CHAPTER XIX.
TO THE RESCUE.
Frank felt himself turn cold from head to feet. Up to this moment nothing of flesh and blood had seemed able to withstand the fury of the bull’s charge.
The girl did not quail. With her lance in position, she calmly awaited the onset.
Frank’s hands shook as he held the glasses to his eyes. And then, in astonishment and admiration, he gasped:
“She has not paled! She smiles!”
He knew that the lance in the girl’s hand could not greatly harm the bull. It had a sharp point, but it was so made that it could not penetrate very deeply. And yet she was to defend herself with such an instrument!
The horse did not swerve, and the girl succeeded in planting the point of her lance properly. Even though she was successful in this, Frank looked to see her hurled from the saddle.
No! She sat there like a rooted tree, and with her lance she held the bull at bay. It was a marvel of strength and science. The animal bellowed and struggled to get at the horse, but the lance held him off.
Then the crowd went wild again. They laughed, they yelled, they clapped their hands with delight.
“It is wonderful!” muttered Frank, still watching the girl through his glasses. “How she does it I cannot tell. And she smiles again!”
“Gol derned ef she ain’t a corker!” came admiringly from Ephraim. “It’s wu’th comin’ jest to see her do that air little trick.”
At last, finding all his efforts in vain, the bull turned and rushed away. In a twinkling the banderilleros were around him, and again those maddening darts were planted in his neck and shoulders.
As he felt the fourth dart, the bull uttered a terrible roar, and charged after one of the fleeing men. The fellow was but a short distance in advance of those crimson horns, and he was running for his life.
The barrier was reached, and the man made the leap, but the bull leaped with him, and both went over into the walk between the two barriers.
Again were the spectators given an opportunity to shriek:
“He is killed! He is killed!”
It seemed that the bull had fallen upon the man, but such was not the case, and the banderillero scrambled to his feet and was dragged over the second barrier in time to escape death on those frightful horns.
Frank was one who helped drag the fellow over the high barrier, and he felt the man quivering with a great terror. He looked in the banderillero’s face and then uttered an exclamation of surprise, for it was the man with the scar, whom he had knocked down only some hours before. He had heard the fellow called Gonzalez by a companion who ran to his assistance.
Gonzalez recognized the boy, uttered a snarl, and tore away.
“Cowardly American!” he grated, in Spanish. “Do you think I fear the bull? Bah! I spit on the bull, as Spain spits on the United States.”
“And then, if you remained within reach of the bull, he would do you up just about as quickly as the United Stales would do up Spain,” retorted the boy, who felt his patriotic blood stirred.
“I have not forgotten that you struck me,” hissed the scar-faced fellow. “We shall meet again.”
“Very good. All I ask is that you do not come upon me when my back is turned.”
There was such an uproar that these words between the man and boy were not heard by the spectators. The bull was now running back and forward in the walk, beaten by sticks and fists. Gonzalez sprang into the walk, just as the bull, finding an open door, darted into the ring again.
The door was closed, and then all the men in the arena dashed at the bull once more. One passed behind him, giving his tail a pull, one dropped a scarlet cloth over the animal’s horns, another snatched a rosette from the shaft of a dart, and still another allowed the bull to charge, planted a pole in the ground, vaulted into the air, and let the creature pass beneath him.
It was amazing, bewildering, marvelous. Frank felt his blood stirred by the wonderful feats. He had been sickened by the spectacle a few moments before, so that there was a dreadful nausea at his stomach, but now he was quivering with satisfaction and fascinated by what he saw.
All these tricks were accomplished as if the men were frolicking with a harmless lamb. They laughed and shouted like children at play, and the audience, fairly carried away with enthusiasm, gave them round after round of applause.
Then the trumpets sounded again, and the bull suddenly found himself deserted, much to his apparent astonishment. All the bull’s late tormentors had retreated at the signal.
The gate opened again, and one of the fighters came forward, sword in hand. The spectators knew it was the crisis of the drama, the bull was to die.
“Villasca—Antonio Villasca! Bravo! bravo!” they shouted.
He bowed, smiling all around. He was cool and confident, as if quite certain of accomplishing, without difficulty, the momentous task before him.
Zuera remained in the ring. She had repulsed the bull, and she had a right to remain there to the death.
The band played a jingling, lively piece, and Villasca advanced with a springy step toward the bull.
The animal saw him. It pawed the ground and uttered a roar; its tail arose in the air, and then, with lowered head, it charged.
Villasca stood his ground, aiming with his sword, and then, when the bull was right upon him, seeing he could not get in a fatal stroke, he moved aside with a single step.
The dripping horns of the bull grazed his hip, but he was unharmed.
The crowd shrieked its delight, clapping hands and laughing.
“Good Villasca! Brave Villasca! Look at him! He did not even turn pale! He will kill the bull with the first stroke! Bravo! bravo!”
