Don José, who had endeavoured to keep calm, when hours before he had thought the espada's death inevitable, quite broke down. His matador lame! Then he would no longer be able to fight!
He was furious at the calm with which the doctors spoke of the possibility of Gallardo becoming useless as a torero.
"That could not be. Do you think it logical that Juan should live and not fight?... Who would fill his place? I tell you, it cannot be! The first man in the world!... And you want him to retire!"
He spent the night watching with the men of the cuadrilla and Gallardo's brother-in-law, and next morning early he went to the station to meet the Madrid express. It arrived and with it Dr. Ruiz. He came without any luggage, as carelessly dressed as ever, smiling behind his yellowish beard, bobbing along in his loose coat, with the swinging of his little short legs and his big stomach like a Buddha.
As he entered the house, the torero, who seemed sunk in the extreme of weakness, opened his eyes, reviving with a smile of confidence. After Ruiz had listened in a corner to the other doctors' opinions and explanations, he approached the bed.
"Courage, my lad; this will not finish you! You have good luck!"
And then he added, turning to his colleagues:
"See what a magnificent animal this Juanillo is! Another one by now, would not be giving us any work."
He examined him very carefully; it was a "cogida" which required great care. But he had seen so many!... Bull-fighting wounds were his spécialité, and in them he always expected the most extraordinary cures, as if the horns gave at the same time the wound and its remedy.