“He is killed! He is killed!”
One might have thought the picadore had committed a mortal offense against every man, woman and child present, and they were rejoicing to see him justly punished.
But the bull seemed satisfied with its work on the horse, and it whirled to charge on the next picadore, leaving the fallen one to scramble up and hastily limp away toward the barrier, which he lost no time in placing between himself and another attack.
The second picadore was no less fortunate than the first, and one of the bull’s horns opened a great gash in the horse’s breast, from which a torrent of blood issued.
The picadore was frightened, lost his head, leaped from the saddle, and fled for the barrier.
The crowd rose up and howled its derision and wrath.
“Coward!” shrieked the great throng. “Lazy creature! Wretch! Impostor! Go hide! Never dare show yourself again!”
Over the barrier leaped the fellow, and Frank, who was near at hand, saw he was as pale as a ghost and literally shaking with terror.
Perhaps that picadore had been in a dozen bull fights before, and never quailed or lost his nerve for a moment; but this time he was unmanned in a twinkling, as an actor is sometimes overcome by stage fright when such a thing seems the least likely to happen.
The bull did not pursue the wounded horse, which leaped away, spurting blood at every jump. No; the furious animal charged a third picadore, and it seemed that nothing could stop its rush, for the horse swerved just as the fellow tried to plant his lance, and once more the bull did its dreadful work.