“You would not like it, Cherito,” said Alvar.
“Don’t you?” echoed Cherry, with a glance at Gipsy.
“Oh, yes; it is grand! When the bull makes a rush one holds the breath, and then—it is a shout!”
“I suppose it is a wonderful spectacle,” said Mr Stanforth. “I hope to have a chance, but I think Gipsy will have to take it on trust.”
“Jack desired me not to encourage them,” said Cherry, “but I must own to a great curiosity about it.”
“But I shall not let you go,” said Alvar; “it would tire you far too much; and besides you are too tender-hearted. My brothers,” he added to Mr Stanforth, “cannot bear to see anything hurt, unless they hurt it themselves; then they do not mind.”
“Of course,” said Cherry, “there is an essential difference between incurring danger, or at least fatigue and exertion yourself, and sitting by to see other people incur it. I have no doubt it is a barbarous sort of thing, and there is something dreadful in the idea of a lady being present at it; but it would be stupid, I think, to come away without seeing anything so characteristic.”
“The Spanish ladies do not mind it, nor I,” said Alvar, “any more than you mind killing your foxes, or your fish; but it is different for foreigners. They do not like to see the horses, though they are mostly worthless ones, torn in pieces. You would be ill, querido, you might faint.”
“Nonsense,” said Cherry. “I might hate it, but I should not be so soft as that.”
“You do not know,” said Alvar, evidently not disposed to yield. “Some day,” with a glance at Gipsy, “I will tell you. You shot the old horse yourself for fear the coachman should hurt him—but it made you cry; and if a dog whines it grieves you.”