A hoarse voice, weak with pain, moaned between sighs in an accent which reminded Carmen of her own country.
"Oh! Virgin of Solitude! I think something is broken; search well, doctor.... Ay! my children!"
Carmen trembled with fright. She raised her eyes, suffused with terror, to the Virgin. She felt as if she might fall fainting on the floor; she tried again to pray, not to listen to the noises from outside, transmitted through the walls with such desperate clearness. But in spite of her endeavour, the sound of splashing water fell on her ears, and the sounds of men's voices, probably the doctors, encouraging the patient.
"Virgin of Solitude!... My children!... What will become of my poor angels if their father cannot fight?"...
Carmen rose. Ay! she could bear it no longer, she should faint if she remained longer in that dark place terrified by those cries of pain. She must have air, get out into the sun. She fancied she felt in her own bones all the pain that unknown man was suffering.
She went out into the courtyard. There was blood on every side! Blood on the ground, and blood round some pails in which the water was coloured red.
The picadors were coming out of the circus, the banderilleros were having their turn now, the riders came in on their horses stained with blood, their flesh torn, their entrails hanging down.
The riders dismounted, talking with animation of the events of the corrida. Carmen watched Potaje's ponderous humanity get down stiffly and heavily, swearing at the mono sabio, who did not help his descent with sufficient alacrity. He seemed benumbed by his heavy iron leggings and by the pain of various bruises; he raised one hand ruefully to rub his shoulders, but all the same he smiled, showing all his yellow tusks.
"Have you all seen how fine Juan has been?" he said to those surrounding him. "To-day he has been quite splendid."
As he noticed the only woman in the patio and recognized her, he showed no sort of surprise.