As the shout rolled through the arena, and Espartero walked slowly to the barrier, the setting sun made a final effort and flooded half the arena with yellow crocus-coloured light. The pigeons from the Giralda Tower swept right across the plaza, and from the sunny side rose a sudden shout of “Pardon! pardon.”
It was caught up all over the arena as El Cuchillo, with a mighty effort, shook the sword out of his shoulder and, with splendid valour, returned to the centre of the arena, unbeaten still, and ready for the next attack.
The clamour increased and became deafening until Espartero was seen walking empty-handed to the corner below the President’s box. Then it died away to absolute silence.
In clear tones that could be heard all over one side of the arena the great matador asked the President to grant pardon to El Cuchillo for his splendid fight, which had given more honour to the famous plaza de toros than would come to it by his death. And the President, listening gravely to his appeal, raised his hat and replied, “We pardon El Cuchillo on account of his bravery”.
Amid a scene of extraordinary enthusiasm the trumpets sounded again, and the tame bullocks came into the arena by way of the toril. They grouped themselves round El Cuchillo, while people cheered and flung hats and cigars and flowers to Espartero, and the band played Spain’s National Anthem. So the long-horned hero of “the herd of death” passed to the toril, where the barbs were removed, his wounds were dressed and his raging thirst was satisfied. And the crowd that had gathered along the river-side road to see him pass to his death gathered on the morrow to do him honour on his way back to the pleasant pastures of Utrera, where old age comes to him to-day, slowly and in peaceful guise.
THE CUCKOO
The month was May, the place was the Heron Wood, which was ablaze with wild hyacinths and pansies, and full of singing-birds. If you have ever been through the wood you must know the little open space in the middle with the pond to which a stray wild duck comes now and again in cold weather. From one corner of the pond you can see right down the slope to the wood’s end, along a path now overgrown with ferns and weeds, but, in the old preserving days, a ride cut to enable the squire to shoot his pheasants. There a Vixen had her earth. She could see over the approach to the wood and yet remain unseen, so she was well content.
YOUNG CUCKOO [Photo by C. Reid]
A bird that seemed at first sight to be a sparrow-hawk came into the wood above the ride, hard-pressed by a flock of sparrows and finches that were pursuing it with loud, angry cries. Once among the trees, the hunted one was lost to its pursuers, who gave up the chase and returned twittering to the open. The Vixen sat quite still. Suddenly she heard the flutter of leaves, as strong wings passed between them, and in another minute the bird that might have been taken for a sparrow-hawk lighted on the branch of the black-thorn above her, lowered his head, drooped his wings, spread his tail out to the fullest extent and called, “Cuc-koo,” he cried, “Cuc-koo, cuc-cuk-koo”.