression. One could guess also a desire to talk, to boast of his exploits, to repay the hospitality received by astonishing his benefactors.

"Have any of you heard what I did last month on the road to Fregenal? Do you really know nothing about it?... I placed myself on the road with my companion, because we had to stop the diligence, and settle with a rich man, who remembered me every hour of his life—an important man that, accustomed to move alcaldes, officials and even civil guards at his will—what they call in the papers a cacique.[92] I had sent him a message asking for a hundred duros for an emergency, which made him write to the Governor of Seville, and start a scandal even in Madrid, making them persecute me more than ever. Thanks to him, I had a brush with the civiles, in which I got wounded in the leg, and not content with this, they put my wife in prison, as if the poor woman could know her husband's doings. That Judas did not dare to leave his village for fear of meeting Plumitas, but just at that time I disappeared. I went on one of those journeys I told you about, and our man gained confidence enough to go to Seville one day on business and to set the authorities on me. So we waited for the return coach from Seville, and the coach arrived. The companion, who is a very good hand for anything on the road, cried 'Halt!' to the driver. I put my head and my carbine in through the doorway. There were screams from the women, yells from the children, and the men, who said nothing, were as white as wax. I said to the travellers: 'I have nothing to do with you, calm yourselves, ladies; your good health, gentlemen, and pleasant journey.... But make that fat man get out.' And our man, who had hidden himself among the women's petticoats, had to get out, as pale as death, looking bloodless, and staggering as though he were drunk. The coach drove off, and we remained alone in the middle of the road. 'Listen here, I am el Plumitas, and I am going to give you something to remember me by.' And I gave it. But I did not kill him at once. I gave it to him in a certain place I know, so that he should live twenty-four hours, and that he should be able to tell the civiles when they picked him up that it was Plumitas who had killed him, so that there should be no mistake and no one else should take the credit."

DoÑa Sol listened, intensely pale, with her lips compressed by terror, and in her eyes that strange light which always accompanied her mysterious thoughts.

Gallardo frowned, annoyed by this ferocious story.

"Every one knows his own business, SeÑo Juan," Plumitas continued, as if he guessed the matador's thoughts. "We both live by killing; you kill bulls, I kill men. The only difference is that you are rich and carry off the palm and the beautiful women, and I often rage with hunger, and if I am careless I shall be riddled with shot, and left in the middle of a field for the crows to pick. But all the same the business does not please me, SeÑo Juan! You know exactly where you have to strike the bull for him to fall to the ground at once. I also know exactly where to hit a Christian so that he shall die at once, or that he should last a little, or that he should spend weeks raging against Plumitas, who wishes to interfere with no one, but who knows how to treat those who interfere with him."

DoÑa Sol again felt an intense desire to know the number of his crimes.

"You will feel repugnance towards me, SeÑora Marquesa; but after all what does it matter?... I do not think I can remember them all, although I try to recall them. Possibly they might be thirty-three or thirty-five. I really could not quite say. In this very restless life, who thinks of keeping exact accounts? But I am an unhappy man, SeÑora Marquesa, very unfortunate. The fault lay with those who first harmed me. These dead men are like cherries, if you pull one, the others come down by dozens. I have to kill in order to go on living, and if ever one feels any pity one has to swallow it."

There was a long silence. The lady looked at the bandit's coarse strong hands, with their broken nails. But Plumitas took no notice of her, all his attention was fixed on the espada, wishing to show his gratitude for having been received at his table, and anxious to dispel the impression that his words seemed to have caused.

"I respect you, SeÑo Juan," he added. "Ever since I saw you fight for the first time, I said to myself: 'That is a brave fellow.' There are many aficionados who love you, but not as I do!... Just imagine, that to see you I have often disguised myself, and have gone into the towns, exposing myself to the risk of anyone laying hands on me. Isn't that love of sport?"

Gallardo smiled, nodding his head. He was flattered now in his artistic pride.

