Blood and Sand

"I have what is most important—courage, a great deal of courage."

Then, in order to celebrate the stroke, he called on Morito's sprite, who was already creeping out, anticipating the order, to fetch them a bottle of wine. When they knew that the man who accompanied the professor was the celebrated Gallardo, whose portraits they had so often admired on cigarette boxes, their delight knew no bounds, and they clinked glasses of wine to the success of the torero, even Morito taking part in the festival.

"Before two months are over, mosiu," said El Pescadero, with Andalusian gravity, "you will be fixing banderillas in the Plaza in Madrid, and carrying off all the palms, and the money, and the women ... saving your lady's presence."

El Pescadero walked with Gallardo as far as the end of the street.

"Adios, Juan," he said gravely, "we may see each other in the Plaza to-morrow.... You see how low I have come, that I have to live on these humbugs and idiots."

Gallardo walked away thoughtful. Ay! That man, whom he had seen in his good days throw away money with princely generosity, so sure was he of his future!...

He had lost his money in bad speculations, and a torero's life was not one to teach the management of a fortune. And yet they were proposing to him to retire from his profession. Never. He must throw himself on the bulls.

The next day he felt full of courage and went to the Plaza, undisturbed by his usual superstitious fears. He felt the certainty of triumph, the high heart-throb of his most glorious days.

From the very first the corrida was full of events. The first bull showed himself very "tenacious,"[108] attacking furiously all the men on horseback. In an instant he had overthrown three picadors who were waiting for him with their lance in rest, two of the horses lay dying, streams of dark blood gushing out of their torn chests. The other one mad with pain and terror rushed from one end of the Plaza to the other, his belly ripped open and the saddle hanging loose, showing between the stirrups the blue and red entrails. Dragging its bowels along the ground and trampling them itself with its hind legs, they divided themselves like a knotted skein which becomes gradually disentangled.

The bull, attracted by its wild rush, followed it up close, driving his powerful head under the belly, lifting the horse on his horns, throwing it on the ground, and then furiously attacking the miserable, torn and pierced carcass. When the bull left it, kicking and dying, a "mono sabio" came up to finish it, by driving the steel of his dagger through the top of the skull. The miserable brute in the extremity of its agony bit the man, who screamed, lifting his bloody right hand, and striking home the dagger till the animal ceased to struggle and the limbs remained rigid. Then other employés of the circus ran up with large baskets of sand which they threw in heaps over the pools of blood and the bodies of the horses.

By this time the whole audience were on their feet, shouting and gesticulating wildly. They were delighted at the bull's fierceness and protested loudly at there being not a single picador left in the arena, yelling with one voice: "Horses! More horses!"

They all knew well enough that more would come out immediately, but they seemed furious that another instant should go by without fresh butcheries. The bull remained alone in the centre of the arena, superb and bellowing, his bloody horns held high, and the ribbon with the badge of his herd floating on his neck, which was covered with red and blue gashes.

Fresh riders came out, and again the horrible spectacle was repeated. As soon as a picador with his lance in rest approached the bull, bringing up his horse sideways with one eye bandaged, so that it should not see the bull, the shock and the fall were instantaneous. The lances broke with the splintering of dry wood, the horse was tossed in the air by the powerful horns, sprinkling the arena with its blood and bowels, and the picador rolled on the arena like a yellow legged doll, covered immediately by his companions' capes.

The public hailed the noisy falls of the riders with laughter and exclamations of delight. The arena rang with the shock of the fall of the heavy bodies with their iron-clad legs. One fell like a full sack, his head striking the wall of the barrier with a dull echo.

"That one won't get up," yelled the crowd. "His melon must be cracked."

But nevertheless he got up, stretching his arms, rubbing his head, and picking up the stout beaver which had rolled on the sand, again mounted the same horse, which the "monos sabios," by dint of kicks and blows, had got on to its feet, and bestriding this dying mount, with its entrails dragging on the sand, he went once more to encounter the furious beast.

"This is for you!" he shouted, throwing the beaver into a group of friends.

But no sooner had he again placed himself opposite the bull, driving his pike into its neck, than man and horse were once more tossed in the air, parting company from the violence of the shock, each one rolling to a different side of the arena. Several times before the bull attacked, the "monos sabios" and also some of the public had advised the rider to dismount. "Get down, get down." But before his stiffly encased legs could do so, the horse would fall dead, and the picador would be sent flying over his ears, his head arriving with a heavy blow on the sand.

The bull had not succeeded in goring any of the riders, but some of the picadors lay insensible on the ground, and the circus servants were obliged to carry them out to the infirmary, to be treated for broken bones, or to be revived from the shock which seemed like death.

Gallardo, most anxious to gain the sympathies of his public, was here, there and everywhere, earning immense applause by seizing the bull's tail and pulling, till it turned away from the picador lying on the ground in danger of being gored.

While the banderilleros were engaged, Gallardo, leaning on the barrier, passed the boxes in review. Doña Sol was sure to be there. At last he caught sight of her, but without the white mantilla. There was nothing about her to remind one of the lady in Seville who was so like one of Goya's pictures. With her golden hair and her large and elegant hat, she might have been a foreigner seeing a bull-fight for the first time. By her side sat that man of whom she spoke so admiringly, and to whom she was showing the sights of the country. Ay! Doña Sol! Soon she would see what the fine fellow she had deserted really was! She would have to applaud him even in the presence of the hated stranger; she would become enthusiastic, even against her will, carried away by the contagion of the masses.

When the time came for Gallardo to kill his bull, which was the second, the masses received him cordially, as if they had forgotten their annoyance at the previous corrida. The people seemed inclined to be tolerant after the spell of wet weather, as if they wished to find everything good in the long expected bull-fight. Besides, the courage of the first bull and the great mortality among the horses had put the crowd in a splendid humour.

Gallardo walked towards the bull with his head uncovered after the "brindis," with the muleta in one hand, and in the other the rapier waving like a cane. He was followed, though at a prudent distance, by El Nacional and another torero. Several voices from the sunny side protested. How many more acolytes!... He looked like a parish priest going to a funeral!

