Chapter 2

CHAPTER II


THE MATADOR AND THE LADY

AS Gallardo descended to the vestibule of the hotel he saw the street
filled with a dense and noisy crowd as though some great event had taken
place. The buzzing of the multitude outside the door reached his ears.
The proprietor and all his family appeared with extended hands as if
they would bid him farewell for a long journey.

"Good luck! May all go well with you!"

The servants, forgetting distance at the impulse of enthusiasm and
emotion, also held their right hands out to him.

"Good luck, Don Juan!"

And he turned in all directions smiling, regardless of the frightened
faces of the ladies of the hotel.

"Thanks, many thanks! See you later."

He was a different man. From the moment he had hung the glittering cape
over one shoulder a persistent smile illuminated his countenance. He was
pale, with a sweaty pallor like that of the sick; but he smiled,
satisfied to live and to show himself in public, adopting his new pose
with the instinctive freedom of one who but needs an incentive to parade
before the people.

He swaggered with arrogance, puffing occasionally at the cigar he
carried in his left hand. He moved his hips haughtily under his handsome
cape and strode with a firm step and with the flippancy of a gay youth.

"Come, gentlemen, make way! Many thanks; many thanks."

And he tried to preserve his dress from unclean contact as way was made
among an ill-clad, enthusiastic crowd which surged against the doors of
the hotel. They had no money with which to go to the bull-fight but they
took advantage of the opportunity of pressing the hand of the famous
Gallardo, or of at least touching his garments.

A coach drawn by four richly caparisoned mules with tassels and bells
stood waiting at the door. Garabato had already seated himself on the
box with his bundle of muletas and swords. Three bull-fighters were
inside with their capes over their knees, dressed in gayly colored
clothes embroidered with as great profusion as the master's, but in
silver.

Pressed onward by the popular ovation, and having to defend himself with
his elbows from greedy hands, Gallardo reached the carriage-step.

"Good-afternoon, gentlemen," he said shortly to the men of his
cuadrilla.

He seated himself at the back so that all could see him, and smiled with
responsive nods to the shouts of some ragged women and to the short
applause begun by some newsboys.

The carriage started with all the impetus of the spirited mules, filling
the street with gay ringing. The mob parted to give passage but many
rushed at the carriage as though they would fall under its wheels. Hats
and canes were waved; an explosion of enthusiasm burst from the crowd,
one of those contagions that agitate and madden the masses at certain
times—making every one shout without knowing why.

"Hurrah for the brave! Viva Espa�a!"

Gallardo, ever pale and smiling, saluted, repeating "many thanks," moved
by the contagion of popular enthusiasm and proud of his standing which
united his name to that of his native land.

A troop of dishevelled youngsters ran after the coach at full speed, as
though convinced that, at the end of the mad race, something
extraordinary surely awaited them.

For at least an hour Alcal� Street had been like a river of carriages
that flowed toward the outskirts of the city between two banks of
close-packed foot passengers. All kinds of vehicles, ancient and modern,
figured in this tumultuous and noisy emigration, from the ancient
diligence, brought to light like an anachronism, to the automobile.
Crowded tramways passed with groups of people overflowing on their
steps. Omnibuses carried people to the corner of Seville Street, while
the conductor shouted "To the plaza! To the plaza!" Tasselled mules with
jingling bells trotted ahead of open carriages in which rode women in
white mantillas with bright flowers in their hair; every instant
exclamations of alarm were heard at the escape, by apelike agility, of
some boy beneath the wheels of a carriage as he crossed by leaps from
one sidewalk to the other defying the current of vehicles. Automobile
horns tooted; coachmen yelled; newsboys shouted the page with the
picture and history of the bulls that were to be fought, or the likeness
and biography of the famous matadores, and from time to time an
explosion of curiosity swelled the deafening roar of the crowd.

Among the dark steeds of the mounted police rode gayly dressed
caballeros with their legs rigidly encased in yellow leggings,
wearing gilded jackets and beaver hats with heavy tassels in lieu of a
cockade, mounted on thin and miserable hacks. They were the picadores.
Aft on the crupper, behind the high Moorish saddle, rode an impish
figure dressed in red, the mono sabio, or servant who had brought the
troop of horses to their hostelry.

The cuadrillas passed in open coaches, and the embroidery of the
bull-fighters, reflecting the afternoon light, seemed to dazzle the
crowd and excite its enthusiasm. "That is Fuentes!" "That is Bomba!" And
the people, pleased with the identification, followed the retreating
carriages with greedy stare as if something startling were going to
happen and they feared to be too late.

From the top of the hill on Alcal� Street the broad straight road shone
white in the sun, with its rows of trees turning green at the breath of
spring, the balconies black with people, and the highway only visible at
intervals beneath the ant-like movement of the crowd and the rolling of
the coaches descending to the Fountain of Cibeles. Here the hill rose
again amid groves and tall buildings and the Puerta de Alcal� closed the
perspective like a triumphal arch, rearing its perforated white mass
against the blue space in which flecks of clouds floated like solitary
swans.