"Besides," continued the bandit, "no one can say that I ever came to La Rincona even to ask for a bit of bread. Many a time I have been starving, or have wanted five duros when I was passing by here, but never till to-day have I passed through the fence of your farm. I have always said, 'SeÑo Juan is sacred to me—he earns his money by risking his life just as I do.' We are in a way comrades. Because you will not deny, SeÑo Juan, that although you are a personage, and that I am of the very worst, still we are equal, as we both live by playing with death. Now we are breakfasting together quietly, but some day, if God looses his hand from us and becomes tired of us, I shall be picked up from the side of the road, shot like a dog, and you with all your money may be carried out of the arena feet foremost, and though the papers may speak of your misfortune for a month or so, it is cursed little gratitude you will feel towards them when you are in another world."

"It is true ... it is true ..." said Gallardo, suddenly paling at the bandit's words.

The superstitious terror that always seized upon him as the time of danger approached was reflected in his face. His probable fate seemed to him just the same as that of this terrible vagabond, who must one day necessarily succumb in his unequal strife.

"But do you believe that I think of death? No, I repent of nothing, and I go on my way. I also have my pleasures and my little prides, just the same as you, when you read in the papers that you did very well with a certain bull and were given the ear. Just think that all Spain talks of el Plumitas, that the papers tell the biggest lies about me, they even say they are going to exhibit me at the theatres, and in that place in Madrid, where the deputies meet, they talk daily of my capture. Over and above this I have the pride of seeing a whole army tracking my footsteps, to see myself, a man alone, driving thousands mad who are paid by Government and wear a sword. The other day, a Sunday, I rode into a village during Mass, and drew up my mare in the Plaza close to some blind men who were singing and playing the guitar. The people were lost in admiration before a cartoon carried by the singers, which represented a fine looking man with whiskers, in a pointed hat, splendidly dressed and riding a magnificent horse, with a gun across the saddle bow, and a good looking girl en croupe behind. It was a long time before I realised that that good looking fellow was Plumitas!... That did please me. When one goes about ragged and half starving, it is delightful that people should imagine you something quite different. I bought the paper they were singing from. I have got it here, the complete life of Plumitas with many lies, all in verse. But it is a fine thing. When I lie on the hill-side I read it so as to learn it by heart. It must have been written by some very clever man."

The terrible Plumitas showed an almost childish pride in speaking of his fame. The modest silence with which he had entered the farm had vanished, that desire that they should forget his personality, and see in him only a poor wayfarer pressed by hunger. He warmed at the thought that his name was famous, and that his deeds received at once the honours of publicity.

"Who would have known me," he continued, "had I gone on living in my village?... I have thought a great deal about that. For us of the lower orders, nothing is open but to eat one's heart out working for others, or to follow the only career which gives fame and money—killing. I should be no good at killing bulls. My village is in the mountains where there are no fierce cattle. Besides, I am heavy, and not very clever.... So ... I kill people. It is the best thing a poor man can do to make himself respected and open a way for himself."

El Nacional, who up to now had been gravely listening to the bandit, thought it necessary to intervene.

"What a poor man wants is education—to know how to read and write."

This was greeted with shouts of laughter by all who knew El Nacional's mania.

"Now you have given us your ideas, comrade," said Potaje, "let Plumitas go on with his stories; what he is telling us is capital."

The bandit received the banderillero's remarks contemptuously, indeed he thought very little of him owing to his prudence in the circus.

"I know how to read and write. And what good has it done me? When I lived in my village it was useful to get me noticed and to make life seem a little less hard.... What a poor man wants is justice; that he may have his rights, but if they are not given then let him take them. One must be a wolf and spread fear. The other wolves will respect you, and the herds will let themselves be devoured with pleasure. If they find you cowardly and without strength even the sheep will spit on you."

Potaje, who was now very drunk, assented delightedly. He did not exactly understand, still through the mists of drink he seemed to perceive the brilliancy of supreme wisdom.

"That is true, comrade. Go on; capital."

"I have seen what the world is," continued the bandit. "The world is divided into two classes—the shorn and the shearers. I do not wish to be shorn. I was born to be a shearer, because I am a man who fears nothing. The same thing has happened to you, SeÑo Juan. By struggling we have risen from the low herd, but your path is better than mine."

