And when at last the end was reached, with what a superb spring the last splendid blow was given! No need of a second; the bull staggered, shuddered, fell forward upon his knees, sank upon his side. Sebastiano stood erect, a brilliant, careless, triumphant figure again, the air resounding with deafening applause.
“You have seen him,” cried Manuel to Pepita—“you have seen Sebastiano?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little breathlessly, “I have seen him.”
And even as she spoke she knew that he had seen her; she knew it even before Manuel spoke again in great excitement.
“He looks this way—he looks at us—at you.”
It was quite true. Something had attracted his attention to the tier of seats in which they sat, some cry—who knows what?—perhaps some subtle magnetic influence. He turned his head with a quick movement, and his eyes fell and fastened themselves instantly upon the brilliant little face glowing like some bright flower among those humbler and less blooming.
“He looks at you, Pepita,” said José.
“He looks at you and at Jovita,” Pepita answered. And she laughed and turned her face away.
But not before Sebastiano had seen it well. It was Fate. Yes, he knew that. He had been loved often; he had had romantic adventures, but it had always been he who had received and the others who had given; he had always remained Sebastiano, the hero, the adored. And now he stood and looked at a little head half concealed by a fan, and forgot for a moment where he was, and that the people were still shouting their applause in deafening tumult.