Gallardo rode in silence, responding to the multitude with a fixed
smile. Since his greeting to the banderilleros he had not spoken a
word. They were also silent and pale with anxiety over the unknown.
Being all bull-fighters together, they put aside as useless the
gallantries necessary before the public.

A mysterious influence seemed to tell the crowd of the passing of the
last cuadrilla that wound its way to the plaza. The vagabonds that ran
behind the coach shouting after Gallardo had been outstripped and the
group scattered among the carriages, but in spite of this the people
turned their heads as if they divined the proximity of the celebrated
bull-fighter behind them and they stopped, lining up against the edge of
the sidewalk to see him better.

The women in the coaches in advance turned their heads, attracted by the
jingling bells of the trotting mules. An indescribable roar rose from
certain groups that barred the passage along the sidewalks. There were
enthusiastic exclamations. Some waved their hats; others lifted canes
and swung them in salutation.

Gallardo responded to all with grinning smile but in his preoccupation
he seemed to take small account of these greetings. At his side rode
Nacional, his confidential servant, a banderillero, older than himself
by ten years, a rugged, strong man with brows grown together and a grave
visage. He was famous among the men of the profession for his good
nature, his manliness, and his political enthusiasms.

"Juan—don't complain of Madri'," said Nacional; "thou art made with the
public."

But Gallardo, as if he did not hear him and as if he wished to get away
from the thoughts that occupied him, answered:

"I feel it in my heart that something's going to happen this afternoon."

When they arrived at Cibeles the coach stopped. A great funeral was
coming along the Prado from the Castellana, cutting through the
avalanche of carriages from Alcal� Street.

Gallardo turned paler, contemplating with angry eyes the passing of the
cross and the defile of the priests who broke into a grave chant as they
gazed, some with aversion, others with envy, at that God-forgotten
multitude running after amusement.

Gallardo made haste to take off his cap, in which he was imitated by all
his banderilleros except Nacional.

"But damn it!" yelled Gallardo, "uncover, condenao!"

He looked furious, as though he would strike him, convinced by some
confused intuition that this rebellion would cause the most terrible
misfortune to befall him.

"Well, I take it off," said Nacional with the ill grace of a thwarted
child, as he saw the cross pass on, "I take it off, but it is to the
dead."

They were detained some time to let the long cort�ge pass.

"Bad sign!" muttered Gallardo in a voice trembling with anger. "Whoever
would have thought of bringing a funeral along the road to the plaza?
Damn it! I say something's going to happen to-day!"

Nacional smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

"Superstitions and fanaticisms! Neither God nor Nature bothers over
these things."

These words, which irritated Gallardo still more, caused the grave
preoccupation of the other bull-fighters to vanish, and they began to
joke about their companion as they did on all occasions when he dragged
in his favorite expression of "God or Nature."

When the road was clear the carriage began to move at the full speed of
the mules, crowding along with the other vehicles that flowed to the
plaza. Arrived there it turned to the left toward the gate of the
stables that led to the enclosures and stalls, obliged to move now at
slower pace among the dense crowd. Another ovation to Gallardo when he
descended from the coach followed by his banderilleros; blows and
pushes to keep his dress from unclean contact; smiles of greeting;
concealment of the right hand which all wished to press.

"Make way, gentlemen! many thanks!"

The large enclosure between the body of the plaza and the walls of the
outbuildings was full of the curious who wished to see the bull-fighters
at close range before taking their seats. Above the heads of the crowd
emerged the picadores and guards on horseback in their seventeenth
century dress. At one side of the enclosure rose one-story brick
buildings with vines over the doors and pots of flowers in the windows,
a small community of offices, shops, stables, and houses in which lived
the stable boys, the carpenters, and other employees of the bull-ring.

The matador pressed forward laboriously among the assemblage. His name
passed from mouth to mouth with exclamations of enthusiasm.

"Gallardo! Here is Gallardo! Hurrah! Viva Espa�a!"

And he, wholly preoccupied by the adoration of the public, advanced
swaggering, serene as a god, happy and satisfied, as if he were
assisting at a feast in his honor.

Suddenly two arms encircled his neck, and a strong stench of wine
assailed his nostrils.

"You smasher of women's hearts! You glorious one! Hurrah for Gallardo!"

It was a man of decent appearance; he rested his head on the
swordsman's shoulder and thus remained as though falling asleep in spite
of his enthusiasm. Gallardo's pushing, and the pulling of his friends,
freed the bull-fighter from this interminable embrace. The drunken man,
finding himself separated from his idol, broke out in shouts of
enthusiasm. "Hurrah! Let all the nations of the world come to admire
bull-fighters like this one and die of envy! They may have ships, they
may have money, but that's trivial! They have neither bulls nor youths
like this—no one to outstrip him in bravery. Hurrah, my boy! Viva mi
tierra!"

Gallardo crossed a great white washed hall bare of furniture where his
professional companions stood surrounded by enthusiastic groups. Way was
immediately made among the crowd which obstructed a door, and he passed
through it into a narrow, dark room, at the end of which shone the
lights of the chapel. An ancient painting representing the Virgin of the
Dove hung over the back of the altar. Four candles were burning before
it and branches of moth-eaten cloth flowers in vases of common
earthenware were falling to dust.

