But he refused all congratulations. What did it signify what he had done? Nothing at all ... rubbish. The important thing was Juan's condition, who was in the infirmary struggling with death.
"And how is he, Seño Sebastian?" asked the people, returning to their first interest.
"Very bad. He has only just recovered consciousness. He has one leg broken to bits: a gore underneath the arm, and what besides, I know not!... The poor fellow is to me like my own saint.... We are going to take him home."
When the night closed in, Gallardo was carried out of the circus on a litter. The crowd walked silently after him. Every few moments El Nacional, carrying the cape on his arm, and still wearing his showy torero's dress amongst the common clothes of the people, leaned over the cover of the litter and ordered the porters to stop.
The doctors belonging to the Plaza walked behind and with them the Marquis de Moraima, and Don José, the manager, who seemed ready to faint in the arms of some friends of the "Forty-five," one common anxiety mixing them up with the ragged crew, who also followed the litter.
The crowd were horrified; it was a sad procession, as though some national disaster had occurred which levelled all beneath the general misfortune.
"What a misfortune, Seño Marque!" said a chubby-faced, red-haired peasant, who carried his jacket on his arm, to the Marquis de Moraima.
Twice this man had pushed aside some of the porters of the litter, wishing to assist in carrying it. The Marquis looked at him sympathetically. He must be one of those country peasants who were accustomed to salute him on the roads.
"Yes, a great misfortune, my lad."
"Do you think he will die, Seño Marque?"