One afternoon when El Cuchillo was rather more than three and a half years old, the tame bullocks came to the prairie some hours before their time, and in their wake followed half a dozen ganaderos, with Miguel at their head, all carrying long poles. Some eight bulls, including El Cuchillo, were separated from the rest of the company, and round these the belled bullocks formed a little circle, and the company started along an unfamiliar and deserted road, through lanes overblown with flowers of richest colour and fragrant with the perfume of wild thyme. Past farmhouses well-nigh smothered in greenery, and tiny wayside ventas where little groups of interested spectators were gathered under the vine-trellised arbours, men and beasts took their slow and peaceful way. Before nightfall a quiet meadow received the company of bulls and bullocks and, while five of the ganaderos went to claim the shelter of a neighbouring farmhouse, Miguel kept watch during the few dark hours.
In the afternoon of the next day the journey was resumed, and the fierce bulls went forward in orderly fashion enough, because they were accustomed by now to the company of bullocks and the tinkling of their bells. So that the bullocks knew the way, the bulls were well content to follow. Only on the fourth evening did they reach their destination, the tablada that lies within five miles of Seville and offers a clear view of the Giralda Tower and the cathedral. There for some days bulls and bullocks rested from their labours, and the corn supply of the former was renewed by Miguel with a lavish hand. Such little fatigue as might have been associated with the journey over dry and dusty roads was speedily forgotten.
A very gay procession rode out of Seville to the tablada on the afternoon of the Friday following the arrival of the animals. There were several noble patrons of the bull-ring, a tall, fair-bearded man who was treated with special deference, and a dancing-girl whose name was known from London to New York viâ St. Petersburg. One of Spain’s leading matadors was of the party—a heavy-jawed dull-eyed man, who rode his horse very awkwardly; there were two of the directors of the plaza de toros, and some of the lesser lights of the arena, including El Conecito, the banderillero. The bulls took little notice of the intruders. Their friends, the tame bullocks, were feeding by their side, and Miguel, armed with his pole, sat watching over them from the horse of which he seemed to be a part.
The company rode past the bulls, noting their points as connoisseurs should, and when the great matador—why hide the fact that it was Espartero himself?—saw El Cuchillo, he positively trembled with excitement. In thick guttural tones he asked Miguel a few questions; then, with a light in his eyes that seemed to change the character of his face, he cantered heavily to where the great bull stood. “We shall meet on Sunday, my beauty,” he cried aloud, “and then you shall feel my sword in your heart or I will take your horns to my body.”
And El Cuchillo, who at other times would permit no man to come within ten yards of him, raised his huge head and stared at the finest swordsman in all Spain, as though he understood the challenge and accepted it.
“You seem pleased with that fellow, Espartero,” said the tall man, turning for a moment from the lady with whom he had been conversing.
“Your highness,” replied the great diestro, “since the day when I entered a plaza for the first time, I have never seen a bull better set-up, better armed or in more splendid condition. And if I read him aright, half a dozen horses won’t tire him.”
Having spoken he drew back, the animation passed from his face as rapidly as it had come there, and he rode silently back to the city in the wake of his gay companions. Only Miguel remained in the tablada, perhaps in that moment the proudest man in Andalusia. For it was to his care and tireless work that El Cuchillo’s perfect condition was due.
More than twenty-four hours passed uneventfully, save that the supply of corn was doubled, but as Saturday night drew on many unaccustomed sounds disturbed the bulls—sounds of carriage wheels, the tramp of many horses and the noise of human voices. More than once the huge animals rose to their feet and looked round uneasily, but the bullocks showed no sign of nervousness, and Miguel was in his place. Night deepened, but moon and stars shone with a good grace, and soon there were other lights moving close to the ground—lanterns carried by horsemen at the end of long poles. Miguel’s voice sounded across the tablada, calling the beasts by name; they rose to their feet and came together, a dark, unwieldy nervous mass that a false movement might have turned into a destructive force. But other ganaderos were riding through the tablada now and calling the bullocks, that, obedient to the summons, gathered round the bulls and, preceded by Miguel and one ganadero, led the way through the pastures to the high road. As soon as this was reached Miguel’s companion shook his reins and darted off at a thundering gallop along the Seville road. His the duty to warn belated travellers that the encierro had commenced, to turn carriages and waggons into side lanes, and then to continue his headlong rush until the plaza de toros was reached, and he could summon the men on duty there to light their fires and open the great gate leading to the toril. It was a simple matter enough to take the bulls from their native pasture to the place they were leaving now, but the last few miles between the tablada and the bull-ring were full of dangers, for all Seville was accustomed to turn out to see the procession.