He was silent for some time, considering the espada. At last he went on in a tone of conviction:

"I believe, SeÑo Juan, that we have come into the world too late. What things men of valour and enterprise, like ourselves, might have done in former days! You would not have been killing bulls, neither should I be wandering over the country hunted like a wild beast. We might have been viceroys, archipampanos,[93] or something great across the seas. Have you never heard of Pizarro, SeÑo Juan?"

SeÑor Juan made an indefinable gesture, as he did not wish to admit his ignorance of this name which he now heard for the first time.

"The SeÑora Marquesa knows all about him; I learnt his history when I was a sacristan, and read the old romances that the priest had. Well, Pizarro was a poor man like us, who crossed the sea with twelve or thirteen gachos, as good fighters as himself, and entered a country that must have been a real paradise, a country in which were the mines of Potosi: I can't say more. They fought many battles with the inhabitants, and at last conquered them, seizing their king's treasures, and he who got least got his house full up to the roof with gold pieces, and there was not one of them who was not made a Marquis, or a General, or a Justiciary. Just imagine, SeÑo Juan, if we had lived then! What you and I could have done with a handful of brave men like these who are listening to me!"

The farm men listened in silence, but their eyes flashed as the bandit spoke.

"I repeat, we have been born too late, SeÑo Juan. The gates are closed to poor men, the Spaniard does not now know where to go or what to do. All the places where he might have spread have been appropriated by the English or other countries. I, who might have been a king in America or elsewhere, am proclaimed an outlaw, and they even call me a thief. You, who are a brave man, kill bulls and carry off the palms, still I know many who look upon a torero's profession as a low one."

DoÑa Sol interrupted to ask the bandit why he did not become a soldier. He could go to distant countries where there were wars and utilize his talents nobly.

"I might have done so, SeÑora Marquesa. I have often thought of it. But when I sleep at a farm, or hide in my house for a few days, the first time I lie in a bed like a Christian, or have a hot meal at a table like this, a feeling of comfort pervades my body, but in a short time I get restless; it seems as if the mountain, with all its miseries, draws me, and I long once more to sleep on the ground, wrapped in my blanket with a stone for my pillow.... Yes, I might have been a soldier, and I should have been a good one. But where to go? Besides, the same things happen over again in the army as in the world—the shorn and the shearers. You do some great thing and the Colonel appropriates it, or you fight like a wild beast and the General is rewarded.... No, I have been born too late to be a soldier."

Plumitas remained some time silent with lowered eyes, as if he were absorbed in the mental contemplation of his misfortune, at finding no place for himself in the present age.

Suddenly he stood up grasping his carbine.

"I am going.... Many thanks, SeÑo Juan, for your kindness. Good-bye, SeÑora Marquesa."

"But where are you going?" said Potaje, catching hold of him. "Sit down. You are better here than anywhere else."

The picador wanted to prolong the bandit's stay, delighted to think he should be able to describe this interesting meeting in the town.

"I have been here three hours, and I must go. I never spend so long a time in so open and unconcealed a place as La Rinconada. Possibly by now some one has carried the news that I am here."

"Are you afraid of the civiles," enquired Potaje. "They will not come, or if they do, I am at your side."

Plumitas made a contemptuous gesture. The civiles! They are men like any others: some of them brave enough, but they are all fathers of families, and would manage not to see him. They only came out against him when chance brought them face to face, and there was no means of avoiding it.

"Last month I was at the farm of 'the five chimnies' breaking fast as I am here to-day, though not in such good company, when I saw six civiles on foot coming. I am quite sure they did not know I was there, and only came for refreshment. It was an unlucky chance, for neither they nor I could turn tail in the presence of all the farm people. The owner locked the gates, and the civiles began to knock for them to be opened. I ordered him and a shepherd to stand by the two leaves of the door. 'When I say "now" open them wide.' I mounted my mare, with my revolver in my hand. 'Now!' The door was opened wide, and I galloped out like the devil. They fired two or three shots, but did not touch me. I also fired as I went out, and I understand wounded two of the civiles.... To cut it short, I fled lying on the mare's neck, so that they should not make a target of me, and the civiles revenged themselves by thrashing the farm servants; for which reason, SeÑo Juan, it is best to say nothing about my visits. For if you do, down come the three cornered hats, sickening you with enquiries and declarations, as if they were going to catch me with those."

