A sharp rap at the door, sounding as if given by an iron finger, interrupted the conversation. The old woman got up and looked through the little grating, inserted, according to Spanish custom, in the centre of the door. Through the bars appeared the countenance of Juancho, pale beneath the bronzed tint with which the sun of the arena had overlaid it. Aldonsa opened the door and the torero entered. His features betrayed the violent emotions that had agitated him in the bull-ring. To the shame of having been hissed was superadded rage at not having quitted the circus soon enough to overtake the young man who had been so attentive to Militona. Where could he now find him? Doubtless he had followed the manola and spoken to her again. And at the thought, Juancho's hand mechanically sank to his girdle to seek his knife. The torero sat down upon the second chair. Militona stood at the window, pulling a flower to pieces; the old woman fanned herself more rapidly than ever: an awkward silence reigned in the apartment. Aldonsa was the first to break it. "Does your arm hurt you, Juancho?" "No," replied the bull-fighter, fixing his deep gaze upon Militona. "You should bandage it, and apply salt and water," said the old woman, determined not to let the conversation drop. Juancho made no reply, but addressed himself to Militona. "Who was the young man who sat beside you at the bull-fight?" "I do not know him. I never saw him before." "But you would like to know him?" "The supposition is polite. Well, and what if I should?" "I would kill him, the dainty gentleman in polished boots and white gloves." "You talk like a madman, Juancho. What right have I given you to be jealous of me? You love me, you say--is that my fault? Am I obliged to adore you, because you have taken it into your head to find me pretty?" "True enough," interposed the old woman, "she is not obliged. Nevertheless, you would make a handsome couple. Prettier hand never rested on more vigorous arm; and if you danced a cachuca together at the garden of the Delicias, people would stand on the chairs to look at you." "Have I played the coquet with you, Juancho? Have I sought, by word, or look, or smile, to engage your affections?" "No," replied the torero in a gloomy voice. "I never promised you any thing, or gave you any hope: I always bade you forget me. Why torment and offend me by your unjustifiable violence? You crippled poor Luca, an honest fellow, who amused me and made me laugh, and you wounded your friend Gines almost to death, because he happened to touch my hand. Do you think such conduct advances you in my good opinion? And to-day at the circus you behaved absurdly; whilst watching me, you let the bull come upon you, and gave a miserable thrust."