he bull. The
_matador_ advances, sword in hand, with the _muleta_, the red cloth for
the passes, over his arm. Under the president's box he takes off his
hat, and with fine gesture makes a grandiloquent speech, wherein he vows
either to conquer or to die: the harangue is finished with a wheel round
and a dramatic flinging of his hat to attendants on the other side of
the barrier. He pensively walks forward. All eyes are upon him--and he
knows it. He motions his companions to stand back and goes close to the
bull. He is quite alone, with his life in his hands--a slender figure,
very handsome in the gorgeous costume glittering with fine gold. He
arranges the _muleta_ over a little stick, so that it hangs down like a
flag and conceals his sword. Then quite solemnly he walks up to the
bull, holding the red rag in his left hand. The bull watches
suspiciously, suddenly charges, and the _muleta_ is passed over its
head; the _matador_ does not move a muscle, the bull turns and stands
quite motionless. Another charge, another pass. And so he continues,
making seven or eight of various sorts, to the growing approbation of
the public. At last it is time to kill. With great caution he withdraws
the sword; the bull looks warily. He makes two or three passes more and
walks round till he gets the animal into proper position: the forefeet
must be set squarely on the ground. '_Ora! Ora!_' cry the people. 'Now!
Now!' The bull is well placed. The _matador_ draws the sword back a
little and takes careful aim. The bull rushes, and at the same moment
the man makes one bound forward and buries the sword to the hilt between
the brute's shoulders. It falls to its knees and rolls over.

Then is a perfect storm of applause; and it is worth while to see
fourteen thousand people wild with delight. The band bursts into joyous
strains, and the mules come galloping in, gaily caparisoned; a rope is
passed round the dead beast, and they drag it away. The _matador_
advances to the president's box and bows, while the shouting grows more
frantic. He walks round, bowing and smiling, and the public in its
enthusiasm throws down hats and cigars and sticks.

But there are no intervals to a bull-fight, and the _picadors_
immediately reappear and take their places; the doors are flung open,
and a second bull rushes forth. The _matador_ still goes round bowing to
the applause, elaborately unmindful of the angry beast.

Six animals are killed in an afternoon wit