When bulls, bullocks and their guardians were safely on the high road, a long procession of carriages, followed by men on horse and afoot, came from a turn in the main road and formed a sort of rearguard.
The fascination of the night-ride was at once their justification and their excuse. The air was so still that the ringing sound of flying hoofs reached the ear when the first ganadero was some two miles in advance of the procession; one was conscious of the heavy, intoxicating perfume that stole out from gardens on either side of the road. From the poplar trees came the ceaseless call of the cigarrons, nightingales sang amid the orange-orchards of Las Delicias, the melancholy cry of the bittern rose from the river marshes, mingled with the croaking of the bull-frogs never at rest. And every venta along the roadside was crowded, the garden trees were hung with lanterns, guitars tinkled an accompaniment to malagueñas, jotas, boleros and other songs and dances of Southern Spain, and through the pageant and festivities prepared in their honour the bulls moved with silent dignity. Right along the Guadalquivir’s bank, where the lights shone from the faluchas at rest upon its waters, they tramped almost up to the Tower of Gold, and then the plaza de toros shone out clearly in the light of huge bonfires kindled just beyond its boundaries. Guided for the first and last time by the poles of the ganaderos, the bullocks turned sharply to the right, and after a moment’s hesitation that gave the one touch of suspense to the proceedings, the fighting bulls followed. The heavy doors were drawn behind them, the procession dispersed, and, quite unseen by any eyes save those of the men engaged, each bull was driven to his own condemned cell, while the bullocks remained by themselves in a small straw-covered yard. Then profound silence reigned throughout the city, broken only when the bells clashed from the Giralda Tower and the old serenos who paraded the streets with spear and lantern cried to the Maria Santissima that the night was clear.
In his narrow prison El Cuchillo may have noted the coming of the morning when one white bar of light fell across the wall. There were sounds of activity beyond the toril, but he remained undisturbed. He had little room to turn, there was no food, and, worse still, no water. Hunger, thirst and fear yielded slowly to an overmastering sense of anger, founded upon his consciousness of giant strength. He bellowed savagely, and would have given effect to his rage had it been possible to move freely.
Long hours passed; morning yielded to afternoon. The great splash of light that came through the bars waxed intense and intolerant and then waned slowly with the passing hours, while an indescribable sense of movement filled the twilight of the condemned cell. In some subtle fashion it told of the gathering of an expectant multitude. On a sudden a military band, somewhere just beyond the toril, crashed out the Spanish National Anthem, there were cheers and shouts, succeeded by a death-like stillness that was broken in its turn by a shrill, penetrating trumpet call. Time after time, for more than an hour, came the reverberating notes, the snatches of wild music, the cries from many thousand throats. Only one word rang clear: “Espartero”.
At last El Cuchillo became conscious of voices on either side of him, the light broadened, and a hand, shooting out a little way above him, stuck the barbed point of a red rosette in his shoulder. A moment later the trumpets called again, the front wall of his prison opened as though by magic, and he dashed forward with a rush that brought him half way across the yellow arena. A yell from twelve thousand throats arrested him; he lashed his flanks, blinked a little—for even the setting sun hurt his eyes after those long hours of darkness—and then answered his audience with a roar of defiance. Certainly he knew that he was surrounded by his enemies; perhaps the awful odour of blood that filled the arena gave him some prevision of the butchery that was to accompany his death.
Let us pass over the first few minutes of the struggle. El Cuchillo knew no difference between the armour-cased picadores who carried the spiked poles, and the hapless, unprotected, blindfolded horses they bestrode. That is all that needs be said by way of excuse for the six carcases that strewed the arena when the tercio sounded, carcases from which the blue-coated attendants had stripped saddle and bridle. With one exception the picadores had fallen behind their horses in the most approved fashion; the exception, a heavy man, protected at all vital points against the reddened horns, was tossed high into the air and carried off with a broken collar-bone; while Espartero himself drew El Cuchillo away with some of the most superb cloak-work Seville had seen since Lagartijo retired from the bull-ring.
With the enthusiasm of the huge auditorium a thrill of amazement was mingled. Though the bull’s neck bore red marks of the picadores’ poles, he was singularly fresh, his breathing was not short and sharp as it should have been, and he was in no sense distressed.
Conecito came forward with his banderillas, the beribboned spears used for the second attack upon the bull, and the crowd cheered lustily, for the banderillero was a favourite. Bull and man seemed to charge together, and then Conecito was seen travelling post-haste for the barrier, which he reached just in time, while his opponent drew up and trotted off gamely but with “half a pair” (the technical term for one banderilla) hanging from his shoulder. The second banderillero tried next and failed altogether—El Cuchillo’s pace beat him utterly; and then, to the accompaniment of a roar of applause and a burst of barbaric music, Espartero himself came forward with a pair of the light lances. This time there was no mistake. For all Cuchillo’s wonderful habit of using his eyes as he charged he could never quite tell where the great matador would cross him, and at the second attempt the two lances were beautifully placed. Then Conecito tried again, with the same result as before, save that the one sent home was on the other side of the bull’s flank, so that he carried two pairs now. The second banderillero was quite beaten, but the renowned Rafael Guerra, who led the second cuadrilla, succeeded, amid thunders of acclamation. Then the judge raised his hand to the string with which he signalled, the trumpeters sounded the third call and a great hush fell upon the arena.
Espartero was to kill. The great diestro, who had been testing the quality of two or three swords, and giving instructions to the footmen of his cuadrilla, now chose his weapon, and wrapping the scarlet muleta round it strode across the arena until he stood below the President’s box.