José kindled a light for the matador, and supplied him with tobacco, and with a quaint cumbrous pipe covered with Indian carving. From what he had seen of the man, he respected and liked him; but neither had any wish to converse with the other. So they sat together in perfect silence, quite content to wait, and to enjoy their own meditations. They could hear the voices of the monk and his penitent plainly enough, the thin partition being of cane covered with plaster. First, that of the young Englishman—calm, earnest, solemn—“I desire to confess”—but the end of the sentence escaped them. Then Fray Fernando’s voice, earnest also,—not quite his ordinary professional tone, which was well known to José. Then both, succeeding each other rapidly, sometimes even mingling, as the voices of men who dispute, and rather hotly. Then a brief sentence, mournfully spoken by Fray Fernando. Then, once more, the voice of Walter Grey, so full, so calm, so harmonious, that José thought he must be reciting some sweet yaravi of his native land, instead of making confession of his sins. Then a pause, followed by some low quiet words from Fray Fernando. These appeared to end the interview. A movement was heard within, and in another moment Fray Fernando opened the door. “Remember, I give you time,” they heard him say. “You are under my instruction. I must see you as often as I can.” Walter Grey bowed, and walked into the outer room. Released from the hateful oar, he looked tall and stately; and in spite of his ragged jerkin and fettered ankles, a true English gentleman—“a Child of the Sun,” José called him in his heart. He placed himself in the seat at the table from which the matador had just risen, and resting his face upon his hands, seemed lost in thought. The silence that followed was really hard for José to bear; he had hoped such great things from this interview, and taken such pains to procure it. Yet he respected the Englishman too much to intrude on his meditations. He waited for some time with exemplary patience; but at last, growing desperate from the fear of losing altogether the only opportunity he might ever enjoy, he ventured to ask,— “Señor Englishman, will you speak with me?” Walter Grey started, uncovered his face, and turned his frank blue eyes upon José, whose presence, up to that moment, he had completely forgotten. “I should be ungrateful indeed if I would not, Don José,” he answered. “What do you want with me?” “I have somewhat to say to you; somewhat also to hear from your lips,” said José, in his grave, sententious way. Then, rising from his seat, he stood before the Englishman.