"Go out everybody!" shouted Gallardo.

The two peons stopped, because it was said in a voice which left no room for doubt.

He went forward till he came close to the beast, and then unfolded the muleta, giving some passes quite in his old style, even placing the rag on the slavering muzzle. "A pass, olé!" and a murmur of satisfaction ran over the benches. The lad from Seville was again worthy of his name, he had regained his professional pride. He was going to perform some of his old strokes as in his best days. His muleta passes were greeted with noisy exclamations of delight, and on the benches his partisans revived, rebuking his enemies.

That afternoon was one of his best. When they saw the bull standing motionless, the public themselves encouraged him with their advice. "Now then! Strike!"

Gallardo threw himself on the bull with his rapier in front, slipping quickly away from the menace of the horns.

The applause rang out, but it was short, and followed by a threatening murmur, mingled with strident whistling. The enthusiasts ceased to look at the bull, to turn their indignation on the public. What injustice! What want of knowledge! He had entered to kill splendidly....

But thousands of inimical fingers pointed to the bull without ceasing their protests, and the whole Plaza joined them in a deafening storm of whistling.

The rapier had penetrated slant ways, crossing the bull, its point appearing between his ribs just behind the foreleg.

Every one gesticulated, waving their arms in a paroxysm of fury. "What a scandal! A bad novillero could not have done worse!"

The animal, with the hilt of the sword in his neck and the point appearing from the wrench of the espada's arm began to hobble, its enormous bulk swaying with its unsteady gait. This seemed to move every one to a generous indignation. "Poor bull! Such a good one, so noble...." Many threw themselves forward, roaring with fury, as if they intended throwing themselves bodily into the arena. "Thief! Son of a ...!" "To torture a "bicho" like that who is better than he is!..." All shouted, seized with a vehement tenderness for the brute's suffering, just as though they had not paid to see its death.

Gallardo, stupefied at his deed, bent his head beneath the whirlwind of insults and threats. Cursed bad luck! He had entered to kill splendidly, just as in his best days, overcoming the nervous shrinking which made him turn his face away as though he could not endure the sight of the brute coming down on him. But the desire to avoid danger, to get out from between the horns as quickly as possible, had made him ruin his luck by that disgraceful and unskilful stroke.

The bull, after limping about for some time with painful staggering, stood still.

Gallardo took another sword and again placed himself in front of the beast.

The public guessed his intention. He was proceeding to the "descabello," the only thing he could do after such a criminal stroke.

He leant the point of the rapier between the two horns, while with the other hand he waved the muleta so that the beast, attracted by the fluttering cloth, should lower its head to the ground. The espada struck with his rapier, but the bull, feeling himself wounded, tossed his head wildly, and ejected the weapon.

"One!" roared the crowd with almost laughable unanimity.

The matador again repeated his stroke, and once again drove in the rapier, the only result being to make the brute shiver.

"Two!" sang out from the gods in derision.

A fresh attempt only succeeded like the others in drawing a low bellow from the tortured animal.

"Three!"... But to this ironical chorus the masses now joined whistles and cries of protest. When would that matador finish it?

On the fourth attempt he succeeded in severing the spinal cord, and the bull fell instantaneously, lying on his side with his legs rigid.

The espada wiped the perspiration from his face and walked slowly round, almost gasping for breath, to salute the president. At last he was free from that animal. He thought he never would have finished it. On his way the mob either greeted him sarcastically or with contemptuous silence. No one applauded. He saluted the president amid the general indifference, and then took refuge behind the barrier, like a school boy ashamed of his misdeeds. While Garabato offered him a glass of water his eyes ran round the boxes, meeting those of Doña Sol, which had followed him to his refuge. What would that woman think of him? How she would laugh with her travelling companion, seeing him ridiculed by the public! What an unlucky idea of hers to come to that corrida!

He remained between the barriers, trying to avoid further fatigue, till the last bull he had to kill should come out. His broken leg pained him greatly from having run so much. He was no longer the same—he was obliged to recognize it. All his confidence, all his resolutions of throwing himself on the bull were useless. His legs were neither as light nor as steady as formerly, neither had his right arm that daring which made it throw itself out without fear, anxious to reach the neck of the bull as soon as possible. Now it drew itself in against his will, with the cautious instinct of certain animals who think if they hide their faces they can in this way avoid danger.

His old superstitious terrors suddenly reappeared, crushing, overwhelming.

"I am in bad luck," thought Gallardo. "My heart tells me the fifth bull will catch me. He will catch me, nothing can be done!"

All the same, when the fifth bull came out into the Plaza the first cape to meet him was Gallardo's. What an animal! He looked quite different from the one he had chosen in the yard the evening before. Fear went on singing in the torero's ears. "Bad luck!... He will catch me; to-day I shall leave the circus feet foremost."

In spite of this, he continued playing with the bull and drawing it away from the endangered picadors. At first his endeavours were received in silence, but later the people softened a little and applauded him feebly.

When the supreme moment arrived for the death of the bull, all present seemed to guess the confusion of his mind. His play was disordered, it was sufficient for the bull to shake his head for him to take it as a sign of charging, throwing his feet backwards, and receding by long bounds, while the public greeted those attempts at flight with a chorus of mockery.

"Juy! Juy! He is catching you!"

Suddenly, as if he wished to finish it as soon as possible in any way, he threw himself on the beast with his rapier, obliquely, to get out of the danger as quickly as he could. There was an explosion of whistling and shouting. The rapier had only gone in an inch or two and after vibrating in the brute's neck, was ejected by him to some distance.

Gallardo turned to pick tip the rapier and again approached the bull. He was squaring himself to go in to kill, when the bull charged him at the same moment. He wished to fly, but his legs had no longer the agility of former days. He was caught and rolled over by the impetus of the rush. While everyone ran to his help Gallardo picked himself up, covered with sand, with a rent in the back of his breeches, through which his shirt tail appeared, minus a shoe, and without the "mona" which adorned his pigtail.

