"It seems impossible, Sebastian, that a man like you, with a wife and children, should have lent yourself to this debauchery.... I who believed you so different and who had such confidence in you when you went on journeys with Juan! I who felt quite at ease thinking that he went with a man of good character! Where is all your talk about your ideas and your religion? Is this what you learn at the meeting of Jews in the house of Don Joselito, the teacher?"

El Nacional, terrified by the indignation of Gallardo's mother, and touched by the tears of Carmen, who was silently weeping, her face hidden behind a handkerchief, defended himself feebly.

"Se?a Angustias, do not touch my ideas; and if you please, leave Don Joselito in peace, as he has nothing whatever to do with this. By the life of the blue dove! I went to La Rincona because my master ordered me. You know well enough what a cuadrilla is. It is just the same as an army, discipline and obedience. The matador orders, and we have to obey. As all this about the bulls dates from the time of the Inquisition, there is no profession more reactionary."

"Imposter!" screamed Se?ora Angustias, "you are fine with all these fables about the Inquisition and reaction! Between you all you are killing this poor child, who spends her days weeping like la Dolorosa. What you want to do is to hide my son's debauchery because he feeds you."

[Pg 219]

"You have said it, Se?a Angustias, Juaniyo feeds me; so it is. And as he feeds me, I must obey him.... But look here, Se?ora, put yourself in my place. If my matador tells me I am to go to La Rincona ... all right. If at the time of our departure I find a very pretty woman in the automobile! ... what am I to do? The matador orders. Besides, I did not go alone; Potaje also went, and he is a person of a certain age and respectability, even though he is rough; but he never laughs."

The torero's mother was furious at this excuse.

"Potaje! A bad man, whom Juaniyo would not have in his cuadrilla if he had any shame. Don't speak to me of that drunkard, who beats his wife, and starves his children."

"All right; we'll leave Potaje out. I say, when I saw that great lady, what was I to do? She is the Marquis' niece, and you know that toreros have to stand well with people of rank if they can. They have to live on the public. And what harm was there? And then at the farm there was nothing. I swear it by my own. Do you think I should have countenanced this dishonour, even if my matador had ordered me? I am a decent man, Se?a Angustias, and you do wrong to call me the bad names you did just now. I repeat there was nothing. They spoke to each other just as you and I do; there was not an evil look or word, each spent the night on their own side; there was decency at all times, and if you wish for Potaje to come, he will tell you...."

But Carmen interrupted in a tearful voice cut by sobs.

"In my house!" she said with a dazed expression. "At the farm! And she slept in my bed!... I knew it all, too, and I held my tongue, I held my tongue! But[Pg 220] this! Jesus! This. There is not a man in Seville who would have dared so much!"

El Nacional interposed kindly.

"Calm yourself, Se?ora Carmen. It certainly is of no importance. Only the visit of a lady to the farm, who is enthusiastic about the maestro and wished to see how he lived in the country. These ladies who are half foreign are very capricious and strange! But if you had only seen the French ladies, when the cuadrilla went to fight at N?mes and Arles!... The sum total is—nothing at all. Altogether—rubbish! By the blue dove, I should like to know the babbler who brought the gossip. If I were Juaniyo, if it were anyone belonging to the farm, I should turn him out, and if it were anyone outside I would have him up before the judge and put in prison as a calumniator and an enemy."

Carmen still wept as she listened to the banderillero's indignation. But Se?ora Angustias seated in an arm-chair, which scarcely contained her overflowing person, frowned, and pursed up her hairy and wrinkled mouth.

"Hold your tongue, Sebastian, and don't tell lies," cried the old woman. "That journey to the farm was an indecent orgy—a fiesta of gipsies. They even say Plumitas, the brigand, was with you."

El Nacional fairly jumped with surprise and anxiety. He thought he saw, coming into the patio, trampling the marble pavement, a rider, dirty, ragged, with a greasy sombrero, who got off his horse, and pointed his rifle at him as a coward and informer. And immediately after him followed many civil guards in shining three-cornered hats, whiskered and enquiring, writing down notes, and then all the cuadrilla in their gala dresses, roped together on their way to prison. Most certainly he must deny it all energetically.

