A few moments passed in silence. All the farm men (about a dozen), who had not gone out to work in the fields, were looking with almost childish wonder at this terrible personage, whose very name obsessed them with its gloomy fame.
"Can they take the mare round to the stable to rest a little?" enquired the bandit.
Gallardo signed to a man, who took the reins and walked away with her.
"Take good care of her," said Plumitas. "Mia is the best thing I have in the world and I love her more than wife or children."
A fresh personage had joined the group, standing in the midst of the amazed people.
It was Potaje, the picador, who came out half dressed and stretching himself, with all the rough strength of his athletic body. He rubbed his eyes, always bloodshot and inflamed by drink, and approaching the bandit let one huge hand fall on his shoulder with studied familiarity, as if he enjoyed feeling him squirm under his grasp and wished at the same time to express his rough sympathy.
"How are you, Plumitas?"...
He saw him for the first time. The bandit drew himself together as if he intended to resent this rough and unceremonious caress, and his right hand raised the rifle. However, fixing his little blue eyes on the picador, he seemed to recognize him.
"You are Potaje, if I am not mistaken. I saw you spear in Seville at the last fair. Good Lord how you fell! How strong you are!... One would think you were made of iron."