That gallant and dashing young fellow, who had been the admiration of the populace for his elegance, now looked pitiful and ridiculous, with his shirt tail sticking out, his hair disarranged and his pigtail fallen down and unfastened, looking like a wretched tail.

Many capes were pityingly spread round him to help and protect him, while the other espadas with generous comradeship worked the bull and prepared him so that Gallardo might finish him without difficulty. But Gallardo seemed blind and deaf; the sight alone of the animal was enough to make him throw himself back at the slightest sign of attack; it seemed as though his recent overturn had driven him mad with fright. He did not seem to understand what his comrades said to him, and with frowning brows and face intensely pale, he stammered out, scarcely knowing what he said:

"Go out, every one! Leave me alone!"

While terror was singing in his heart: "To-day you will die! This is your last cogida!"

The public guessed the espada's thoughts by the wildness of his movements.

"He is terrified of the bull! Panic has seized him!"

Even his most fervent partisans were ashamed and silent, unable to explain a thing such as they had never seen before.

The people seemed to enjoy his terror with the valour of those in a safe place. Others, thinking themselves defrauded of their money, shouted themselves hoarse.

Gallardo, protected by his companions' capes, took advantage of any opportunity of wounding the beast with his sword, deaf to the sarcastic jests of the populace; but they were thrusts the animal scarcely seemed to feel. His terror at being caught lengthened his arm, making him stand far off, only wounding the beast with the point of the sword.

Some of the rapiers shook themselves loose, being scarcely fixed in the flesh, others remained stuck in a bone, but the greater part of the length uncovered, bending with the brute's movements. The bull was following the circuit of the barrier bellowing with his head low, as if complaining of this useless torture. The espada followed him, muleta in hand, anxious to finish him, yet dreading to expose himself, and behind him came a whole troup of peons, spreading their capes, as though by this fluttering of stuffs they were trying to persuade the bull to double up his legs and to lie down on the sand. The bull's progress close to the barrier, with his neck bristling with rapiers, provoked storms of sarcasms and insults.

"It's like la Dolorosa!"[109] they shouted.

Others compared the animal to a pincushion full of pins.

"Thief! Bad torero!"

Others insulted the torero by changing his name to the feminine.

"Juanita! Don't run into danger."

Much time was being lost, and part of the audience becoming furious turned towards the presidential box.

"Señor Presidente! How long is this scandal to go on?"

The President made a gesture which silenced the storm, and then made a sign. Soon an alguacil in his feathered hat and fluttering cape was seen running round the barrier to the spot where the bull was standing, then, directing his gesture towards Gallardo he raised one closed fist with the forefinger outstretched. The mob applauded. It was the first warning. If before the third the matador had not killed his bull, it would be taken back to the yard, and the matador would remain under the stigma of the deepest dishonour.

Gallardo, as if awakening suddenly from his somnambulism, crushed by this threat, placed his rapier horizontally and threw himself on the bull. It was only one estocade the more which scarcely penetrated into the bull's body.

The espada let his arms fall, utterly disheartened. Was that brute immortal! The rapier thrusts seemed to do him no harm. It seemed as though he would never die.

The futility of the last stroke infuriated the people. They all rose to their feet, the storm of whistling became absolutely deafening, obliging the women to stop their ears. Oranges, scraps of bread, cushions, any projectile ready to hand, was hurled into the arena at the matador. From the sunny side came stentorian voices, roars like a siren, which it seemed impossible should come from human throats, a horrible din of cow-bells rang out suddenly like a tocsin, while from the benches close to the bulls' box a chorus began to chant the "gori-gori"[110] of the dead.

Many turned towards the President. When would the second warning be given? Gallardo wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchief, looking all around him, as if astounded at the injustice of the populace. He turned his eyes towards Doña Sol, but she had turned her back to the circus. Did she feel any pity? Or was she ashamed of her condescensions in the past?

Again he threw himself on the bull to kill, but very few could see what was happening, for the spread capes fluttering incessantly round him concealed everything.... At last the bull fell, a stream of blood rushing from its mouth.

At last!... The public quieted down a little, ceasing to thump, but still continuing shouting and whistling. The animal was finished by the puntilero, he was fastened by his poll to the team of mules, and dragged out of the arena, leaving behind him a broad belt of smoothed sand covered with blood-stains, which the servants obliterated with rakes and baskets of sand.

Gallardo hid himself between the barriers, shrinking from the storm of insults his presence raised. There he remained, weary and panting, his leg paining him greatly; but, in the midst of his discouragement, feeling an intense comfort at being out of danger. He had not died by the bull's horns ... but he owed it to his prudence. Ah! that public!... After all they were only a crowd of murderers anxious for a man's death, as if they alone loved life!

The exit from the Plaza was heart-rending, through the crowd of people massed outside, carriages, automobiles, and long rows of tramways.

Gallardo's coach was obliged to go slowly to avoid running over the crowds coming out of the Plaza; these opened out to let the mules pass, but on recognizing the espada they seemed to repent of their courtesy.

Gallardo guessed by the movement of their lips that they were insulting him: carriages full of pretty women in white mantillas passed close to him, but they turned their heads away, while others looked at him with pitying eyes.

The espada drew back as if he wished to pass unnoticed, hiding himself behind the bulk of El Nacional, who sat silent and frowning.

A group of urchins following the carriage began to whistle, while many walking on the pavements followed their example. The news of Gallardo's fiasco had spread rapidly, and they were glad of an opportunity to insult a man whom they imagined had gained such immense wealth.

"Curse them! Why are they whistling? Have they by any chance been to the corrida?... Has it cost them any money?"...

A stone struck the wheel, and the ragamuffins were shouting close to the step, when two mounted policemen rode up and dispersed the hostile manifestation, afterwards escorting the whole length of the Calle de Alcala, the famous matador Juan Gallardo ... "the first man in the world."

CHAPTER X

The following Sunday, as the cuadrilla had just entered the circus, some one knocked loudly at the Puerta de Caballerizas.

