e is a ceremony to go through
here, and ceremony is the breath of life in the nostrils of a Spaniard.
He dedicates the bull to the president, or to the chief lady visitor,
and waves the sword and the sable cap impressively the while. Then, with
a majestic sweep, he flings the cap to the audience to hold for him--a
coveted honour--and walks out to face the bull.

[Illustration: "ONE SHORT STAB OF HIS DAGGER BEHIND THE SKULL."]

This latter, by loss of blood and much chasing, is glum of aspect and
foot-weary. The nerve-tearing barbs rattle their wooden holders about
his back as he moves. He seems to recognise that the last part of the
fight has come, for all the teasing chulos have withdrawn, and he is
alone with one small, wiry man with a bright sword. The time for wild
rushes is past; the bull plants himself gloomily and waits his chance.
There is the _faena_ to go through first--a series of passes with the
scarlet flag. There may be a dozen or so to show, each well recognised
by the schools of bull-fighting, and each with its own value and
technique. _Alto_, _de pecho_, _derecho_, and so forth--they are too
numerous and intricate to explain here; but when the bull has bravely
charged the last of them, and passed under the flag into space again on
the other side, then comes the preparation for the death-stroke. No
other beast in the world would have fought so long. Tiger, wild boar,
any of the most blood-thirsty tropical brutes, steeped in vicious
savagery--none of them will stand up to the enemy after such bitter dole
as is the portion of a bull in the arena, and fight to the end without
once turning tail.

So the matador arranges the cloak in his left hand and the sword in his
right. Teasing has been the form so far, but now one or the other has to
die, and it is not as invariably the bull as most people suppose. There
are many ways of making the last stroke.

A short aim, a wave of the flag, and with the last blind, lunging charge
the swordsman slips aside, and his blade runs up to the hilt behind the
bull's shoulder. The hammered steel feels the great tired heart within,
and the enemy falls--the pluckiest beast of his day.

[Illustration: "REMOVING THE BODY OF THE BULL."]

This is what should happen, and with a first-rate swordsman it does. But
often half-a-dozen lunges are made, till at last the red, tottering
brute kneels down peacefully from sheer inability to stand, and the
puntillero comes up behind and w