El Nacional rode in the coach, frowning and gloomy. That Sunday was the day of the elections, and none of his companions of the cuadrilla had taken any notice of it. They would do nothing but talk of the death of Plumitas and the approaching bull-fight. It was too bad to have his functions as a good citizen, interrupted by this corrida, preventing him carrying off several friends to the voting urn, who would not go unless he took them. Don Joselito had been imprisoned, with other friends, on account of his eloquence on the tribunes, and El Nacional, who wished to share his martyrdom, had been obliged to put on his gala costume instead and go off with his master. Was this assault on the liberty of citizens to remain unnoticed? Would not the people rise?...
As the coach drove along through la Campana, the toreros saw a large crowd of people, apparently shouting seditiously and waving their sticks. The police agents were charging them sword in hand, and a free fight seemed in progress.
El Nacional rose from his seat trying to throw himself out of the carriage. Ah! At last! The moment has come!... The revolution! Now the populace is rising!
But his master half laughing, half angry, seized him and pushed him back in his seat.
"Don't be an idiot, Sebastian! You only see revolutions and hobgoblins everywhere!"
The rest of the cuadrilla laughed as they guessed the truth. The noble people, being unable to obtain tickets for the corrida at the office in la Campana were trying to take it by storm, and set fire to it, being prevented by the police. El Nacional bent his head sorrowfully.
"Reaction and ignorance! All the want of knowing how to read and write!"
A noisy ovation awaited them as they arrived at the Plaza, and frantic rounds of clapping greeted the procession of the cuadrilla. All the applause was for Gallardo. The public welcomed his reappearance in the arena, after that tremendous "cogida" which had been talked of all over the Peninsula.
When the time came for Gallardo to kill his first bull, the explosions of enthusiasm recommenced. Women in white mantillas followed him with their opera-glasses. He was applauded and acclaimed on the sunny side, just as much as on the shady side. Even his enemies seemed influenced by this current of sympathy. Poor fellow! He had suffered so much!... The whole Plaza was his. Never had Gallardo seen an audience so completely his own.
He took off his montera before the presidential chair to give the "brindis." "Olé! Olé!" Nobody heard a word, but they all yelled enthusiastically. The applause followed him as he went towards the bull, ceasing in a silence of expectation as he approached it.