An employé of the Plaza shouted ill-humouredly from inside that there was no entrance that way, they must go round to the other door, but as the voice outside continued to insist he finally opened the door.

A man and a woman entered, he wearing a white Cordoban felt hat, she dressed in black with a mantilla.

The man shook the employé's hand, leaving something in it, which evidently softened his asperity.

"You know me, do you not?" ... said the new comer. "Really, don't you know me? I am Gallardo's brother-in-law, and this lady is his wife."

Carmen looked all around at the deserted courtyard. Through the brick walls she could hear the sound of music and the humming of the crowd, varied by cries of enthusiasm, or murmurs of curiosity.

"Where is he?" enquired Carmen anxiously.

"Where should he be, woman?" replied her brother-in-law roughly. "In the Plaza, fulfilling his duties.... It is folly to have come here. What a flighty woman you are!"

Carmen looked round her undecidedly, perhaps half repenting having come; after all, what was she going to do there?

The employé, whose hand-shake with Antonio had made a marvellous difference, suggested that if the lady wished to wait till the end of the corrida she could rest in the gate-keeper's room, but if she wished to see the corrida he could find her a very good seat even if she had no ticket.

Carmen was terrified at this proposal. See the corrida? No! She had never seen her husband fight; she would wait there as long as she possibly could.

"God's will be done!" said the saddler resignedly. "We will stay here, though what we shall see opposite this doorway I don't know."

About mid-day on the Saturday, Carmen had called Antonio into the matador's study, and told him of her intention to go at once to Madrid. She could not stay in Seville, she had had a week of restless nights, which her imagination had peopled with horrible scenes, and her feminine instinct made her fear some great disaster. She felt she must be by Juan's side, she did not know why, nor what would happen on the journey, all she wanted was to be near Gallardo.

Life was not worth living like this. She had seen in the papers Juan's great fiasco on the previous Sunday. She knew his professional pride, and knew he could not bear this misfortune patiently. The last letter she had received from him had plainly showed her this.

"No, and again no," she said energetically to her brother-in-law's objection. "I start for Madrid this afternoon; if you like to come, well and good, if not, I shall go alone. Above all, not a word to Don José; he would try to prevent my journey!"...

The saddler finally agreed. After all a free journey to Madrid was not a thing to be refused, even though it were in such dismal company. During the journey, Carmen made up her mind; she would speak earnestly to her husband. Why go on bull-fighting? Had they not enough to live on? He must retire at once if he did not wish to kill her. This corrida must be the last one ... and even this was one too many. She hoped to arrive in Madrid in time to prevent her husband fighting, feeling that by her presence she might prevent some catastrophe.

"What rubbish! Just like a woman! If they get a thing into their heads it must be so. Do you think there are no authorities, or laws, or rules in a Plaza? that it is enough for a woman to be frightened and want to run and kiss her husband for the corrida to be stopped and the public disappointed? You may say whatever you like to Juan afterwards, but by now he will be at the corrida. There is no trifling with the authorities; we should all be sent to jail."

When they arrived in Madrid, he had to exert all his powers of persuasion to prevent his companion rushing to her husband's hotel. What would be the result? She would disturb him by her presence, send him to the Plaza in a bad humour, upset his calmness, and then if anything happened all the fault would be hers.

This reflection steadied Carmen, making her give in to her brother-in-law's wishes and go to an hotel of his choosing, where she spent the morning lying on a sofa crying as if she considered misfortune imminent. The saddler, delighted to find himself in Madrid and comfortably lodged, was furious with this despair, which seemed to him ridiculous.

The hotel was near the Puerta del Sol, and the noise of the carriages and people going to the corrida reached her. She could not stay in the house, she must see him. She had not courage enough to go to the spectacle, but she wished to feel near him, and she wished to go to the Plaza. Where was the Plaza? She had never seen it. Even if she could not go in, she could wander round it, feeling that her near presence might influence Gallardo's luck.

The saddler expostulated. By the life of.... He certainly intended to go to the corrida, he had gone out to buy his ticket, and now Carmen prevented his enjoying the fiesta, by wanting to go to the Plaza herself.

"What can you do when you get there? What good can your presence do? Just think, if Juaniyo caught sight of you!"

But to all his arguments Carmen replied with the same obstinacy.

"If you do not care to come with me, I will go alone."

Antonio ended by giving in, and they drove to the Plaza together, entering by the Puerta de Caballerizas. The saddler remembered the Plaza well, as he had accompanied Gallardo on one of his journeys to Madrid during the spring.

He and the employé both felt out of humour with that woman with the red eyes and streaming cheeks who stood in the court-yard not knowing what to do.... The two men heard the noise of the people and the music in the Plaza. Were they going to stay there all night without seeing the corrida?

At last the employé had a happy inspiration.

"Perhaps the lady would like to go into the chapel!"...

The procession of the cuadrillas was ended, and through the doorway several horsemen came trotting back from the circus; these were the picadors who were not on duty, and who withdrew from the arena, ready to replace their comrades when required. Tied to rings on the wall were a row of saddled horses, the first who would have to go into the circus in place of any killed. Behind these the picadors were employing their wait by making their horses pirouette and turn, and a stable-boy was galloping a restless horse to quiet it before giving it over to the picadors. All the horses were kicking, plagued by flies, and dragging at their halters as if they scented the danger close at hand.

Carmen and her brother-in-law were obliged to take refuge beneath the arcades, and finally the torero's wife accepted the man's invitation to go into the chapel. It was a safe and quiet spot, and possibly in there she might do something to help her husband.

When she found herself in the holy place, close and hot from the crowd of people who had watched the torero's prayers, she fixed her eyes in astonishment on the poverty of the altar. Four lights only were burning before the Virgin of the Dove, which seemed to her a wretched tribute.

She opened her purse to give a duro to the employé. Could he not bring some more tapers?... The man scratched his head. Tapers? tapers? In the purlieus of the Plaza such things were not to be found. But he suddenly remembered that the sisters of a certain matador always brought some wax tapers whenever he fought there, and the last supply was not all consumed, they must be in some corner of the chapel. After a long search they were found, but there were no candlesticks; however, the employé was a man of resource, and fetching some empty bottles he stuck the candles in their necks and placed them among the other lights.