The chapel was full of people. The devotees of the humbler classes
crowded in to see the great men close by. They remained in the dimness
with uncovered head; some crowded into the foremost ranks, others stood
on chairs and benches, the majority of them with their backs to the
Virgin and looking greedily toward the door, ready to shout a name the
instant they discerned the glitter of a spangled costume.

The banderilleros and picadores, poor devils who were going to
expose their lives as much as were the maestros, scarcely raised the
slightest murmur by their presence. Only the most fervent enthusiasts
recognized their nicknames.

Suddenly a prolonged buzzing, a name repeated from mouth to mouth:

"Fuentes!—That is Fuentes!"

And this elegant bull-fighter with his air of gentility and his cape
over his shoulder advanced to the altar and bent one knee with
theatrical arrogance, his gypsy-like eyes reflecting the lights and his
graceful and agile body thrown back as he looked upward. As soon as his
prayer was said and he had made the sign of the cross he rose, walking
backwards toward the door without losing sight of the image, like a
singer who retires bowing to the audience.

Gallardo was more simple in his devotions. He entered swaggering with no
less arrogance, cap in hand and his cape folded, but on finding himself
in the presence of the image he fell on both knees and gave himself up
to prayer, unconscious of the hundreds of eyes fixed on him. His simple
Christian soul trembled with fear and remorse. He asked protection with
the fervor of ingenuous men who live in continual danger and believe in
all kinds of adverse influences and in supernatural protection.

For the first time during the whole exciting day he thought of his wife
and mother. Poor Carmen, there in Seville awaiting the telegram! Se�ora
Angustias, happy with her chickens at the farm of La Rinconada, without
knowing for a certainty in what place her son fought the bulls to-day!
And he with the terrible presentiment that this afternoon something was
going to happen! Virgin of the Dove! Some little protection! He would
be good, he would forget the other one, he would live as God commands.

And with his superstitious spirit strengthened with this vain
repentance, he left the chapel with troubled eyes, still deeply stirred
and heedless of the people who obstructed the way.

Outside in the room where the bull-fighters were waiting, a shaven-faced
man, dressed in a black habit which he seemed to wear with a certain
slovenliness, greeted him.

"Bad sign!" murmured the bull-fighter, continuing on his way. "When I
say that something is going to happen to-day—"

The black-robed man was the chaplain of the plaza, an enthusiast in the
art of bull-fighting, who had come with the Holy Oils beneath his habit.
He was accompanied by a neighbor who served him as sacristan in exchange
for a seat to see the bull-fight. On bull-fight days he hired a
carriage, which the management paid for, and he chose by turns among his
friends and prot�g�s one on whom to confer the favor of the seat
destined for the sacristan, beside his own in the front row near the
doors of the bull-pen.

The priest entered the chapel with a proprietary air, scandalized at the
behavior of the congregation; all had their hats off, but were talking
in a loud voice and some were even smoking.

"Gentlemen, this is not a caf�. Be so kind as to go out. The
bull-fight is going to begin."

This news caused a dispersion, while the priest took out the hidden Holy
Oils and placed them in a box of painted wood. Then he too, as soon as
he had secreted the sacred articles, ran out to take his place in the
plaza before the appearance of the cuadrilla.

The crowd had disappeared. No one was to be seen in the enclosure but
men dressed in silk and embroidery, yellow horsemen with great beaver
hats, guards on horseback, and the assistants in their suits of gold and
blue.

The bull-fighters formed with customary promptness before the horses'
gate beneath an arch that gave exit to the plaza, the maestros at the
front, then the banderilleros keeping far apart, and behind them, in
the enclosure itself, stamped the sturdy rough squadron of the
picadores, smelling of burnt hide and dung, mounted on skeleton-like
horses with one eye bandaged. As rearguard of this army the teams of
mules intended for dragging out the slaughtered bulls fretted behind
them; they were restless, vigorous animals with shining coats, covered
with trappings of tassels and bells, and wore on their collars the
waving national flag.

Beyond the arch, above the wooden gates which half obstructed it, opened
a narrow space, leaving visible a portion of the sky, the tiled roof of
the plaza, and a section of seats with the compact multitude swarming
like ants, amid which fans and papers seemed to flutter like gayly
colored mosquitoes. Through this gallery entered a strong breeze—the
respiration of an immense lung. An harmonious humming was borne on the
undulations of the air, making certain distant music felt, rather
divined than heard.

About the archway peeped heads, many heads; those of the spectators on
the nearby benches were thrust forward, curious to see the heroes
without delay.

Gallardo arranged himself in line with the other bull-fighters, who
exchanged among themselves grave inclinations of the head. They did not
speak; they did not smile. Each one thought of himself, letting his
imagination fly far away; or he thought of nothing, lost in that
intellectual void produced by emotion. They occupied themselves with a
ceaseless arranging of the cape, throwing it loosely over the shoulder,
rolling its ends about the waist, and trying to make their legs, encased
in silk and gold, show agile and brave under this gorgeous funnel. Every
face was pale, not with a deathly pallor, but brilliant and livid, with
the sweaty gloss of emotion. They thought of the arena, still unseen,
experiencing that irresistible terror of events that take place on the
other side of a wall, that fear of the hidden, the unknown danger that
makes itself felt though invisible. How would the afternoon end?