Those of La Rinconada assented mutely. They knew it well enough. They must hold their tongues to avoid annoyances, as they did in all the other farms or shepherd's ranches. This general silence was the bandit's most powerful auxiliary. Besides, all these country peasants were admirers of Plumitas, looking on him as an avenging hero. They need fear no harm from him. His menaces only touched the rich.

"I am not afraid of the civiles," continued the bandit. "Those I fear are the poor. The poor are good, but poverty is such an ugly thing! I know that those three cornered hats will not kill me: they have no balls that can touch me. If anyone kills me, it will be one of the poor. I let them approach without fear because they belong to my own class, but some day advantage will be taken of my carelessness. I have enemies, people who have sworn vengeance on me; for one must have a heavy hand, if one would be respected. If one kills a man outright his family remain to avenge him, but if one is good natured and contents oneself with taking down his trousers and caressing him with a bunch of nettles and thistles he remembers the jest all his life.... It is the poor, those of my own class that I fear; besides, in every village there is some fine fellow who thinks he would like to be my heir—and hopes to find me some day sleeping in the shade of a tree, and will blow off my head point blank."

A quarter of an hour later Plumitas came out of the stable into the courtyard mounted on his powerful mare, the inseparable companion of his wanderings. The bony animal looked bigger and brighter for her brief hours of plenty in the Rinconada mangers.

Plumitas caressed her flanks, pausing as he arranged his blanket on the saddle-bow. She might indeed be content. She would not often be so well treated as at SeÑor Juan Gallardo's farm. And now she must carry herself well, for the day would be long.

"And whither are you going, comrade?" asked Potaje.

"Don't ask me—throughout the world! I myself do not know. Where anything turns up!"

And putting a foot in his rusty and muddy stirrup with one bound he sat erect in his saddle.

Gallardo left DoÑa Sol's side, who was watching the bandit's preparations for departure with strange eyes, her lips pale and drawn.

The torero searched in the inside pocket of his coat, and advancing towards the rider offered him shamefacedly some crumpled papers that he held in his hand.

"What is this?" said the bandit. "Money?... Thanks, SeÑo Juan. Some one has told you that it is necessary to give me something when I come to a farm; but that is for those others, the rich, whose money grows like the roses. You earn yours by risking your life. We are companions. Keep it yourself, SeÑo Juan."

SeÑor Juan kept his bank notes, though rather annoyed by the bandit's refusal, and his persistence in treating him as a comrade.

"You shall pledge[94] me a bull some time or other when we see each other in a Plaza. That would be worth more than all the gold in the world."

DoÑa Sol now came forward till she was quite close to the rider's foot, and taking from her breast an autumn rose, she offered it silently, looking at him with her green and golden eyes.

"Is this for me?" said the bandit surprised and wondering. "For me, SeÑora Marquesa?"

As she nodded her head, he took the flower shyly, handling it awkwardly, as if its weight were overpowering, not knowing where to place it, till at last he passed it through a button-hole in his jacket, between the two ends of the red handkerchief he wore tied round his neck.

"This is good, indeed!" his broad face expanding into a smile. "Nothing of the sort has ever happened to me before in my life."

The rough rider seemed moved and troubled by the womanliness of the gift. Roses for him!...

He gathered up his reins.

"Good-bye to you all, caballeros. Till we meet again.... Good-bye, my fine fellows. Some time or other I will throw you a cigar if you plant a good lance."

He gave a rough clasp of the hand to the picador, who replied by a thump on the thigh which made the bandit's vigorous muscles jump. That Plumitas, how "simpatico" he was! Potaje, in his drunken tenderness, would have liked to go with him to the mountain.

"Adio! Adio!"

And spurring his horse, he rode out of the courtyard.

Gallardo seemed relieved on seeing him depart. He turned towards DoÑa Sol; she was standing motionless, following the rider with her eyes as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

"What a woman!" murmured the espada sadly. "What a woman!"

It was fortunate that Plumitas was ugly and was dirty and ragged as a vagabond.

Otherwise, she would have gone with him.