"That's not our brand," says George; "they're strange stock," and he
points to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign of
Venus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing. But
the herd are closing round us with low mutterings, and George has again
recourse to the authoritative "TORO," and with swinging riata divides
the "bossy bucklers" on either side. When we are free, and breathing
somewhat more easily, I venture to ask George if they ever attack
anyone.

"Never horsemen--sometimes footmen. Not through rage, you know, but
curiosity. They think a man and his horse are one, and if they meet a
chap afoot, they run him down and trample him under hoof, in the
pursuit of knowledge. But," adds George, "here's the lower bench of the
foothills, and here's Altascar's corral, and that White building you see
yonder is the casa."

A whitewashed wall enclosed a court containing another adobe building,
baked with the solar beams of many summers. Leaving our horses in the
charge of a few peons in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in the
sun, we entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agreeable
coolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a plunge in cool water,
from its contrast with the external glare and heat. In the center of a
low-ceiled apartment sat an old man with a black-silk handkerchief tied
about his head, the few gray hairs that escaped from its folds relieving
his gamboge-colored face. The odor of CIGARRITOS was as incense added to
the cathedral gloom of the building.

As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive us, George
advanced with such a heightened color, and such a blending of tenderness
and respect in his manner, that I was touched to the heart by so much