Carmen knelt down, and the two men took advantage of her absorbed devotion to rush away to the Plaza, anxious to see the first events of the corrida.

She remained alone contemplating with curiosity the dusty painting reddened by the lights. She did not know this Virgin, but surely she must be gentle and kind, like the one in Seville, to whom she had prayed so often. Besides, she was the toreros' Virgin, the one who heard their last prayer, when coming danger gave those rough men a pious sincerity. On that pavement also her husband had often knelt.

Her lips moved, repeating the prayers with automatic speed, but her thoughts were far away, attracted by the noise of the crowd which reached her.

Ay! the roaring of that intermittent volcano, the surging of those distant waves, broken at times by a tragic silence.... Carmen fancied she could unseen watch the corrida. She could guess by the different intonations of the noises in the Plaza the course of the tragedy which was being unfolded in the circus. Sometimes it was an explosion of indignant cries accompanied by whistling, at others thousands and thousands of voices seemed uttering unintelligible words. Suddenly there was a scream of terror, long and strident, which seemed to rise even to heaven, a terrified and gasping exclamation which made her see thousands of outstretched heads, pale with emotion, following the rapid rush of a bull on the tracks of a man ... but the cries suddenly ceased and calm returned. The danger was past.

Sometimes there were long spells of absolute silence, in which the humming of the flies could be heard, a silence so profound it seemed as if the immense circus must be empty, as if the fourteen thousand people on its benches did not even breathe, and that Carmen herself was the only living creature within its walls.

Suddenly this silence was broken by an immense and noisy uproar, so loud one would have thought that every brick in the building was knocking against its neighbour, a wild volley of applause which made the whole place shake. In the courtyard close by the chapel the sound of whacks on the loins of the horses tied there was heard, then the sound of iron hoofs on the pavement, lastly the sound of voices. "Who is hit?" And fresh picadors were called into the arena.

To these distant noises were now joined others nearer and more terrifying. The sound of steps to the rooms near, doors hurriedly opened, the panting breathing, and gasping voices of several men, as if they were staggering under a great weight.

"It is nothing ... only a bruise. You are not bleeding, before the corrida is ended you will be on your horse again."

A hoarse voice, weak with pain, moaned between sighs in an accent which reminded Carmen of her own country.

"Oh! Virgin of Solitude! I think something is broken; search well, doctor.... Ay! my children!"

Carmen trembled with fright. She raised her eyes, suffused with terror, to the Virgin. She felt as if she might fall fainting on the floor; she tried again to pray, not to listen to the noises from outside, transmitted through the walls with such desperate clearness. But in spite of her endeavour, the sound of splashing water fell on her ears, and the sounds of men's voices, probably the doctors, encouraging the patient.

"Virgin of Solitude!... My children!... What will become of my poor angels if their father cannot fight?"...

Carmen rose. Ay! she could bear it no longer, she should faint if she remained longer in that dark place terrified by those cries of pain. She must have air, get out into the sun. She fancied she felt in her own bones all the pain that unknown man was suffering.

She went out into the courtyard. There was blood on every side! Blood on the ground, and blood round some pails in which the water was coloured red.

The picadors were coming out of the circus, the banderilleros were having their turn now, the riders came in on their horses stained with blood, their flesh torn, their entrails hanging down.

The riders dismounted, talking with animation of the events of the corrida. Carmen watched Potaje's ponderous humanity get down stiffly and heavily, swearing at the mono sabio, who did not help his descent with sufficient alacrity. He seemed benumbed by his heavy iron leggings and by the pain of various bruises; he raised one hand ruefully to rub his shoulders, but all the same he smiled, showing all his yellow tusks.

"Have you all seen how fine Juan has been?" he said to those surrounding him. "To-day he has been quite splendid."

As he noticed the only woman in the patio and recognized her, he showed no sort of surprise.

"You here, Señora Carmen! That's right!"...

He spoke quietly, as if his habitual vinous somnolence and his natural stupidity prevented anything surprising him.

"Have you seen Juan?" he went on. "He lay down on the ground in front of the bull, under its very nose. No one can do what that Gacho does.... You should go and see him, for to-day he is splendid."

Some one called him from the infirmary door; his companion, the other picador, wished to speak to him before being taken away to the hospital.

"Adio, Seña Carmen. I must go and see what the poor fellow wants. A bad fracture, they say. He will not be able to work again this season."

Carmen took refuge beneath the arcades; she tried to close her eyes, not to see the horrible spectacle in the courtyard, while at the same time she felt fascinated by the crimson pools of blood.

The monos sabios led in the wounded horses, who were dragging their entrails along the ground. As she saw them, the head man in charge of the stables bustled about in a fever of activity.

"Now, my lads, hurry up!" ... he shouted to the stable lads. "Gently!... Gently, there!"

A stable-boy went carefully up to the horse who was rearing with pain, and took the saddle off; then he tied ropes round his four feet, drew them together and threw him.

"Now, my fine fellow!... Gently, gently with him!" he shouted to the man, never ceasing to move his own hands and feet.

The stable lads in their shirt sleeves, leant over the animal's ripped-up belly, from which were gushing streams of blood and water, endeavouring to put back by handfuls the slippery entrails hanging out of it.

Others held the animal's reins, putting a foot on its head to keep it on the ground. Its muzzle twitched with pain, and its teeth rattled together with the anguish of its torment, while its agonized squeals were smothered by the pressure on its head. The bloody hands of the workers endeavoured to replace the bowels in the empty cavity, but the gasping breathing of the unfortunate animal constantly blew out again the entrails the men were pushing in like bundles. At last they were all pushed back into the stomach, and the lads with the quickness of long habit sewed the sides of the wound together.