Behind the cuadrillas sounded the trotting of the horses that entered
through the outer arcades of the plaza. They bore the constables with
their long black cloaks and bell-shaped hats decorated with red and
yellow feathers. They had just cleared the ring, emptying it of the
curious, and they came to put themselves at the head of the
cuadrillas, serving them as advance guards.

The doors of the archway and those of the barrier wall opposite opened
wide. The great ring appeared, the real plaza, the circular space of
sand where the tragedy of the afternoon was to be enacted for the
excitement and entertainment of fourteen thousand souls. The harmonious
and confused buzzing increased, developing into gay and bizarre music, a
triumphal march of sounding brass that caused arms to swing martially
and hips to swagger. Forward, ye brave!

And the bull-fighters, winking at the violent transition, passed from
the shadow to the light, from the silence of the quiet gallery to the
roar of the ring on whose surrounding seats surged the crowd in waves of
curiosity, rising to their feet to see to better advantage.

The toreros advanced, seeming suddenly to diminish in size in
comparison to the length of the perspective as they trod the arena. They
resembled brilliant little puppets, whose embroideries caught rainbow
reflections from the sun. Their graceful movements fired the people with
an enthusiasm like to that of the child in the presence of a wonderful
toy. The mad gust that stirred the crowds, causing their nerves to
tingle and their flesh to creep, they knew not why, moved the whole
plaza.

The people applauded, the more enthusiastic and nervous yelled, the
music rumbled and, in the midst of this outburst which spread in every
direction, from the door of the exit to the president's box, the
cuadrillas advanced with solemn pace, the graceful movements of arms
and bodies compensating for the shortness of step. In the ring of blue
ether overhanging above the plaza white doves were winging as if
frightened by the roar that escaped from this crater of brick.

The athletes felt themselves different men as they advanced across the
arena. They exposed their lives for something more than money. Their
uncertainty and terror in the presence of the unknown were left behind
those barriers; now they were before the public; they faced reality. And
the thirst for glory in their barbarous and simple souls, the desire to
outstrip their comrades, their pride of strength and skill, blinded
them, made them forget fear and filled them with a brutal courage.

Gallardo had become transfigured. He walked erect, aspiring to be
taller; he moved with the arrogance of a conqueror. He gazed in all
directions with a triumphant air, as though his two companions did not
exist. Everything was his; the plaza and the public. He felt himself
capable of killing every bull that roamed the pastures of Andalusia and
Castile. All the applause was for him, he was sure of it. The thousands
of feminine eyes shaded by white mantillas in boxes and benches, dwelt
only on his person. He had no doubt of it. The public adored him and, as
he advanced, smiling flippantly, as though the entire ovation were
directed to his person, he looked along the rows of seats on the rising
tiers knowing where the greater number of his partisans were grouped and
seeming to ignore those sections where his rivals' friends were
assembled.

They saluted the president, cap in hand, and the brilliant defile broke
up, lackeys and horsemen scattering about the arena. Then, while a guard
caught in his hat the key thrown by the president, Gallardo turned
toward the rows of seats where sat his greatest admirers and handed them
his glittering cape to keep for him. The handsome garment, grasped by
many hands, was spread over the wall as though it were a banner, a
sacred symbol of loyalty.

The most enthusiastic partisans stood waving hands and canes, greeting
the matador with shouts manifesting their expectations. "Let the boy
from Seville show what he can do!"

And he, leaning against the barrier, smiling, sure of his strength,
answered, "Many thanks. What can be done will be done."

Not only were his admirers hopeful of him, but all the people fixed
their attention upon him in a state of great excitement. He was a
bull-fighter who seemed likely to meet with a catastrophe some day, and
the sort of catastrophe which called for a bed in the hospital.

Every one believed he was destined to die in the plaza as the result of
a horn-stab, and this very belief caused them to applaud him with
homicidal enthusiasm, with barbaric interest like that of the
misanthrope who follows an animal tamer from place to place, expecting
every moment to see him devoured by his wild beasts.

Gallardo laughed at the old professors of tauromachy who consider a
mishap impossible as long as the bull-fighter sticks to the rules of the
art. Rules! He knew them not and did not trouble himself to learn them.
Valor and audacity were all that were necessary to win. And, almost
blindly, without other guide than his temerity, or other support than
that of his physical faculties, he had risen rapidly, astonishing the
public into paroxysms, stupefying it with wonder by his mad daring.

He had not climbed up, step by step, as had other matadores, serving
long years first as pe�n and banderillero at the side of the
maestros. He had never known fear of a bull's horns. "Hunger stabs
worse." He had risen suddenly and the public had seen him begin as
espada, achieving immense popularity in a few years.

They admired him for the reason that they held his misfortune a
certainty. He fired the public with devilish enthusiasm for the blind
way in which he defied Death. They gave him the same attention and care
that they would give a criminal preparing for eternity. This
bull-fighter was not one of those who held power in reserve; he gave
everything, his life included. It was worth the money it cost. And the
multitude, with the bestiality of those who witness danger from a point
of safety, admired and urged the hero on. The prudent made wry faces at
his deeds; they thought him a predestined suicide, shielded by luck, and
murmured, "While he lasts!"