"Rubbish! All rubbish! What are you talking about,[Pg 221] Plumitas? There was nothing but decency. God alive! They will be saying next that I, a good citizen, who can carry a hundred votes from my suburb to the urns, am a friend of Plumitas!"

Se?ora Angustias, who was not quite sure about this last piece of news, seemed convinced by El Nacional's asseverations. All right; she would say nothing more about El Plumitas. But as for the other thing! The journey to the farm with that ... female! And firm in her mother's blindness, which made the responsibility for all the espada's acts fall on his companions, she continued pouring blame on El Nacional.

"I shall tell your wife what you are. Poor thing, working herself to death in her shop from dawn till dark, while you go to that orgy like a reprobate. You ought to be ashamed of yourself ... at your age! and with all those brats!"

The banderillero fairly fled before the wrath of Se?ora Angustias, who, moved by her great indignation, developed the same nimbleness of tongue as in the days when she was at the tobacco factory. He vowed he would never again return to his master's house.

He met Gallardo in the street. The latter seemed out of temper, but pretended to be bright and smiling when he saw the banderillero, as if he were in no way troubled by his domestic dissensions.

"All this is very bad, Juaniyo. I will never return to your house, even if I am dragged there. Your mother insults me, as if I were a gipsy of Triana. Your wife weeps and looks at me, as if all the fault were mine. Man alive, do me the pleasure not to remember me next time. Choose some other of your associates another time, if you take ladies."

Gallardo smiled, well pleased. It would be nothing[Pg 222] at all, these things passed off quickly. He had often faced worse troubles.

"What you ought to do is to come to the house. When there are many people there, there can be no rows."

"I?" exclaimed El Nacional. "I will be a priest first!"

After this the espada thought it was no use insisting. He spent the greater part of the day out of the home, away from the women's morose silence, interrupted by floods of tears, and when he returned it was with an escort, availing himself of his manager and other friends.

The saddler was a great help to Gallardo, who for the first time began to think his brother-in-law "simpatico," remarkable for his good sense, and worthy of a better fate. He it was who, during the matador's absence, undertook to pacify the women, including his own wife, leaving them like exhausted furies.

"Let us see," he said. "What is it all about? A woman of no importance. Every one is as he is, and Juaniyo is a personage who must mix with influential people. And if this lady did go to the farm, what then? One must cultivate good friendships, for in that way one can ask favours and help on one's family. There was nothing wrong. It was all calumny. El Nacional was there, who is a man of good character.... I know him very well."

For the first time in his life he praised the banderillero. Being constantly in the house he was a valuable auxiliary to Gallardo, and the torero was not niggardly in his gratitude. The saddler had closed his shop, as trade was bad, and was waiting for some employment through his brother-in-law. In the meanwhile the torero supplied all the wants of the family and finally invited them all to take up their quarters permanently in his house. In this way poor Carmen would worry less, not being so much alone.

[Pg 223]

One day El Nacional received a message from his matador's wife that she wished to see him. The banderillero's own wife delivered the message.

"I saw her this morning. She came from San Gil. The poor thing's eyes looked as though she were constantly crying. Go and see her.... Ay! those handsome men. What a curse they are!"

Carmen received El Nacional in the matador's study. They would be alone there, and there would be no fear of Se?ora Angustias coming in with her vehemence. Gallardo was at the club in the Calle de las Sierpes. He was away from the house most days to avoid meeting his wife; he even had his meals out, going with some friends to the inn at Eritana.

El Nacional sat on a divan, with his head bent, twirling his hat in his hands, scarcely daring to look at his master's wife. How she was altered! Her eyes were red and surrounded by black hollows. Her dark cheeks and the end of her nose were also reddened from the constant rubbing of her handkerchief.