After the animal was mended with this barbarous promptitude, a pail of water was thrown over its head, its legs were freed from the ropes, and a few kicks and blows with a stick made it scramble on to its feet. Some only walked a few steps, falling down again, with torrents of blood rushing from the re-opened wound. This meant instantaneous death. Others stood up apparently stronger, from their immense resources of animal vitality, and the lads after mending them up took them off to the courtyard to be "varnished." There their stomach and legs were cleansed by several pailsful of water thrown over them, which left their white or chestnut coats bright and shining, while streams of bloody water ran down their legs on to the ground.

They mended the horses just like old shoes, prolonging their agony and retarding their death, working their weakness up to the last possible moment. Fragments of their entrails which had been cut off to facilitate the repairing operation lay about the floor. Other fragments lay in the circus, covered with sand, till the death of the bull should permit of the attendants collecting the remains in their baskets. Very often these rough-and-ready practitioners supplied the horrible absence of the lost organs by handfuls of tow stuffed into the stomach. The chief thing was to keep these miserable animals on foot a few moments longer till the picadors should return to the arena, when the bull would soon take charge and finish the work.

Even here the noisy shouts of the invisible crowd reached Carmen. Sometimes they were exclamations of anxiety; an "Ay! Ay!" from thousands of voices that told of the flight of a banderillero closely pursued by the bull. Then there would be absolute silence. The man had again turned on the brute and the noisy applause broke out once more when he had skilfully fixed two more darts. Then the trumpets sounded, announcing that the time for the death stroke had come, and the applause rang out afresh.

Carmen wished to go away. Virgin of Hope! What was she doing there? She was ignorant of the routine that the matadors followed in their work. Possibly that blast indicated the moment when her husband had to face the bull. And she was there, only a few steps away, and unable to see him! If she could only get away and escape from this torment.

Besides, the blood running over the courtyard sickened her, and the poor brutes' sufferings. Her womanly sensitiveness rose up against such tortures, and she put her handkerchief to her face, nauseated by the smell of the butcheries.

She had never been to a bull-fight. A great part of her life had been spent in hearing about corridas, but in the accounts of the fiestas she had never heard or seen anything beyond the outside, just what all the world saw or heard of, the exploits in the arena under the brilliant sun, the flash of silk and gold embroideries, all the sumptuous procession, knowing nothing of the odious preparations taking place in the secrecy of the outbuildings. And they lived from this fiesta, with its repulsive torturing of weak animals! Their fortune had been made from such spectacles!

Tremendous applause broke out in the circus. In the courtyard an imperious voice gave orders. The first bull had just been killed; the gates at the end of the passage of the Puerta de Caballos giving access to the circus were thrown open, and the roars of the crowd poured in louder and louder still, with the echoes of the music.

The mule teams had trotted into the Plaza, one to bring out the dead horses, and the other to drag out the carcass of the bull.

Carmen caught sight of her brother-in-law coming along under the arcades, still trembling from excitement at what he had seen.

"Juan ... is colossal! He has never been anything like this afternoon! Have no fear! He seems to eat up the bulls alive!"

Then he looked at her anxiously, afraid she might make him lose such an interesting afternoon. What did she decide to do? Did she feel brave enough to come into the Plaza?

"Take me away!" she cried in agonized tones. "Get me out of here as quickly as possible. I feel ill.... You can leave me in the nearest church."

The saddler pulled a face. By the life of Roger!... To leave such a magnificent corrida!... And all the while he was taking Carmen towards the door he was thinking how soon he could leave her and return to the circus.

When the second bull came out, Gallardo was still leaning on the barrier, receiving the congratulations of his friends. What courage that fellow had ... when he chose! The whole Plaza had applauded him with the first bull, forgetting their anger at the previous corridas. When a picador remained on the ground insensible from his fall, Gallardo had rushed up with his cape, and by a series of magnificent "veronicas" had drawn the bull to the centre of the arena, eventually leaving him wearied out and motionless after his furious rushes at the deceiving red cloth. The torero, taking advantage of the brute's bewilderment, stood erect a few paces from his muzzle, presenting his body as though defying him. He felt the strong heart-throb—the happy precursor of his greatest deeds. He knew he must reconcile his public by some sudden dash of audacity, and quietly he knelt down opposite the horns, albeit with a certain precaution, ready to slip away at the slightest sign of a charge.

The bull remained quiet. Then he put forward one hand till he touched its foam flecked snout—still the animal remained quiet. Then he dared something which plunged the audience into palpitating silence. Slowly he lay down on the sand, using the cape on his arm as a pillow, and so he remained for some seconds, below the very nostrils of the brute, who sniffed at this body placing itself so daringly beneath his horns, evidently suspecting some hidden danger.

When the bull, recovering his aggressive fierceness, lowered his horns, the torero rolled towards his hoofs, putting himself in this way out of his reach, and the animal passed over him, seeking in his blind ferocity for the object to attack.

Gallardo rose, dusting the sand from his clothes, and the audience, always loving daring deeds, applauded him with all the enthusiasm of former days. They quite understood that the torero's display of courage was an attempt at reconciliation with themselves, an effort to regain their affection. He had come to the corrida ready for any feat of daring which would earn their plaudits.

"He is often over careful," they said on the benches—"often he is weak, but he has toreros' pride, and he is regaining his name."

Their delighted excitement at Gallardo's exploit and the death of the first bull turned to bad humour and expostulations as they saw the second bull enter the arena. He was of enormous size and fine appearance, but he began to trot all round the arena, looking with astonishment at the howling masses of people crowded on the seats, frightened by the cries and whistling with which they endeavoured to excite him, and running away from his own shadow, imagining all sorts of snares. The peons ran towards him spreading their capes. He attacked the red cloth for an instant, then suddenly giving a snort of surprise he turned tail and ran away in the opposite direction with leaps and bounds. His agility for flight made the people furious.

"He is not a bull! ... he is a monkey!"

The maestros' capes finally attracted him towards the barrier, where the picadors waited for him motionless on their horses, their garrochas under their arms. He came up to a rider with lowered head and fierce snorts, as though intending to attack, but before the iron could be driven into his neck he gave a bound and fled, passing between the peons' outstretched capes. In his flight he ran against another picador, repeating the bound, the snort, and the flight. Then he ran against a third picador, who caught him fairly on the neck with his garrocha, increasing in this way both his fear and his velocity.

