“There is none to tell,” said the matador, who, except to his immediate neighbours, rarely spoke at all, and still more rarely spoke of himself. Being, however, urged by José to relate the circumstances, he did so briefly. “Some twelve years ago,” he said, “before we came to the New World, when my arm was stronger, I sat on the first bench, and had leave to go on shore at Carthagena. There was to be a bull-feast the next day; and they were driving the beasts into the city—all the world out to gaze at them, of course. In old days, I knew something of the ring myself. So I must needs stand and gaze with the rest. The first bull was stupid, and made no sport. But the second was an ugly-looking beast—a dry, tough fellow, lean and sharp-horned—” “Ay, ay,” cried one Spaniard after another, in high delight at hearing once more the language of the sport all had loved in former years; “we know that sort. Hard to kill. No flinchers.” “_Pues_,” the matador went on, “the poor beast was driven mad by the shouts of the bystanders, and the blows of their goads and sticks. He broke out of the line; and, not knowing his real tormentors, stood roaring and pawing with fury. At last he put his head down as if he meant mischief, and made a determined rush at a dainty young hidalgo who had been doing nothing at all, but who happened to be dressed that day in a new scarlet doublet with a montero to match. He was a brave man, and had his tool ready in an instant. Still, it might have gone hard with him, only that I, knowing the business, snatched a long knife from a butcher who stood at the door of his stall, and turned the creature’s rage against myself. I managed to keep him busy till they rescued me. I could have killed him, of course; but I knew better. Who, I pray you, was to pay for him if I did?” “I hope the gentleman you rescued paid you?” Walter threw in. “Oh yes; he behaved well to me. He would gladly have ransomed me, but that could not be. So he lined my pocket with good gold doubloons, and procured me every favour and indulgence in his power. But, enough of me.—Señor Indio, your turn is come now. Slaves though we may be, we like to thank our benefactors, and it is therefore only in reason that we should know their names.” “You will be little advantaged by knowing mine. Your countrymen call me Don José Viracocha Inca.” From the much prized Spanish title all present gathered that their Indian friend was a person of distinction; but the rest fell unnoticed on every ear save that of Walter, who started and looked up, with curiosity and interest in his face.