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.