The audience had risen to their feet en masse gesticulating and shouting. A craven bull! What an abomination!... They all turned towards the presidential box, shouting their protests: "Señor Presidente! This cannot be allowed."

From several of the rows came a chorus of voices repeating the same word with monotonous iteration.

"Fire ... fire!"

The President seemed doubtful. The bull was rushing all about the ring, followed by the toreros, with their capes on their arms. When some of them succeeded in getting in front of him and stopping him, he would sniff the cloths with his usual snort and run off in another direction, kicking and bounding.

These flights increased the noisy expostulations: "Señor Presidente," was his Worship blind? Then bottles, oranges, and seat cushions began to shower into the arena round the fugitive beast. The masses loathed him for a coward. Some of them stretched over into the arena, as if they intended tearing the animal to pieces with their own hands. What a scandal! To see in the Madrid Plaza oxen only fit for meat! Fire! fire!

At last the President waved a red handkerchief, and a salvo of applause greeted the gesture.

The fire banderillas were a quite extraordinary spectacle, something entirely unexpected, which greatly increased the interest of the corrida. Many who had shouted themselves hoarse were privately delighted at the incident. They would see the bull burning alive, rushing about mad with terror at the lightnings fastened into his neck.

El Nacional came forward carrying two large banderillas seemingly wrapped in black paper, hanging points downward. He went towards the bull without any great precautions, as though his cowardice did not deserve any high art, and stuck in the infernal darts amid the vindictive acclamations of the populace.

Immediately there was an explosion, and two puffs of smoke ran along the animal's neck. In the sunlight the fire could not be seen, but the hair disappeared, singed, and a black mark began to spread over the neck.

The bull, surprised at the attack, accelerated his flight, as if this could free him from the torture, till suddenly short sharp detonations like gun shots were heard proceeding from his neck, and showers of ash paper flew about his eyes. The beast bounded with the agility of terror, all four feet off the ground at once, twisting his head in the vain endeavour to tear out with his teeth these demoniacal darts fixed in his flesh. The mob laughed and applauded, thinking these bounds and contortions extremely amusing. The animal, in spite of his size and weight, seemed to be performing a dance like some trained animal.

"How they sting him!" exclaimed the populace with ferocious laughter. When the banderillas had ceased to explode the melted fat on the neck formed little bubbles, and the bull no longer feeling the sting of the fire stopped short, his head hanging, his eyes bloodshot, his muzzle covered with foam, and his red dry tongue licking the sand in search of moisture.

Another banderillero came up and stuck in a second pair of darts. Once more the puffs of smoke ran along the scorched flesh, and the detonations recommenced. Wherever he rushed, twisting his massive body in his struggles to get the darts out of his neck, the infernal detonations went with him; but now his movements were less violent, it seemed as though his vigorous animalism was being subdued by the torture.

A third pair of darts were fixed in, and from the burning flesh a nauseous odour of melted fat, burnt hide, and singed hair spread throughout the arena.

The public still applauded with vindictive frenzy, as if the poor animal were an opponent of their religious beliefs, and they were performing a holy work by this burning. They laughed as they saw him unsteady on his legs, bellowing with sharp screams of pain, seeking in vain for something to cool his tongue.

Gallardo awaited, leaning on the barrier near the presidential box, the signal to kill, while Garabato held the rapier and muleta ready prepared resting on the top of the barrier.

Curse him! The corrida had begun so well, and now evil fate had reserved this bull for him, a bull, moreover, of his own choosing on account of his fine appearance, and who, now he was in the arena, turned out a cur!

He excused himself beforehand to the connoisseurs who were leaning over the barrier, for his probably indifferent work.

"I will do what I can, but it probably won't be much," said he, shrugging his shoulders.

Then he glanced round the boxes, fixing his eyes on the one occupied by Doña Sol. She had applauded him before when he executed his stupendous exploit of lying down before the bull. Her gloved hands had clapped enthusiastically when he had turned towards the barrier saluting the audience. Now, when she realised that the torero was looking at her, she saluted him with a kindly gesture, and even her companion, that odious fellow, made a stiff bow, as if he were breaking in two at the waist. He had surprised her several times with her opera-glasses fixed persistently on him, or searching for him when he retired behind the barriers. Ah! that gachi!... Possibly she felt once more attracted by his courage. Gallardo thought he would go and see her the following day, possibly the wind might have changed.

The trumpets gave the signal to kill, and the espada, after making a short "brindis," walked towards the bull.

All the enthusiasts shouted their advice.

"Kill him quickly! He is an ox who deserves nothing!"

The torero spread his muleta before the brute, who attacked, but slowly, as if warned by his previous torture, but with the evident intention of crushing and wounding, the suffering having awakened his fierceness. That man was the first who had stood before him since his torment began.

The crowd felt their vindictive anger towards the bull vanishing. After all he was not turning out so badly. He was attacking well. Olé! And they all welcomed the torero's passes with delight, confounding the torero and the bull in the same noisy approval.

The bull remained motionless, his head lowered, his tongue hanging out. There fell on the crowd that silence always preceding the mortal estocade, a silence even greater than absolute solitude, as it came from thousands of hard-held breathings. The silence was so profound that the slightest noise reached to the topmost benches. All heard the rattle of the pieces of wood knocking against each other. It was Gallardo, who with the point of his rapier was setting aside the burnt banderillas which had fallen down between the horns. After this arrangement, which would facilitate the mortal stroke, the crowd stretched their necks even further forward, feeling the mysterious intercourse re-established between their will and that of the matador. Now! they all said to themselves, he would overthrow the bull with one masterly stroke. They all felt the espada's determination.

