some of them deserted and forlorn, and saw an ancient abandoned castle high on a hill.

Amparo seemed to Megan like a wild animal—gliding effortlessly over hills and valleys, never seeming to tire.

When, hours later, Valladolid finally loomed up in the distance, Jaime called a halt.

He turned to Felix. "Everything is arranged?"

"Yes."

Megan wondered exactly what had been arranged, and found out very quickly.

"Tomás is instructed to contact us at the bullring."

"What time does the bank close?"

"Five o'clock. There will be plenty of time."

Jaime nodded. "And today there should be a fat payroll."

Good Lord, they're going to rob a bank, Megan thought.

"What about a car?" Amparo was asking.

"No problem," Jaime assured her.

They're going to steal one, Megan thought. It was a little more excitement than she had bargained for. God isn't going to like this.

When the group reached the outskirts of Valladolid, Jaime warned, "Stay with the crowds. Today is bullfight day and there will be thousands of people. Let's not get separated."

Jaime Miró had been right about the crowds. Megan had never seen so many people. The streets were swarming with pedestrians and automobiles and motorcycles, for the bullfight had drawn not only tourists but citizens from all the neighboring towns. Even the children on the street were playing at bullfighting.

Megan was fascinated by the crowds, the noise, and the bustle around her. She looked into the faces of passersby and wondered what their lives were like. Soon enough I'll be back in the convent where I won't be allowed to look at anyone's face again. I might as well take advantage of this while I can.

The sidewalks were filled with vendors displaying trinkets, religious medals and crosses, and everywhere was the pungent smell of fritters frying in boiling oil.

Megan suddenly realized how hungry she was.

It was Felix who said, "Jaime, we're all hungry. Let's try some of those fritters."

Felix bought four of them and handed one to Megan. "Try this, Sister. You'll like it."

It was delicious. For so many of her years, food was meant not to be enjoyed, but to sustain the body for the glory of the Lord. This one's for me, Megan thought irreverently.

"The arena is this way," Jaime said.

They followed the crowds past the park in the middle of town to the Plaza Poinente, which flowed into the Plaza de Toros. The arena itself was inside an enormous adobe structure, three stories high. There were four ticket windows at the entrance. Signs on the left said SOL, and on the right, SOMBRA. Sun or shade. There were hundreds of people standing in the lines waiting to purchase tickets.

"Wait here," Jaime ordered.

They watched him as he walked over to where half a dozen scalpers were hawking tickets.

Megan turned to Felix. "Are we going to watch a bullfight?"

"Yes, but don't worry, Sister," Felix reassured her. "You will find it exciting."

Worry? Megan was thrilled by the idea. At the orphanage,

one of her fantasies had been that her father had been a great torero, and Megan had read every book on bullfighting that she could get her hands on.

Felix told her, "The real bullfights are held in Madrid and Barcelona. The bullfight here will be by novilleros,

instead of professionals. They are amateurs. They have not been granted the alternativa."

Megan knew that the alternativa was the accolade given only to the top-ranked matadors.

"The ones we will see today fight in rented costumes,

instead of the gold-encrusted suit of lights, against bulls with filed, dangerous horns that the professionals refuse to fight."

"Why do they do it?"

Felix shrugged."El hombre hace mas daño que los cuernos.

Hunger is more painful than horns."

Jaime returned holding four tickets. "We're all set," he said. "Let's go in."

Megan felt a growing sense of excitement.

As they approached the entrance to the huge arena, they passed a poster plastered to the wall. Megan stopped and stared at it.

"Look!"

There was a picture of Jaime Miró, and under it:

WANTED FOR MURDER

JAIME MIRТ

 ONE MILLION PESETAS REWARD FOR HIS CAPTURE DEAD OR ALIVE.

Suddenly it brought back to Megan the sober realization of the kind of man she was traveling with, the terrorist who held her life in his hands.

 Jaime was studying the picture. Brazenly he pulled off his hat and dark glasses and faced his portrait. "Not a bad likeness." He ripped the poster off the wall, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

 "What good will that do?" Amparo said. "They must have posted hundreds of them."

 Jaime grinned. "This particular one is going to bring us a fortune, querida." He put his hat and glasses back on.

 What a strange remark, Megan thought. She could not help admiring his coolness. There was an air of solid competence about Jaime Mir у that Megan found reassuring. The soldiers will never catch him, she thought.

"Let's go inside."

There were twelve widely spaced entrances to the building.

The red iron doors had been flung open, each one numbered.

Inside the entrance there were puestos selling Coca-Cola and beer, and next to them were small toilet cubicles. In the stands, each section and seat was numbered. The tiers of stone benches made a complete circle, and in the center was the large arena covered with sand. There were commercial signs everywhere: BANCO CENTRAL… BOUTIQUE CALZADOS…

SCHWEPPES… RADIO POPULAR…

Jaime had purchased tickets for the shady side, and as they sat down on the stone benches, Megan looked around in wonder. It was not at all as she had imagined it. When she was a young girl, she had seen romantic color photographs of the bullring in Madrid, huge and elaborate. This was a makeshift ring. The arena was rapidly filling up with spectators.

A trumpet sounded. The bullfight began.

Megan leaned forward in her seat, her eyes wide. A huge bull charged into the ring, and a matador stepped out from behind a small wooden barrier at the side of the ring and began to tease the animal.

"The picadors will be next," Megan said excitedly.

Jaime Miró looked at her in wonder. He had been concerned that the bullfight would make her ill and that she would attract attention to them. Instead, she seemed to be having a wonderful time. Strange.

A picador was approaching the bull, riding a horse covered with a heavy blanket. The bull lowered its head and charged at the horse, and as it buried its horns in the blanket, the picador drove an eight-foot lance into the bull's shoulder.

Megan was watching, fascinated. "He's doing that to weaken the bull's neck muscles," she explained, remembering the well-loved books she had read all those years ago.

Felix Carpio blinked in surprise. "That's right, Sister."

Megan watched as the pairs of colorfully decorated banderillas were slammed into the bull's shoulders.

Now it was the matador's turn. He stepped into the ring holding at his side a red cape with a sword inside it. The bull turned and began to charge.

Megan was getting more excited. "He will make his passes now," she said. "First the pase verуnica, then the media-verуnica, and last the rebolera."

Jaime could contain his curiosity no longer. "Sister—

where did you learn all this?"

Without thinking, Megan said, "My father was a bullfighter. Watch!"

The action was so swift, Megan could barely follow it. The maddened bull kept charging at the matador, and each time he neared him, the matador swung his red cape to the side and the bull followed the cape. Megan was concerned.

"What happens if the bullfighter gets hurt?"

Jaime shrugged. "In a place like this, the town barber will take him over to the barn and sew him up."