Drums and trumpets sounded and the first bull entered. Gallardo, with
his plain working-cape over one arm, remained near the barrier close to
the ranks of his partisans, in disdainful immobility, believing that the
whole plaza had their eyes glued on him. That bull was for some one
else. He would show signs of existence when his arrived. But the
applause for the skilful cape-work of his companions brought him out of
his quiet, and in spite of his intention he went at the bull, achieving
several feats due more to audacity than to skill. The whole plaza
applauded him, moved by predisposition in his favor because of his
daring.

When Fuentes killed the first bull and walked toward the president's
box, bowing to the multitude, Gallardo turned paler, as though all show
of favor that was not for him was equivalent to ignominious oblivion.
Now his turn was coming; great things were going to be seen. He did not
know for a certainty what they might be but he was going to astound the
public.

Scarcely had the second bull appeared when Gallardo, by his activity and
his desire to shine, seemed to fill the whole plaza. His cape was ever
near the bull's nose. A picador of his cuadrilla, the one called Potaje,
was thrown from his horse and lay unprotected near the horns, but the
maestro, grabbing the beast's tail, pulled with herculean strength and
made him turn till the horseman was safe. The public applauded, wild
with enthusiasm.

When the time for placing the banderillas arrived, Gallardo stood
between the inner and outer barrier awaiting the bugle signal to kill.
Nacional, with the banderilla in his hand, attracted the bull to the
centre of the plaza. No grace nor audacity was in his bearing; it was
merely a question of earning bread. Away in Seville were four small
children who, if he were to die, would not find another father. To
fulfil his duty and nothing more; only to throw his banderillas like a
journeyman of tauromachy, without desire for ovations and merely well
enough to avoid being hissed!

When he had placed the first pair, some of the spectators in the vast
circle applauded, and others bantered the banderillero in a waggish
tone, alluding to his hobbies.

"Less politics, and get closer!"

And Nacional, deceived by the distance, on hearing these shouts answered
smiling, like his master:

"Many thanks; many thanks."

When Gallardo leaped anew into the arena at the sound of the trumpets
and drums which announced the last play, the multitude stirred with a
buzzing of emotion. This matador was its own. Now they were going to
see something great.

He took the muleta from the hands of Garabato, who offered it folded
as he came inside the walls; he grasped the sword which his servant also
presented to him, and with short steps walked over and stood in front of
the president's box carrying his cap in his hand. All craned their
necks, devouring the idol with their eyes, but no one heard his speech.
The arrogant, slender figure, the body thrown back to give greater force
to his words, produced on the multitude the same effect as the most
eloquent address. As he ended his peroration with a half turn, throwing
his cap on the ground, enthusiasm broke out long and loud. Hurrah for
the boy from Seville! Now they were to see the real thing! And the
spectators looked at each other mutely, anticipating stupendous events.
A tremor ran along the rows of seats as though they were in the presence
of something sublime.

The profound silence produced by great emotions fell suddenly upon the
multitude as though the plaza had been emptied. The life of so many
thousands of persons was condensed into their eyes. No one seemed to
breathe.

Gallardo advanced slowly toward the bull holding the muleta across his
body like a banner, and waving his sword in his other hand with a
pendulum-like movement that kept time with his step.

Turning his head an instant he saw that Nacional with another member of
his cuadrilla was following to assist him, his cape over his arm.

"Stand aside, everybody!"

A voice rang out in the silence of the plaza making itself heard even to
the farthest seats, and a burst of admiration answered it. "Stand aside,
everybody!" He had said, "Stand aside, everybody!" What a man!

He walked up to the beast absolutely alone, and instantly silence fell
again. He calmly readjusted the red flag on the stick, extended it, and
advanced thus a few steps until he almost touched the nose of the bull,
which stood stupefied and terrified by the audacity of the man.

The public dared not speak nor even breathe but admiration shone in
their eyes. What a youth! He walked in between the very horns! He
stamped the ground impatiently with one foot, inciting the beast to
attack, and that enormous mass of flesh, defended by sharp horns fell
bellowing upon him. The muleta passed over his horns, which grazed the
tassels and fringes of the dress of the bull-fighter standing firm in
his place, with no other movement than a backward bending of his body. A
shout from the crowd answered this whirl of the muleta. Hurrah!

The infuriated beast returned; he re-attacked the man with the "rag,"
who repeated the pass, with the same roar from the public. The bull,
made more and more furious by the deception, attacked the athlete who
continued whirling the red flag within a short distance, fired by the
proximity of danger and the wondering exclamations of the crowd that
seemed to intoxicate him.

Gallardo felt the animal snort upon him; the moist vapor from its muzzle
wet his right hand and his face. Grown familiar by contact he looked
upon the brute as a good friend who was going to let himself be killed
to contribute to his glory.

The bull stood motionless for some seconds as if tired of this play,
gazing with hazy eyes at the man and at the red scarf, suspecting in his
obscure mind the existence of a trick which with attack after attack was
drawing him toward death.