Like a cat, the bull whirled, furious at being tricked in such a manner. In a twinkling, the animal charged again, and this time Villasca made a greater exertion in getting out of the way, but escaped unharmed again.
However, he had planted his sword, and the bull recovered after passing, turning about with marvelous adroitness. Like a panther, the creature rushed again.
This time, with a hasty aim, Villasca struck with his gleaming sword.
He failed!
Planting his sword awkwardly, he simply succeeded in wounding the bull. The sword fell from his hand, and he barely saved himself by a great leap.
What a howl of rage went up from the spectators. It seemed that the laughing, applauding multitude had been turned, in a twinkling, into one vast body of furious animals. Everybody seemed to stand up, screaming and hurling abuse at the man they had applauded a few moments before. Every one forgot that Villasca had killed a score of savage bulls in other fights. He had failed now; and he failed awkwardly. That was enough.
“Assassin! Impostor! Go hide yourself! Let yourself be killed!”
They reviled him, they spat at him, they threw orange peel and stubs of cigars at him. It seemed that they would have torn him limb from limb if they could have placed their hands on him.
But the bull did not hesitate. Once more he charged after the discomfited espada.
Villasca knew that he must kill the bull, or his bull fighting days would be over. Every paper in Madrid would revile him if he failed, and he made an effort to recover his sword. He tried to do it adroitly, laughing in the face of the bull.
Again he failed. One of those sharp horns cut his leg, leaving a streak of red. He was wounded! Blood was flowing down his leg!
Then the mad mob called down blessings on the bull, imploring him to kill the wretch; and Villasca, who was not seriously wounded, grew confused, dodged, and fell to the ground.
There was a wild cry, and across the arena dashed Señorita Zuera, going to the rescue. She did not hesitate, but rode between the bull and the fallen espada.
Villasca scrambled up and darted away a short distance, where he halted in a manner that showed how confused he was.
Zuera had saved him, but she was in danger. The horse could not get out of the way, and the bull struck the creature.
Down went horse and rider in a heap!
How the crowd shrieked! A great yell of mingled terror and delight went up.
“The coward! He has deserted her! She will be killed!”
She seemed stunned, for she did not attempt to arise. The bull tore the horse, and then turned his attention to the girl.
“Great Scott!” cried Frank. “Are they all benumbed! Will they let her be killed before their very eyes!”
Scarcely had the last words left his lips when he sprang up, leaped into the ring, and darted to the rescue of the helpless girl.
Professor Scotch tried to grasp and hold the excited lad, but failed. With one bound, Frank sailed over the heads of those near him and reached the first barrier, another bound took him into the ring, and he snatched a scarlet cloth from the hands of a hesitating banderillero. Waving this cloth, he dashed straight toward the raging bull.
Cries of wonder came from the spectators. Not one of all the Spaniards who had paid the price of admission would have thought to go to the rescue of the girl. They would not have interfered if she had been killed by slow torture.
Frank saw nothing but the bull and the imperiled girl. He did not see other persons coming to the rescue, the banderilleros and picadores. His one thought was to divert the attention of the bull from the fallen girl.
Being a swift runner, he reached the bull in a moment, flaunted the cloth in its face, and turned its attention to himself.
The bull hesitated. In that moment, Frank saw the espada’s sword at his feet, and he snatched it up.
Then the bull charged.
The boy had seen Villasca attempt to kill the bull, and he seemed to understand how it should be done. Still, he had not time for thought, and what he did was done with the rapidity of instinct.
He dropped the cloth, aimed with the sword, and struck the bull fairly in the neck. He felt the weapon plunge into the mad animal, and leaped aside at the same instant.
The bull staggered, a torrent of blood sprang from its mouth, and then it fell as if struck by lightning!
For a single instant it seemed that the crowd could not realize what had happened, and then, as they saw the bull was really dead, they gave a burst of tempestuous applause, such as had not before been heard that day.
“Beautiful boy! You angel! God bless you! God bless you!”
They were crazed with delight and admiration. Never before had such a thing happened in a Madrid bull ring. It was a marvel.
Frank could scarcely realize that he had accomplished this wonderful feat. With the bloody sword in his hand, he stood looking down at the bull in a dazed way. To the crowd it seemed that he was quite cool, and that he had been quite cool and confident all the time.
Seeing there was no further danger from the bull, he returned to Señorita Zuera.
She was on her feet, gazing at him in a curious, wondering way. He took off his hat and bowed very low to her, saying, in Spanish:
“I trust you are not harmed, señorita?”
“Not at all,” she answered, in a musical tone of voice. “I was stunned for a moment, and I should have been killed but for you.”
He bowed again.
“Then I am happy in having been able to serve you, señorita.”
She looked at him admiringly, and now he saw that she was, indeed, young and handsome. There was no paint or powder on her face. Her cheeks did not need paint, for they were tinted with the blush of perfect health, while her skin seemed smooth as marble and soft as silk. Her hair and eyes were dark. She had delicate, arching eyebrows, long silken eyelashes, red lips, milk-white teeth, and a throat that was smooth and white as alabaster.
