Gallardo replied to all these salutations with the smile of a barber's block. With his thoughts far away, he took little notice of them. By his side sat El Nacional, the banderillero in whom he placed most trust, a big, hard man, older by ten years than himself, with a grave manner and eyebrows that met between his eyes. He was well known in the profession for his kindness of heart and sterling worth, and also for his political opinions.
"Juan, you will not have to complain of Madrid," said El Nacional, "you have taken the public by storm."
But Gallardo, as if he had not heard him but felt obliged to give vent to the thoughts that were weighing on him, replied, "My heart tells me that something will happen this afternoon."
As they arrived at la Cibeles the carriage stopped. A great funeral was passing through the Prado in the direction of Castellana and cut through the avalanche of carriages coming from the Calle de Alcala.
Gallardo turned still paler as he looked with terrified eyes at the passing of the silver cross and the procession of priests who broke into a mournful chant as they gazed, some with aversion others with envy, at the stream of godless people who were rushing to amuse themselves.
The espada hastened to take off his montero. His banderilleros did the same, with the exception of El Nacional.
"Curse you!" cried Gallardo, "Take off your cap, rascal."
He glared at him as if about to strike him, fully convinced, by some confused intuition, that this impiety would bring down on him the greatest misfortunes.
"All right, I'll take it off," said El Nacional, with the sulkiness of a thwarted child, as he saw the cross moving off, "I'll take it off but it is to the dead man!"
They were obliged to stop for some time to let the funeral cortège pass.