There were three of these men. They had remained standing motionless in a very nonchalant way, waiting for the signal of the coup de grace. The one who now stepped out to the task, was a lithe, handsome fellow. With a light bound, he sprung at the side of the bull, avoided the side-sweep of his angry horn, and plunged his weapon in the animal's neck.
A storm of hisses burst from the audience, for the blow was not the death-blow; and the matadore recovered his sword and returned to his former position; for one of the rules of the bull-fight is that the blow which is intended to be final must not be repeated, if it be unsuccessful.
And now, at another signal from the major domo, an old matadore, who had stood gravely in front of us throughout the entire performance, now advanced easily toward the bull, who made a staggering charge upon him. But he easily evaded the charge, gained the animal's side, and drove in his thin sword to the hilt, right behind the shoulder-blade. This time it was the coup de grace. The bull stumbled forward, and then fell to the ground dead, while a thundering cheer greeted the successful matadore, who bowed carelessly, as if he was used to it, wiped his sword, and quietly resumed his former position.
Now the supernumeraries entered the ring, with a wagon, to remove the dead bull and horses and other débris.
Several other bulls, more or less formidable, were disposed of in rapid succession.
But the greatest bull was reserved for the finale. A hum went through the audience as he sprung into the arena. I think I never saw a nobler animal than this bull. He was of a bright bay, and as glossy as the costliest satin. His eyes were brilliant and large. The strength as displayed in the splendid limbs and glorious neck was prodigious. All "our crowd" sent up a rousing cheer as soon as this animal made its appearance.
Well, the usual performance was gone through with at first. The horsemen charged; one of the horses was killed; the flag-bearers charged, and one of them was killed. The fireworks had become exhausted: so that part of the show—a very disgusting part to me, I must say—had to be skipped. The master of ceremonies seemed loth to give the signal for the death of this noble beast. And while he was deliberating, the bull made a sudden and most effective charge upon all the horsemen and flagmen, who were very injudiciously, all grouped together. The result was that the horses were immediately overthrown and disabled, one of the flagmen was immediately killed, and another one badly hurt, while one of the three matadores,[1] who had been in the group, was tossed high into the air and, by the rules of the arena, was out of the fight, on account of his having left his proper position at the edge of the ring. There were now, literally, as the only remaining fighters, two matadores or swordsmen. One of these, at the sign from the master of ceremonies—which was now very hastily given—rushed in to the attack. But his blow was a bad one. The old matadore—the one who had finished up the the first bull so nicely, was now the only one left, and he, without losing a particle of his composure, went in with a confident air.
But he made a mistake, just as he reached the animal's side, and had his arm paralyzed by hitting a horn with his crazy-bone, and away flew his sword out of his hand. The next instant, he was tossed sky-high and Mr. Bull had it all his own way.
A murmur of horror ran through the audience, for it seemed that now, as every one of the fighters was either prostrate or weaponless, there would be a great carnage. Even the hitherto imperturbable major domo lost his presence of mind and turned as pale as death.
At this momentous juncture, old Bluefish, to our unmitigated astonishment, started up with a wild whoop.