"You have gained them," said El Nacional, who had placed himself with his cloak in readiness close to the bull.
The multitude, clapping their hands, called the torero: "Here! here!" every one wishing to see the bull killed in front of his own bench so as not to lose a single detail, and the torero hesitated between the contradictory calls of thousands of voices.
With one foot on the step of the barrier, he was considering the best place to kill the bull. He had better take him a little further on. The torero felt embarrassed by the body of the horse, whose miserable remains seemed to fill all that side of the arena.
He was turning to give the order to El Nacional to have the body removed, when he heard behind him a voice he knew, and though he could not at once recall to whom it belonged, it made him turn round suddenly.
"Good evening, Seño Juan! We are going to applaud 'the truth.'"
He saw in the first rank, below the rope of the inside barrier, a jacket folded on the line of the wall; on it were crossed a pair of arms in shirt sleeves, on which rested a broad face, freshly shaved, with the hat pulled down to its ears. It looked like a good-natured countryman come in from his village to see the corrida.
Gallardo recognized him; it was Plumitas.
He had fulfilled his promise; there he was, audaciously among twelve thousand people who might recognise him, saluting the espada, who felt pleased and grateful for this mark of confidence.
Gallardo was astounded at his temerity. To come down into Seville, to enter the Plaza, far away from the mountains, where defence was so easy, without the help of his two companions, the mare and the rifle, and all to see him kill bulls! Truly, of the two, which was the braver man?