be tipped with wood, all save a point two inches
Iong, so that the next bull should show better
sport. And, not to dwell on details, after five
or six horses had been disabled, the picadors
retired, and amid a flourish of trumpets I was
placed face to face with the black Portuguese
bull.

"Bravo, toro! look what a wicked eye he has!
I bet an ounce of gold on the bull!" shouted
one amateur, springing to his feet, and there was
a burst of laughter at the offer of this wager,
but a breathless silence succeeded as I advanced,
step by step, towards where the bull stood,
pawing up the loose sand with his fore feet, and
roaring low, as he watched me. He was a superb
beast, very large, but a model of symmetry, and
his sable coat, spotted now with froth and gore,
was as glossy as satin. He was very little hurt;
his bloodshot eyes rolled fiercely; he was
evidently gathering breath to renew the battle. On
my part, I was well aware that my life hung by
a thread, but that if I could conquer this one
bull, the last survivor, my work would be done,
and the money—the price of a man's safety—
would be earned. A hasty word of prayer rose
from my heart to my lips, and I advanced,
cautiously but firmly. The bull appeared to be
in no hurry. He waited, with heaving flanks,
close to one of the barriers, while I drew near.

"Have a care, Englishman, have a care!
he means mischief!" cried some well-meaning
spectator in the front row. Scarcely were the
words uttered, before with a deep and sudden
roar the black bull came thundering down upon
me in headlong charge. It was all that I could
do to spring aside, and the bull, unable to check
himself, dashed his head against the wooden
barriers with a violence that made many women
in the lower tier scream with affright. But
with great quickness the huge beast recovered
himself, and came rushing towards me, with his
head low. Again I sprang aside, but so narrow
was my escape that one of the sharp horns
caught the sleeve of my gaudy jacket, and
ripped it open from wrist to elbow, while the
applause of the audience followed the stroke.
Before I could use my sword, the bull nimbly
wheeled, and I was forced to trust for my life to
my superior speed of foot, running round the
ring, hotly chased by the bull, whose feet sank
in the loose sand. I then turned, and made an
ineffectual effort to throw the red cloak over the
eyes of my terrible antagonist, but the crafty
beast eluded me, and this time, as I sprang out
of its way, I felt a sharp pang in my left arm
and side, and staggered back, almost dropping
the sword. The people set up a cry:

"Toro! Viva El Negro! the black bull for
ever! Well done, bull! I see the Englishman's
blood."

A crimson mist floated before my eyes, I grew
dizzy, and the roar of the audience confused me.
Was all indeed lost? Half mechanically, while
the blood ebbed from my wounded arm, I looked
around me. The bull was close by. I saw his
glaring eyes and tossing horns; he lowered his
head, and made a fresh charge. Hardly knowing
what I did, I thrust forward the long strong-bladed
sword of the matador, and planted my
feet firmly, and then there was a crash and a
bellowing roar, and I was beaten to the ground,
and rose again, feebly, and then I was leaning
on my sword, reeling like a drunken man, as the
manager supported me and bade me bow to the
audience, while the shout of "0, well done
the Englishman! Viva! Viva! Well done!"
rose from thousands of throats. Close beside
me lay the carcase of the black Portuguese bull.
My sword had reached its heart. The next thing
I remember was that I lay, half swooning, on a
mattress in one of the inner crypts of the
amphitheatre, while a doctor was binding up my hurts.

"Considerable hæmorrhage, but no artery
damaged, after all!" said the French surgeon;
"let us see the other wound. Bah! a mere
graze. You have escaped bel et bien, my young
friend, after all!"

So it proved. I suffered no inconvenience
beyond loss of blood from the injury I had
received, and the money I had earned being
forwarded by a safe hand to the place of
rendezvous on the following day, Mr. Croft was
set at liberty. Moreno proved a man of his
word, being equally willing to release a captive
whose ransom was paid, as to poniard an
insolvent prisoner. I will not attempt to describe
Alice's joy at being reunited to the father
whom she had mourned as dead, nor the mingled
terror and gratitude with which the darling girl
learned the desperate means I had taken to save
him. I am captain of the Tudor now, and she
is my wife, and in our English home, in which we
have lived happily together for so long, she has
often recalled, with tears and smiles, that episode
in our lives which was so nearly proving tragical
at Malaga.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS.
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," "Copperfleld," &c.
Now publishing, PART IX., price Is., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

Stitched in a cover, price Fourpence, the
NEW CHRISTMAS NUMBER,
MRS. LIRRIPER'S LEGACY.
I. MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES
HOW SHE WENT ON AND WENT OVER.
II. A PAST LODGER RELATES
A WILD LEGEND OF A DOCTOR.
III. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
HIS EXPERIENCE AS A POOR RELATION.
IV. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
WHAT LOT HE DREW AT GLUMPER HOUSE.
V. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
HIS OWN GHOST STORY.
VI. ANOTHER PAST LODGER RELATES
CERTAIN PASSAGES TO HER HUSBAND.
VII. MRS. LIRRIPER RELATES
HOW JEMMY TOPPED UP.