Gallardo threw himself on the bull, and all the populace breathed loudly after their breathless expectation. But from the encounter the animal emerged, rushing with furious bellowing, while the benches broke out into whistling and protests. The same thing had happened once again. Gallardo had turned away his face and shortened his arm at the moment of killing. The animal carried off the rapier in his neck, loose and bending, and after a few steps the steel blade flew out of the flesh, rolling on the sand.

Some of the people blamed Gallardo, and the spell which had united them to the espada at the beginning of the fiesta was broken. Their distrust of the torero reappeared and their irritating censures. All seemed to have forgotten their late enthusiasm.

Gallardo picked up his rapier, with bent head, and without the heart to protest against the discontent of a crowd so tolerant to others, so harsh and unjust towards himself, and turned again towards the bull.

In his confusion he thought some other torero placed himself by his side. It was El Nacional.

"Steady, Juan! Don't get flurried."

Curse it!... Was this same thing always going to happen to him? Could he not put his arm between the horns as formerly and drive the rapier in up to the hilt? Was he going to spend the rest of his life as a laughing-stock for the public? An ox whom they had been obliged to fire!...

He placed himself opposite the animal, who seemed waiting for him, steady on its legs. He thought it useless to make any more passes with the muleta. So he placed himself "in profile" with the red cloth hanging on the ground, and the rapier horizontal at the height of his eye. Now to thrust in his arm!

With a sudden impulse the audience rose to their feet, for a few seconds the man and the bull formed one single mass, and so moved on some steps. The connoisseurs were already waving their hands anxious to applaud. He had thrown himself in to kill as in his best day. That was a "true" estocade!

But suddenly the man was thrown out from between the horns by a crushing blow, and rolled on the sand. The bull lowered his head, picking up the inert body, lifting it for an instant on his horns to let it fall again, then rushing on his mad career with the rapier plunged up to the hilt in his neck.

Gallardo rose slowly, the whole Plaza burst out into uproarious, deafening applause, anxious to repair their injustice. Olé for the man! Well done the lad from Seville! He had been splendid!

But the torero did not acknowledge these outbursts of enthusiasm. He raised his hand to his stomach, crouching in a painful curve, and with his head bent began to walk forward with uncertain step. Twice he raised his head as if he were looking for the door of exit and fearing not to be able to find it, finally staggering like a drunken man, and falling flat on the sand.

Four of the Plaza servants raised him slowly on their shoulders, El Nacional joining the group, to support the espada's pale livid head, with its glassy eyes just showing through the long lashes.

The audience started with surprise, and their plaudits ceased suddenly. They looked around at each other unable to make up their minds as to the gravity of the accident.... Soon optimistic news circulated, but no one knew from whence it came.... It was nothing, only a tremendous blow in the stomach which had deprived him of consciousness, but no one had seen any blood.

The populace, suddenly tranquilized, sat down, turning their attention from the wounded torero to the bull, who, though in the agonies of death, still remained firm on his feet.

El Nacional helped to place his master on a bed in the infirmary. He fell on it like a sack, inanimate, his arms hanging over either side of the bed.

Sebastian, who had so often seen the espada bleeding and wounded, without ever losing his calm, now felt the agony of fear, seeing him lifeless, with his face of a greenish whiteness as if he were already dead.

"By the life of the blue dove!" he groaned. "Are there no doctors? Is there no help anywhere?"

The infirmary doctors, after attending to the injured picador, had run back to their box in the Plaza.

The banderillero was in despair, seconds seemed hours, as he shouted to Garabato and Potaje to come and help him, not knowing quite what he said to them.

The doctors arrived, and, after closing the door to remain undisturbed, they stood undecidedly before the espada's inanimate body. They must undress him, and Garabato began to unpin, unsew and tear the torero's clothes.

El Nacional hardly saw the body. The doctors were surrounding the wounded man, consulting each other by their looks. It must be a collapse which had apparently deprived him of life. There was no blood to be seen, and the rents in his clothes were no doubt the result of his toss by the bull.

Doctor Ruiz entered hurriedly, the other doctors making way for him, acknowledging his superiority. He swore in his nervous hurry as he helped Garabato to undo the torero's clothes.

There was a start of wonder, of painful surprise round the bed. The banderillero did not dare to enquire, he looked between the doctors' heads at Gallardo's body. His shirt was drawn up, and he saw that the stomach, which was uncovered, was torn by a jagged wound with bloody lips, from between which the bluish viscera were protruding.

Doctor Ruiz shook his head sadly. Besides the terrible and incurable wound, the torero had received a tremendous shock from the bull's head. He was no longer breathing.

"Doctor! doctor!" moaned the banderillero, imploring to know the truth.

And Doctor Ruiz, after a long silence, turned his head.

"It is finished, Sebastian.... You must seek another matador."

El Nacional raised his eyes to heaven. Was it possible that such a man should die in this way, unable to clasp a friend's hand, unable to say a word, suddenly, like a wretched rabbit whose neck you wring!

Despair drove him from the infirmary. Ay! he could not stay and look at that! He was not like Potaje, who stood motionless and frowning at the foot of the bed, twisting his beaver in his hand, looking at the body as if he saw it not.

In the courtyard he had to stand aside to let some picadors pass who were returning to the circus.

The terrible news had begun to run through the Plaza. Gallardo was dead!... Some doubted the truth of the news, others affirmed it, but no one moved from their seats. They were going to loose the third bull. The corrida was only in its first half, and they really could not give it up.

Through the great doorway came the noise of the crowd and the sound of music.

The banderillero felt a fierce hatred arise in his heart for everything surrounding him; a disgust and aversion to his profession and to those who maintained it.

He thought of the bull who was now being dragged out of the arena, with his neck burnt and bloody, his legs stiff and his glassy eyes gazing up at the sky.

Then he thought of the friend lying dead a few paces from him, only the other side of a brick wall. His limbs also rigid, his stomach ripped open, and a mysterious dull light shining through his half open eyelids.

Poor bull! Poor espada!... And suddenly, as noisy cries of delight burst out in the circus applauding the continuation of the spectacle, El Nacional closed his eyes and clenched his fists.

It was the roaring of the wild beast, the true and only one.