In future he would fight much as his companions did. Some days he would do well, some days ill. After all bull-fighting was only a profession, and once one had got into the front rank the most important thing was to live, carrying out one's engagements as best one could.
When the time came for him to kill his second bull his cogitations had brought him into a calmer frame of mind. There was no animal that could kill him! All the same, he would do what he could not to get within reach of the horns.
As he went towards the bull, he carried himself with the same proud bearing as on his best afternoons.
"Out of the way, everybody!"
The audience rustled with a murmur of satisfaction. He had said ... "Out of the way, everybody!" He was going to repeat one of his old strokes.
But what the public hoped for did not happen, neither did El Nacional cease to follow him with his cape on his arm, guessing with the knowledge of an old peon, accustomed to the bombast of matadors, the theatrical hollowness of that order.
Gallardo spread his cape at some distance from the bull, and began the passes with visible apprehension, always helped by Sebastian's cape.
Once when the muleta remained low for an instant, the bull moved as if intending to charge; he did not, but the espada, over and above alert, deceived by this movement, took a few steps back, which were real bounds, flying from an animal which did not intend to attack him.
This unnecessary retreat placed him in a very ridiculous position, and the crowd laughed with surprise, and many whistles were heard.
"Hey! he's catching you!" ... yelled an ironical voice.