Gallardo felt the presentiment of his happiest successes. Now! He rolled
the flag with a circular movement of his left hand around the staff and
he raised his right hand to the height of his eyes, standing with the
sword pointing towards the neck of the beast.

The crowd was stirred by a movement of protest and horror.

"Don't strike yet," shouted thousands of voices. "No, no!"

It was too soon. The bull was not in good position; he would make a
lunge and catch him. But Gallardo moved regardless of all rules of the
art. What did either rules or life matter to that desperate man?

Suddenly he threw himself forward with his sword held before him, at the
same time that the wild beast fell upon him. It was a brutal, savage
encounter. For an instant man and beast formed a single mass and thus
moved together several paces, no one knowing which was the conqueror,
the man with an arm and part of his body lying between the two horns, or
the beast lowering his head and trying to seize with his defences the
puppet of gold and colors which seemed to be slipping away from him.

At last the group parted, the muleta lay on the ground like a rag, and
the bull-fighter, his hands free, went staggering back from the impulse
of the shock until he recovered his equilibrium a few steps away. His
clothing was in disorder; his cravat floated outside his vest, gored and
torn by one of the horns.

The bull raced on impelled by the momentum of his start. Above his broad
neck the red hilt of the sword embedded to the cross scarcely protruded.
Suddenly the animal paused, shuddering with a painful movement of
obeisance, doubled his fore legs, inclined his head till his bellowing
muzzle touched the sand, and finished by lying down with shudders of
agony.

It seemed as if the very building would fall, as if the bricks dashed
against one another, as if the multitude was about to fly
panic-stricken, by the way it rose to its feet, pale, tremulous,
gesticulating and throwing its arms. Dead! What a stroke! Every one had
believed for a second that the matador was caught on the horns. All
had felt sure they would see him fall upon the sand stained with blood
and, as they beheld him standing up still giddy from the shock but
smiling, surprise and amazement augmented the enthusiasm.

"How fierce!" they shouted from the tiers of seats, not finding a more
fitting word to express their astonishment—" How rash!"

Hats flew into the arena and a deafening roar of applause, like a shower
of hail, ran from row to row of seats as the matador advanced around
the ring until he stood in front of the president's box.

The ovation burst out clamorously when Gallardo, extending his arms,
saluted the president. All shouted, demanding for the swordsman the
honors due to mastery. They must give him the ear. Never was this
distinction so merited; few sword-thrusts like that had ever been seen;
and the enthusiasm increased when a mozo of the plaza handed him a
dark triangle, hairy and blood-stained—the point of one of the beast's
ears.

The third bull was now in the ring, but the ovation to Gallardo
continued as though the public had not yet recovered from its amazement;
as though all that might occur during the rest of the bull-fight would
be tame in comparison.

The other bull-fighters, pale with professional envy, strove valiantly
to attract the attention of the public. Applause was given, but it was
weak and faint after the former ovations. The public was exhausted by
the delirium of its enthusiasm and heeded absent-mindedly the events
that took place in the ring. Fiery discussions broke out and ran from
tier to tier. The adherents of other bull-fighters, serene and unmoved
by the transports that had overcome the people, took advantage of the
spontaneous movement, to turn the discussion upon Gallardo. Very
valiant, very daring, a suicide, they said, but that was not art. And
the vehement adherents of the idol, proud of his audacity and carried
away by their own feelings, became indignant like the believer who sees
the miracles of his favorite saint held in doubt.

The attention of the public was diverted by incidents that disturbed the
people on some of the tiers of seats. Suddenly those in one section
moved; the spectators rose to their feet, turning their backs to the
ring; arms and canes whirled above their heads. The rest of the crowd
ceased looking at the arena, directing their attention to the seat of
trouble and to the large numbers, painted on the inner wall, that marked
the different sections of the amphitheatre.

"Fight in the third!" they yelled joyfully. "Now there's a row in the
fifth!"

Following the contagious impulse of the crowd, all became excited and
rose to their feet to see over their neighbors' heads but were unable to
distinguish anything except the slow ascent of the police who, opening a
passage from step to step, reached the group where the dispute had
begun.

"Sit down!" exclaimed the more prudent, deprived of their view of the
ring where the bull-fighters continued the game.

Little by little the waves of the multitude calmed, the rows of heads
assumed their former regularity on the circular lines of the benches,
and the bull-fight went on. But the nerves of the audience were shaken
and their state of mind manifested itself in unjust animosity toward
certain fighters or by profound silence.

The public, exhausted by the recent intense emotion, found all the
events tame. They sought to allay their ennui by eating and drinking.
The venders in the plaza went about between barreras, throwing with
marvellous skill the articles bought. Oranges flew like red balls to the
highest row, going from the hand of the seller to those of the buyer in
a straight line, as if pulled by a thread. Bottles of carbonated drinks
were uncorked. The liquid gold of Andalusian wines shone in little
glasses.

A movement of curiosity circulated along the benches. Fuentes was about
to fix the banderillas in his bull and every one expected some
extraordinary show of skill and grace. He advanced alone to the centre
of the plaza with the banderillas in one hand, serene, tranquil,
walking slowly, as though he were to begin a game. The bull followed his
movements with curious eyes, amazed to see the man alone before him
after the former hurly-burly of fluttering and extended capes, of cruel
barbs thrust into his neck, of horses that came and stood within reach
of his horns, as if offering themselves to his attack.