"Sebastian, you will tell me the whole truth. You are kind, and you are Juan's best friend. All the little mother said the other day was temper. You know how really good she is. It was only an outburst, over directly. Pay no attention to it."

The banderillero nodded assent, and then hazarded the question:

"What did Se?ora Carmen wish to know?"

"You must tell me all that happened at La Rincona, all you saw, and all you fancied."

Ah! Good Nacional! With what noble pride he raised his head, pleased at being able to do good, and give comfort to that unhappy woman.

"See?..." He had seen nothing wrong. "I swear it to you by my father. I swear it ... by my ideas."

[Pg 224]

He supported his oath without fear by the sacrosanct testimony of his ideas, for in fact he had seen nothing, and having seen nothing, he reasoned logically in the pride of his perspicuity and wisdom, that nothing wrong could have occurred.

"I think they are nothing more than friends ... now.... If there has been anything before, I know not.... The people here ... talk. They invent so many lies. But pay no attention, Se?ora Carmen. Live happily, that is the best thing!"

But she insisted. What had happened at the farm? The grange was her home, and she was indignant, as, joined to the infidelity, this seemed to her a sacrilege, a direct insult to herself.

"Do you think me a fool, Sebastian? I have seen it all along. From the first moment he began to think of that lady ... or whatever she is, I have known what Juan was thinking. The day he pledged the bull to her, and she gave him that diamond ring, I guessed what there was between the two, and I should have liked to snatch the ring and trample on it.... Very soon I knew everything. Everything! There are always people ready to carry rumours because it hurts others. Besides, they have never hidden themselves, going everywhere like man and wife, in the sight of every one, on horseback, just like gipsies who ride from fair to fair. When we were at the farm I had news of everything Juan was doing, and afterwards in San Lucar also."

El Nacional interposed, seeing Carmen so upset, and weeping at these recollections.

"My good woman, do you believe all this humbug? Do you not see they are inventions of people who wish you ill? All jealousy, nothing more."

"No, I know Juan. Do you believe that this is the first? He is as he is, and cannot be otherwise. Cursed[Pg 225] profession, which seems to send men mad! After we had been married two years he fell in love with a handsome girl in the market, a butcher's daughter. How I suffered when I knew it.... But I never said a word. Even now he thinks I know nothing. Since then how many have there been? I do not know how many—dozens—and I held my tongue, wishing for peace in my home. But this woman is not like the others, Juan is mad about her; and I know he has lowered himself a thousand times, remembering that she is a great lady, so that she should not turn him out, being ashamed of having relations with a torero. Now she is gone. You did not know it? She is gone because she was bored in Seville. You see people tell me everything, and she left without saying good-bye to him. When he went there the other day he found the door locked. Now he is as wretched as a sick horse, he goes among his friends with a face like a funeral, and drinks to enliven himself. No, he cannot forget that woman. He was proud of being loved by a woman of that class, and now he suffers in his pride that he is abandoned. Ay! what disgust I feel. He is no longer my husband; he seems like some one else. We scarcely speak. I am alone upstairs, he sleeps downstairs in one of the patio rooms. Before, I overlooked everything; they were bad habits belonging to the profession: the mania of toreros, who think themselves irresistible to women ... but now I can't bear to see him; I feel repugnance towards him."

She spoke energetically, and a flame of hate shone in her eyes.

"Ay! that woman. How she has changed him!... He is another man! He only cares now to go with rich people; and the people in the suburbs, and the poor in Seville, who were his friends and helped him when he first began, all complain of him; some fine day they will[Pg 226] start a disturbance against him in the Plaza to disgrace him. Money comes in here by bucketsful, and it is not easy to count it. He himself does not know how much he has, but I see clearly. He plays heavily, so that his new friends may welcome him; and he loses largely; the money comes in by one door and goes out by the other. But I say nothing. After all it is he that earns it. He has had to borrow from Don José for things about the farm, and some olive yards he bought this year to join to the property were bought with other people's money. Almost all he earns during the next season will go to pay his debts. And if he had an accident. If he found himself obliged to retire like others? He has tried to change me, as he himself has changed. I know he feels ashamed of us when he returns from seeing Do?a Sol. It is he who has obliged me to put on those unbecoming hats from Madrid, that make me feel like a monkey dancing on an organ! And a mantilla is so beautiful! He also it is who has bought that infernal car, in which I go in fear and which smells like the devil. If he could he would even put a hat with a cock's tail on the little mother's head!"

