“Estramadura’s turn now,” shouted Captain Cornell to his companions, raising his voice in order to make himself heard above the sudden roar of applause.
The tall graceful Spaniard, clad all in red—red shoes, red stockings, red silk knee breeches, red jacket, with a broad yellow sash and jaunty, tri-cornered yellow cap, strolled lazily forth.
But he was not so lazy as his actions bespoke. Or, if lazy, was nimble. Not for him the shelter of working near the wall. He moved to the middle of the arena. The bull charged for him.
The three youths sucked in their breath. Would he let himself be gored? How would he meet that charge? He was weaponless. The only thing he held in his hands was a voluminous red cape.
The matador flicked out the cape with the merest movement of his hands, as a boy flicks forth a marble. But that little movement sent the cape fluttering wide before the eyes of the bull.
Yet Estramadura did not budge. He seemed rooted in the sand. The bull bellowed, lowered his head, charged on.
By a sideways twist of his body, indescribably graceful, Estramadura avoided the nearest horn of the maddened animal by an inch, and the brute thundered on. The matador had not moved his feet.
A thunderous cheer shook the stands. Men leaped to their feet in a frenzy. Hats were flung into the ring. Money fell gleaming upon the arena sand.
Turning his back on the bull, Estramadura bowed. And as if their former efforts were but a mere warming-up process, the spectators released another volley of cheers far greater in volume.
The boys sat enthralled, uttering occasional ejaculations, not particularly intended to be heard and going unanswered.