The man hypnotized the beast. He drew near until he could touch his poll
with the point of the banderillas, then he ran slowly away, with short
steps, the bull after him, as though persuaded into obedience and drawn
against his will to the extreme opposite side of the plaza. The animal
seemed to be mastered by the bull-fighter; he obeyed him in all his
movements until the man, calling the game ended, extended his arms with
a banderilla in each hand, raised his small, slender body upon his
toes, advanced toward the bull with majestic ease, and thrust the gayly
colored darts into its neck.

Three times he performed the same feat, applauded by the public. Those
who considered themselves connoisseurs retaliated now for the explosion
of enthusiasm provoked by Gallardo. This was a bull-fighter! This was
pure art.

Gallardo, standing near the barrier, wiped the sweat off his face with a
towel which Garabato handed him. Then he turned his back on the ring to
avoid seeing the prowess of his companion. Outside of the plaza he
esteemed his rivals with that feeling of fraternity established by
danger; but as soon as they stepped into the arena all were enemies and
their triumphs pained him as if they were offences. Now the enthusiasm
of the public seemed to him a robbery that diminished his own great
triumph.

When the fifth bull came out, it was for him, and he sprang into the
arena anxious to again startle the public by his daring.

When a picador fell he threw his cape and enticed the bull to the
other side of the ring, confusing him with a series of movements until
the beast became stupefied and stood motionless. Then Gallardo touched
his nose with one foot, and took his cap and put it between the horns.
Again, he took advantage of the animal's stupefaction and thrust his
body forward as an audacious challenge, and knelt at a short distance,
all but lying down under the brute's nose.

The old aficionados protested loudly. Monkey-shines! Clown-tricks,
that would not have been tolerated in olden days! But they had to
subside, wearied by the tumult of the public.

When the signal for the banderillas was given the people were thrown
into suspense by seeing that Gallardo took the darts from Nacional and
walked towards the beast with them. There was an exclamation of protest.
He to throw the banderillas! All knew his inexperience in that
direction. This ought to be left to those who had risen in their career
step by step, for those who had been banderilleros many years at the
side of their maestros before becoming bull-fighters; and Gallardo had
begun at the top, killing bulls ever since he stepped into the plaza.

"No! No!" clamored the multitude.

Doctor Ruiz shouted and gesticulated from the contrabarrera.

"Leave off that, boy! Thou knowest but the great act—to kill!"

But Gallardo scorned the public and was deaf to its protests when he
felt the impulse of audacity. Amidst the outcries he went directly
towards the bull, which never moved and, zas! he stuck in the
banderillas. The pair lodged out of place, and only skin deep, and one
of the sticks fell at the beast's movement of surprise. But this
mattered not. With that lenity the multitude ever feels for its idols,
excusing and justifying their defects, the entire public commended this
piece of daring by smiling. He, growing more rash, took other
banderillas and lodged them, heedless of the protests of the people
who feared for his life. Then he repeated the act a third time, each
time doing it crudely but with such fearlessness that what in another
would have provoked hisses was received with great explosions of
admiration. What a man! How luck aided this daring youth!

The bull stood with only four of the banderillas in his neck, and
those so lightly embedded that he did not seem to feel them.

"He is perfectly sound," yelled the devotees on the rows of seats,
alluding to the bull, while Gallardo, grasping sword and muleta,
marched up to him, with his cap on, arrogant and calm, trusting in his
lucky star.

"Aside, all!" he shouted again.

Divining that some one was near him giving no heed to his orders he
turned his head. Fuentes was a few steps away. He had followed him, his
cape over his arm, feigning inattention but ready to come to his aid as
though he felt a premonition of an accident.

"Leave me alone, Antonio," said Gallardo, with an expression that was at
once angry and respectful, as though he were talking to an elder
brother, at which Fuentes shrugged his shoulders as if he thus threw off
all responsibility, and turned his back and walked away slowly, but
feeling certain of being needed at any moment.

Gallardo waved his flag in the beast's very face and the latter
attacked. "A pass! Hurrah!" the enthusiasts roared. But the animal
suddenly returned, falling upon the matador again and giving him such
a violent blow with his head that the muleta was knocked from his
hands. Finding himself unarmed and hard-pressed he had to make for the
barrera, but at the same instant Fuentes' cape distracted the animal.
Gallardo, who divined during his flight the beast's sudden halt, did
not jump over the barrera; he sat on the vaulting wall an instant,
contemplating his enemy a few paces away. The rout ended in applause for
this show of serenity.

Gallardo recovered the muleta and sword, carefully arranged the red
flag, and again stood in front of the beast's head, less calmly, but
dominated instead by a murderous fury, by a desire to kill instantly the
animal that had made him run in sight of thousands of admirers.

He had scarcely made a pass with the flag when he thought the decisive
moment had arrived and he squared himself, the muleta held low, the
hilt of the sword raised close to his eyes.

The public protested again, fearing for his life.

