After this occurrence the good priest developed a strange taste for bull-fighting. He sat long in the little tobacco-shops, reading the newspapers; and he never seemed to read any thing but notices of entertainments of this kind. He bought all the bills and programmes that were offered him, no matter at what place the combat was to take place. He had long conversations with people who made it their business to bet on the event of such combats; and altogether one would have thought that the reverend gentleman was developing very unclerical tastes. It was about a year after this, that a bull-fight was announced for the festival of St. Ignatius at Loyola. As this is one of the principal religious fête-days in Spain, Father Zenobe obtained permission to attend, without difficulty. It was not a very singular thing to see priests at bull-fights. At Loyola was situated one of the most magnificent convents in all Spain; and the entertainments held here on the festival of St. Ignatius were always under the especial patronage of the Church. Among the gayly dressed banderilleros who exposed their lives that day in the arena, was a slender boy, dressed in a tightly fitting suit of delicate green satin, with flesh-colored

stockings, gold ornaments, and a rose-colored sash. Father Zenobe knew him by his curly head, and the dash and bravado of his bearing. He was the youngest combatant, and seemed to be a special favorite with the audience and with the troupe; for the former showered down cigars and bouquets at each daring exploit, and the latter shielded him as much as possible, keeping him away from the more dangerous parts of the field. Father Zenobe had taken one of the highpriced seats usually reserved for the "fancy," or professional connoisseurs at bull-fights, in the front row. The awning that covered the audience in the higher tiers did not shade him, and he sat exposed to the rays of the summer sun. At first he had cautiously raised his beloved umbrella; but he had been obliged to close it instantly, some of the audience objecting even to his long, skiff-shaped, black hat, as too much obstructing the view. The spectacle, with all its horror of blood and brutality, had gone on for some time; and now the moment had arrived for Fadrique's feat. Seated in a chair in the centre of the arena, he was to fix a little dart in each side of the bull's neck as it charged toward him. The animal was a huge creature, black as a coal, with a

small fiery eye. A garnet ribbon, which indicated to whose drove he belonged, was fastened to one horn, and ran trickling down the middle of his forehead like a rill of blood. He advanced slowly toward Fadrique, as though curious to know why he was sitting. When he had reached the proper distance, Fadrique raised both arms, and threw the darts with all his force into the bull's flesh; then the creature, maddened by the pain, lunged suddenly forward; and something was tossed again and again from his horns into the air. It was only the chair; for Fadrique had saved himself by an agile leap to one side, and was now standing in a statuesque attitude with folded arms, seemingly indifferent to the plaudits that rang around the arena. But he was too careless: the bull discovered in a moment that the chair was not his real enemy, and tossed Fadrique just as, off his guard, he was replying to the audience with a graceful bow. He fell heavily, not far from the spot where Father Zenobe was sitting. There happened to be no attendants in this part of the field, and the bull was approaching with lowered horns. Fadrique lay completely in his power, when a red meteor shot through the air, and diverted the animal's attention. It was

Father Zenobe's great claret-colored umbrella, which he, with remarkable presence of mind and exactitude of aim, had thrown before the eyes of the angry bull. When, after the sport, it was handed to him again, two springs were broken, and its rich claret cover was stained with an angrier hue: thank Heaven it was not human blood! for in that brief interval some of the assistants had had time to drag Fadrique out of the bull's reach. His life was saved; but a leg was broken, and it would be necessary for him to give up his new profession for a long time. Father Zenobe had him carried carefully back to Fontarabia, and nursed him with true paternal care through his long convalescence. At length, when it was evident that he had almost recovered, and would soon have the use of his limb as before, he bade him good-by. "I shall not be able to attend every bull-fight," said he; "but I shall pray to Our Lady to shield you from all danger."

Fadrique's eyes filled with tears: "I have had enough of bull-fighting," he said; "and if you wish it I will be a priest."

"I do not wish it," replied the wise old man; "but I have your father's permission for you to go to sea: you

will have nobler opportunities for daring there than in the bull-ring, and can, if you choose, serve God as truly as in the cloister."

And so Fadrique became a sailor on the stormiest of waters, — a fisherman of the Bay of Biscay.

On his return from his first voyage he hung as a votive offering, before the picture of Christ walking upon the sea, in the old church of Fontarabia, a model of his ship; such as are common in Spanish churches, as mementos of rescues from shipwreck, and which sway like pendulums from long cords attached to the ceiling. Father Zenobe was right: he did not know how to pray, but the storms had taught him. They have taught him more; for, in the most terrible gales that drive the surf high upon this formidable coast, there is no one more active in fitting out the life-boat for the rescue of those in distress than Fadrique. He is as reckless as ever, and counts his life as little worth, if only he may lay it down in a cause that is really worthy.

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