but it will not be long before you do the same!" said Don Mateo.

"I pray for a man! You are getting imbecile, señor."

"It won't be long before I hear of it," returned the old man, as he passed on to another box to greet the Señores de Maza.

At that moment Pablito joined his family, accompanied by his faithful friend, who merits special notice.

He was the son of the picador, the famous bull slayer, of the place, and the cast of the lad's features was such as would have been the delight of the spectators at a circus. His face would have required no addition in the way of powder, rouge, or dye to convert him into a clown. The nose, highly colored by nature, the narrow slits of eyes, the lack of any mustache or whiskers, the thick lips, the excessive width of his shoulders, the bow of his legs, and, above all, the facial contortions which accompanied every word he uttered, were provocative of mirth without the aid of paint or wig. Piscis, for so he was called, was aware of this peculiarity, and resented it so intensely that he resolved to counteract the ludicrous cast of his features by determining never to laugh, and he religiously kept to his decision. Moreover, he, for the same reason, interspersed his remarks with the sharpest, strongest interjections of the vernacular, varied by those of his own invention. But this, instead of producing the desired effect, only added to the amusement he provoked among his acquaintances.

The only person who ever took him seriously—up to a certain point—was Pablito. Piscis and Pablito were born to inspire each other with mutual love and admiration. The point of union between the two kindred spirits was "the cult of the horse-god." Piscis, through his father, was an adept in that line from a child; and as the best mount in Sarrio, he was the object of Pablito's warmest admiration, and the son of Don Rosendo being the richest young fellow of the place, there was, according to Piscis, no person in the world more deserving of respect and admiration.

Nobody knew when this friendship had begun; Pablito and Piscis had always been inseparable from the time they were children, and the difference of their social positions did not separate them as they grew up to manhood. Don Rosendo's stable was their constant place of meeting; from thence, after a long and erudite conference, partly theoretical, partly practical on the horses, they proceeded to betake their presence and their profound knowledge to the town, where they took a few turns, sometimes on high-spirited horses, and at other times in a smart trap, with Pablito driving, and Piscis absorbed in affectionate contemplation of the backs of the animals. On some occasions, however, they gave the town a lesson of humility by perambulating on their own legs. Pablito now came up to his family party convulsed with laughter.

"What has come over you?" asked Doña Paula, smiling in sympathy.

"We just followed Periquito to the gallery, and there we found him hand in hand with Ramona," whispered the young man into his sister Venturita's ear.

"Well, what did he say?" she asked with great curiosity.

"He said"—and here a burst of laughter interrupted him for some minutes—"he said, 'Ramona, I love you.'"

"Ave Maria! and an anchovy seller, too!" exclaimed the girl, joining in the laugh, and making the sign of the cross.

"If you could have heard the trembling voice in which he said it, and the way in which he turned up the whites of his eyes—— Ah! here is Piscis, who was also witness of it."

Piscis gave vent to a corroborative grunt. At that moment Periquito, a pallid, lean lad, with blue eyes and a little, thin red beard, appeared in one of the stage boxes; the eyes of the whole Belinchon family were at once turned on him with mocking and smiling glances, Pablito and Venturita evincing particular delight at the sight of the young man. Periquito raised his head and saluted them, and the Belinchon family responded to the greeting without ceasing laughing. He raised his eyes two or three times, but those continual mocking glances so confused him that he at last retired into the narrow foyer. The curtain then rose again: the scene now represented caverns in the infernal regions, although it was not impossible for them to be mistaken for the hold of a ship.

The act opened with a prelude by the orchestra, worthily conducted by Señor Anselmo, the cabinet-maker of the town.

Señor Matias, the sacristan, and Señor Manola, the barber, took part in the performance as bassoon-players. Don Juan, the "old salt," as he was nicknamed, and Prospero, the carpenter, played the clarinets; the trumpet-players were Mechacan, the shoemaker, and Señor Romualdo, the undertaker; Pepe de la Esquila, the lawyer's clerk, and Maroto, "the watchman," were the cornet-players; and the fiddle was played by Señor Benito, the violinist of the church and a clerk in a business house; while the minor accompanists consisted of four or five apprentice youths of the town.

Instead of a bâton, Señor Anselmo held in his hand an enormous bright key, which was that of his shop, and served to conduct the music.

The prelude was very sad and mournful, suggestive of a fitting state of mind for the infernal regions. The audience preserved absolute silence, and in anxious expectation of what was to come all eyes were fixed on the open trap-doors in the stage floor. A discordant note suddenly broke in upon the soft, mysterious music. Señor Anselmo turned and cast a reproachful look at the offending musician, who colored up to his eyes; and there came a loud, prolonged murmur of disapproval from the audience, while from the gallery a voice cried:

"It was Pepe de la Esquila!"

All eyes were then directed to the delinquent, who, drawing the mouthpiece from his cornet, shook it with assumed indifference while his face became redder and redder.

"Those who can not play should go to bed," cried the same voice.

Then the abashed and ashamed Pepe de la Esquila was fraught with fury. He threw his instrument upon the floor, rose from his seat with his eyes aflame with rage, shook his fist at the gallery, and cried:

"I'll settle you when we get out, see if I don't."

"Sh! sh! Silence, silence!" exclaimed the audience in a breath.

"What is there to settle, man? Get on and play the cornet better."

"Silence, silence! Shame!" cried the audience again, and all eyes were then turned to the mayor's box.

He was a man of sixty or seventy years of age, short of stature and very high-colored; his hair was still thick and quite white, his cheeks were shaven, his nose Roman, his eyes large, round, and prominent. He looked like a courtier of the time of Louis XV, or a coachman of some grand house.

Don Roque, for such was his name, turned round in his seat, and called out in a stentorian voice:

"Marcones."

Whereupon an octogenarian official approached the door of the box with his shiny, peaked, blue cloth cap in his hand.

The mayor conferred with him for some minutes; and then Marcones ascended the gallery, and reappeared holding a young man in sailor dress by the arm. They both approached the mayor's box, and then Don Roque proceeded to rebuke the offender in a voice which he only partially succeeded in modulating, for, from time to time, one overheard such remarks as: "Disturber of the peace! Have you no manners whatsoever! You are a belligerent animal! Do you think you are in a tavern?"

The sailor received the reprimand with his eyes on the ground.

A voice cried from the pit:

"Let him be taken to prison."

Then another voice from the gallery immediately returned:

"Let Pepe de la Esquila be taken too."

"Silence! Silence!"

The mayor, after having sharply rebuked Percebe, let him return to his seat, to the great delight of the gallery, who received him back with hurrahs