He unfolded his muleta, standing in front of the animal, but at some distance, not as in former days, when he fired the people by spreading the red rag almost on its muzzle. In the silence of the Plaza there was a movement of surprise, but no one uttered a word. Several times Gallardo stamped on the ground to excite the beast, who at last attacked feebly, passing under the muleta, but the torero drew himself on one side with visible haste. Many on the benches looked at each other. What did that mean?
The espada saw El Nacional by his side and a few steps further back another peon, but he did not shout as formerly, "Every one out of the way!"
From the benches arose the sound of sharp discussions. Even the torero's friends thought some explanation necessary.
"He still feels his wounds. He ought not to fight. That leg! don't you see it?"
The capes of the two peons helped the espada in his passes; the beast was restless, bewildered by the red cloths, and as soon as it charged the muleta, some other cape attracted it away from the torero.
Gallardo, as if he wished to get out of this disagreeable situation, squared himself with his rapier high, and threw himself on the bull.
A murmur of absolute stupefaction greeted the stroke. The blade entering only a third of its length trembled, ready to fly out. Gallardo had slipped out from between the horns, without driving the blade in up to the hilt as in former days.
"The stroke was well placed all the same!" shouted the enthusiasts, clapping as hard as they could, so that their noise should supply the place of numbers.
But the connoisseurs smiled with pity. That lad was going to lose the only merit he possessed, his nerve and daring. They had seen him instinctively shorten his arm at the moment of striking the bull with the rapier, and they had seen him turn his face aside, with that shrinking of fear which prevents a man looking danger full in the face.