An
overwhelming sense of the mystery of being stabbed, sharp as a knife,
at her heart; a choking longing possessed her to experience all--all
the wonders of life, but principally love.
"Look, Bembo!" Anna Mantegazza suddenly exclaimed. "No; there--
approaching! Who's that singular person in the hired carriage?"
Her interest was so roused that Lavinia, once more forgetful of Gheta's
sleeves, leaned over her sister's shoulder, and immediately
distinguished the object of their curiosity.
An open cab was moving slowly, almost directly under the window, with a
single patron--a slender man, sitting rigidly erect, in a short, black
shell jacket, open upon white linen, a long black tie, and a soft
narrow scarlet sash. He wore a wide-brimmed stiff felt hat slanted over
a thin countenance burned by the sun as dark as green bronze; his face
was as immobile as metal, too; it bore, as if permanently molded, an
expression of excessive contemptuous pride.
Bembo's voice rose in a babble of excited information.
"'Singular?' Why, that's one of the most interesting men alive. It's
Abrego y Mochales, the greatest bullfighter in existence, the Flower of
Spain. I've seen him in the ring and at San Sebastian with the King;
and I can assure you that one was hardly more important than the other.
He's idolized by every one in Spain and South America; women of all
classes fall over each other with declarations and gifts."
As if he had heard the pronouncement of his name the man in the cab
turned sharply and looked up.
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