“Have you been to see a bull-fight?” was one of the first questions put to me by a delicate little lady-friend whom I met.
“No; have you?” I answered and asked in the same breath.
Her husband was sitting by; a splendid soldier-like looking man, six feet high, and well proportioned, who could take the bull by the horns when he pleased, and would do it were there any occasion. He did not wait for his pretty wife to answer my inquiry, but laughingly replied:
“Yes, she has, and I went with her, but could not stand it; the sight made me sick, and I had to leave in disgust; but she staid it out, and saw—how many killed was it, dear?”
“Six bulls and five horses,” she said with a smile of supreme delight.
“Killed!” I cried.
THE BULL FIGHT.
“Yes, killed,” they both answered, and he went on to say, “butchered;—horrid!”
“Tell me all about it, please; I would like to hear, at least.”