Two men each hit the other with their fists till their eyes are blinded
and their noses are broken. Hideous! And the other men who look on cry
out loudly and are made glad. It is barbarous--no?"

"But they are men," said John Harned; "and they prize-fight out of
desire. No one makes them prize-fight. They do it because they desire it
more than anything else in the world."

Maria Valenzuela--there was scorn in her smile as she said: "They kill
each other often--is it not so? I have read it in the papers."

"But the bull," said John Harned.

"The bull is killed many times in the bull-fight, and the bull does not
come into the the ring out of desire. It is not fair to the bull. He
is compelled to fight. But the man in the prize-fight--no; he is not
compelled."

"He is the more brute therefore," said Maria Valenzuela.

"He is savage. He is primitive. He is animal. He strikes with his paws
like a bear from a cave, and he is ferocious. But the bull-fight--ah!
You have not seen the bullfight--no? The toreador is clever. He must
have skill. He is modern. He is romantic. He is only a man, soft and
tender, and he faces the wild bull in conflict. And he kills with a
sword, a slender sword, with one thrust, so, to the heart of the great
beast. It is delicious. It makes the heart beat to behold--the small
man, the great beast, the wide level sand, the thousands that look on
without breath; the great beast rushes to the attack, the small man
stands like a statue; he does not move, he is unafraid, and in his hand
is the slender sword flashing like silver in the sun; nearer and nearer
rushes the great beast with its sharp horns, the man does not move, and
then--so--the sword flashes, the thrust is made, to the heart, to the
hilt, the bull falls to the sand and is dead, and the man is unhurt. It
is brave. It is magnificent! Ah!--I could love the toreador. But the
man of the prize-fight--he is the brute, the human beast, the savage
primitive, the maniac that receives many blows in his stupid face and
rejoices. Come to Quito and I will show you the brave sport of men, the
toreador and the bull."

But John Harned did not go to Quito for the bull-fight. He went because
of Maria Valenzuela. He was a large man, more broad of shoulder than
we Ecuadorianos, more tall, more heavy of limb and bone. True, he was
larger of his own race. His eyes were blue, though I have seen them
gray, and, sometimes, like cold steel. His features were lar