Blood and Sand

by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez

While the banderilleros were engaged, Gallardo, leaning on the barrier, passed the boxes in review. Doña Sol was sure to be there. At last he caught sight of her, but without the white mantilla. There was nothing about her to remind one of the lady in Seville who was so like one of Goya's pictures. With her golden hair and her large and elegant hat, she might have been a foreigner seeing a bull-fight for the first time. By her side sat that man of whom she spoke so admiringly, and to whom she was showing the sights of the country. Ay! Doña Sol! Soon she would see what the fine fellow she had deserted really was! She would have to applaud him even in the presence of the hated stranger; she would become enthusiastic, even against her will, carried away by the contagion of the masses.

When the time came for Gallardo to kill his bull, which was the second, the masses received him cordially, as if they had forgotten their annoyance at the previous corrida. The people seemed inclined to be tolerant after the spell of wet weather, as if they wished to find everything good in the long expected bull-fight. Besides, the courage of the first bull and the great mortality among the horses had put the crowd in a splendid humour.

Gallardo walked towards the bull with his head uncovered after the "brindis," with the muleta in one hand, and in the other the rapier waving like a cane. He was followed, though at a prudent distance, by El Nacional and another torero. Several voices from the sunny side protested. How many more acolytes!... He looked like a parish priest going to a funeral!

"Go out everybody!" shouted Gallardo.

The two peons stopped, because it was said in a voice which left no room for doubt.

He went forward till he came close to the beast, and then unfolded the muleta, giving some passes quite in his old style, even placing the rag on the slavering muzzle. "A pass, olé!" and a murmur of satisfaction ran over the benches. The lad from Seville was again worthy of his name, he had regained his professional pride. He was going to perform some of his old strokes as in his best days. His muleta passes were greeted with noisy exclamations of delight, and on the benches his partisans revived, rebuking his enemies.

That afternoon was one of his best. When they saw the bull standing motionless, the public themselves encouraged him with their advice. "Now then! Strike!"

Gallardo threw himself on the bull with his rapier in front, slipping quickly away from the menace of the horns.

The applause rang out, but it was short, and followed by a threatening murmur, mingled with strident whistling. The enthusiasts ceased to look at the bull, to turn their indignation on the public. What injustice! What want of knowledge! He had entered to kill splendidly....