There was something fascinating and dashing about her beauty, something that affected him like wine in his veins.
“You have gotten yourself into trouble, señor,” she said. “Villasca is furious; I can see that.”
Indeed, the unlucky espada was in a great rage. He was gnashing his teeth and glaring at the boy, muttering fierce and bitter curses. He realized that he had been disgraced forever by his own cowardice and confusion, and this foreign lad had become a hero in the eyes of the spectators. How he hated Frank Merriwell! He swore to have the boy’s life—to drive a dagger through his heart.
And now the boy and girl were surrounded by toreadors and the servants of the bull ring. Frank saw Gonzalez scowling blackly. The fellow seemed longing to rush upon the lad. Indeed, he was speaking swiftly to another man at his side, and both were regarding the boy with murderous looks.
Indeed, it seemed that all those men were ready to fling themselves on the unknown slayer of the bull and kill him on the spot. But the blood-dripping sword was still in Frank’s hand, and they had seen him do execution with it. They feared that sword.
Zuera seemed to read the thoughts expressed on their faces. She stepped swiftly to Frank’s side, saying, softly:
“Come away, señor. You are in danger. Come with me.”
They passed through the circle and walked toward the box of the alcalde. When the spectators saw them thus, another great cheer went up.
“Beautiful boy!” screamed the spectators. “He has Villasca’s sword! Keep it! keep it! He is a great espada!”
And then, in their wild enthusiasm, the crowd began to fling presents to Frank—hats, canes, flowers, cigars, money, anything, in fact, that their hands found.
“Take them,” directed Zuera—“take them and bow! The people will be offended if you do not.”
So Frank picked up the money, the cigars and the flowers. The money and cigars he put in his pockets. Zuera caught up the hats and tossed them back to their owners, laughing merrily and calling to each one. Frank bowed his thanks, feeling his face flushing and his heart leaping. It is not strange that he was somewhat bewildered, for his was an experience such as never before befell an American youth.
At last they came to the box of the alcalde, and Frank saw the magistrate and several personages of authority in a most excited discussion. At first the boy was not noticed, but the attention of the chief magistrate was called to him after a time. The dignitary turned and glared down at the lad, and a sudden hush settled over the vast throng of spectators.
“Boy, who are you?”
“I am Frank Merriwell, señor.”
“English?”
“No, señor, American.”
Frank uttered the words distinctly, with a feeling of pride, and yet not in an offensive or boasting manner.
Zuera gave a little exclamation of astonishment and alarm, and a hoarse murmur rang over the throng of spectators.
Frank knew very well that he was in the heart of a country inclined to be hostile to the United States and friendly toward England, but the boy would have scorned to save himself from any peril by denying his nationality and proclaiming himself something that he was not.
There was another excited discussion within the alcalde’s box, and then the magistrate demanded:
“Do you know you have committed a grave offense by entering the bull ring without permission during a fight, Señor Merriwell?”
“I was not aware of it, señor,” answered the lad, calmly. “But had I known it was an offense punishable by imprisonment or death, I could not have hesitated when I saw a lady in danger.”
This answer produced a sensation. There were those among the spectators who started to cheer, while others hissed. Great excitement ensued. Somebody shouted:
“Brave American!”
Then there was a commotion, and general riot seemed about to break out. Two men were seen fighting; others joined in the battle. Thousands of spectators shouted and screamed.
Frank remained perfectly calm. Indeed, his calmness was astonishing to himself.
The alcalde turned to the others in the box. He was assailed on all sides by excited gentlemen. Plainly some were greatly angered, while others were defending the young American.
Ephraim Gallup arose and shouted:
“Yeou’re all right, Frank, and I’ll stand by ye till the caows come hum, b’gosh! I’m comin’ right down there.”
Professor Scotch caught hold of the excited Yankee boy and pulled him back into the seat, clinging to him in a frantic manner.
“I tell yeou I’m goin’ daown and back him up!” roared Ephraim, smiting one clinched hand into the open palm of the other. “He’s a jim-cuckoo, that’s what he is.”
“Do not leave me!” implored the professor. “I shall be murdered by these creatures! They have gone mad!”
“But I tell yeou I’m going to back him up. Come on, professor, we’ll both go daown.”
Frank, however, motioned for Ephraim to remain in his seat, and the professor succeeded in persuading the excited lad to do so.
The civil guards came in and subdued the riot among the spectators.
When she could be heard, Señorita Zuera addressed the alcalde.
“It is true that I should have been killed by the bull if this brave youth had not come to my rescue,” she declared. “I entreat pardon for him.”
The alcalde frowned.
“That is not for me to grant, señorita,” he said.
Then he waved his hand, and several of the civil guards rushed into the arena. They placed themselves about Frank Merriwell, and the boy was marched off, a captive, while the spectators howled their applause or anger.