"He'll throw thee! No! Aaay!"

It was an exclamation of horror that moved the whole plaza; a spasm that
caused the multitude to rise to its feet with eyes staring while the
women covered their faces or grasped the nearest arm in terror.

At the bull-fighter's thrust the sword struck bone, and, delayed in the
movement of stepping aside on account of this difficulty, Gallardo had
been caught by one of the horns and now hung upon it by the middle of
his body. The brave youth, so strong and wiry, found himself tossed
about on the end of the horn like a miserable manikin until the powerful
beast, with a shake of his head, flung him some yards away, where he
fell heavily on the sand with arms and legs extended, like a frog
dressed in silk and gold.

"He is killed! A horn-stab in the belly!" They shouted from the rows of
seats.

But Gallardo got up amidst the capes and the men who rushed to cover
and save him. He smiled; he tested his body; then he raised his
shoulders to indicate to the public that it was nothing. A jar—no more,
and the belt torn to shreds. The horn had only penetrated the wrapping
of strong silk.

Again he grasped the instruments of death, but now nobody would remain
seated, divining that the encounter would be short and terrible.
Gallardo marched towards the beast with a blind impulse determined to
kill or die immediately, without delay or precaution. The bull or he! He
saw red, as if blood had been injected into his eyes. He heard, as
something distant that came from another world, the outcry of the
multitude counselling calmness.

He made only two passes, aided by a cape that he held at his side, then
suddenly, with the swiftness of a dream, like a spring that is loosed
from its fastening, he threw himself upon the bull, giving him a stab
that his admirers said was swift as a lightning stroke. He thrust his
arm so far over that on escaping from between the horns he received a
blow from one of them which sent him staggering away; but he kept on his
feet, and the beast, after a mad run, fell at the extreme opposite side
of the plaza and lay with his legs bent under him and the top of his
head touching the sand until the puntillero came to finish him. The
public seemed to go mad with enthusiasm. A glorious bull-fight! It was
surfeited with excitement. That fellow Gallardo did not rob one of his
money; he responded with excess to the price of entrance. The devotees
would have material to talk about for three days at their meetings at
the caf�. How brave! how fierce! And the most enthusiastic, with
warlike fervor, looked in every direction as if searching for enemies.

"The greatest matador in the world! And here am I to face whoever dare
say to the contrary!"

The remainder of the bull-fight scarcely claimed attention. It all
seemed tasteless and colorless after Gallardo's daring.

When the last bull fell upon the sand a surging crowd of boys, of
popular devotees, of apprentices of the art of bull-fighting, invaded
the ring. They surrounded Gallardo, following him on his way from the
president's box to the door of exit. They crowded against him, all
wishing to press his hand or touch his dress, and at last, the most
vehement, paying no attention to the gesticulations of Nacional and the
other banderilleros, caught the master by the legs and raised him to
their shoulders, carrying him around the ring and through the galleries
to the outer edge of the plaza.

Gallardo, taking off his cap, bowed to the groups that applauded his
triumph. Wrapped in his glittering cape, he allowed himself to be
carried like a divinity, motionless and erect above the current of
Cordovan hats and Madrid caps, amidst acclamations of enthusiasm.

As he stepped into his carriage at the lower end of Alcal� Street,
hailed by the crowd that had not seen the bull-fight, but which already
knew of his triumphs, a smile of pride, of satisfaction in his own
strength, illuminated his sweaty countenance over which the pallor of
emotion still spread.

Nacional, anxious about the master's having been caught and about his
violent fall, wished to know if he felt any pain, and if he should call
Doctor Ruiz.

"It's nothing; a petting, nothing more. No bull alive can kill me."

But as though in the midst of his pride arose the recollection of his
past weaknesses, and as though he thought he saw in Nacional's eyes an
ironic expression, he added:

"Those are things that affect me before going to the plaza; something
like hysteria in women. But thou art right, Sebasti�n. How sayest thou?
God or Nature, that's it; neither God nor Nature should meddle in
affairs of bull-fighting. Every one gets through as he can, by his skill
or by his courage, and recommendations from earth or from heaven are of
no use to him. Thou hast talent, Sebasti�n; thou shouldst have studied
for a career."

In the optimism of his joy he looked upon the banderillero as a sage,
forgetting the jests with which he had always received the latter's
topsy-turvy reasoning.

When he reached his lodging he found many admirers in the vestibule
anxious to embrace him. They talked of his deeds with such hyperbole
that they seemed altered, exaggerated, and transfigured by the comments
made in the short distance from the plaza to the hotel.

Upstairs his room was full of friends, gentlemen who thoued him, and,
imitating the rustic speech of the country people, shepherds and
cattle-breeders, said to him, slapping his shoulders:

"Thou hast done very well; but really, very well!"

Gallardo freed himself from this enthusiastic reception and went out
into the corridor with Garabato.

"Go and send a telegram home. Thou knowest what to say: 'As usual.'"

Garabato protested. He must help the maestro undress. The servants of
the hotel would take charge of sending the despatch.

"No, I wish it to be thou. I will wait. Thou must send another telegram.
Thou already knowest who to—to that lady; to Do�a Sol. Also 'As
usual.'"