The banderillero interrupted. No, no, Juan was very kind, and if he did these things it was because he wished his family to have every comfort and luxury.

"Juaniyo may be anything you will, Se?ora Carmen, but still you must forgive him a good deal. Remember that many are envious of you! Is it nothing to be the wife of the bravest torero, with handfuls of money, a house that is a marvel, and to be absolute mistress of everything, for the master lets you dispose of all?"

Carmen's eyes were overflowing, and she raised her handkerchief to wipe away her tears.

"I would rather be the wife of a shoemaker. How often have I thought so! If Juan had only gone on[Pg 227] with his trade instead of this cursed bull-fighting! How much happier I should be in a poor shawl taking his dinner to the doorway where he worked like his father. At least he would be mine, and no one would want to take him from me; we might want necessities, but on Sundays, dressed in our best, we should go to breakfast at some little inn. And then the frights one has from those horrid bulls. This is not living. There is money, a great deal of money, but believe me, Sebastian, it is like poison to me. The people about think I am happy, and envy me, but my eyes follow the poor women who want everything, but who have their child on their arm, who when they are unhappy look at the little one and laugh with it. If only I had one! If Juan could but see a little one in the house that would be all his own, something more than the little nephews...."

The banderillero came out from this interview shocked and troubled and went in search of his master, whom he found at the door of the "Forty-five."

"Juan, I have just seen your wife. Things are going worse and worse. Try and calm her and set yourself right with her."

"Curse it! life is not worth living. Would to God a bull might catch me on Sunday and then all would be over! And for what life is worth...."

He was rather tipsy. The frowning silence he met in his house drove him to desperation, and even perhaps more still (although he would not confess it to anyone) Do?a Sol's flight, without leaving a single word, not even a line to bid him farewell. They had sent him away from the door worse than a servant, and no one knew where that woman had gone. The Marquis was not much interested in his niece's journey—a most crazy woman! Neither had he been informed of her intended departure; however, he did not think on that account[Pg 228] that she was lost. She would give signs of existence from some far country, whither her caprices had driven her.

Gallardo could not conceal his despair in his own home. Maddened by the frowning silence of his wife, who resented all his efforts at conversation, he would break out:

"Curse my bad luck! Would to God that on Sunday one of those Muira bulls would catch me, trample me, and then I could be brought home to you in a basket!"

"Don't say such things, evil one!" exclaimed Se?ora Angustias. "Do not tempt God; it will bring you bad luck."

But the brother-in-law interposed sententiously, taking advantage of the occasion to flatter the espada.

"Don't worry yourself, little mother. There is no bull that can touch him; no horn that can gore him!"

The following Sunday was the last corrida of the year in which Gallardo was to take part. The morning passed without those vague terrors, and superstitious anxieties which usually assailed him; he dressed gaily, with a nervous excitability which seemed to double the strength of his muscles. What a joy to tread again the yellow sand, to astonish over twelve thousand spectators with his grace and reckless daring! Nothing was true but his art, which gained him the applause of the populace, and money like heaps of corn. Everything else, family and amours were only complications of life, serving to create worries. Ay! what estocades he would give! He felt the strength of a giant: he felt another man free from fears and anxieties. He was even impatient it was not yet time to go to the Plaza, so contrary to other occasions; and he longed to pour out on the bulls the concentrated anger caused by his domestic dissensions and Do?a Sol's insulting flight.

[Pg 229]

When the carriage arrived Gallardo crossed the patio without encountering as heretofore the emotion of the women. Carmen did not appear. Bah! those women! ... their only use was to embitter life. His brother-in-law was waiting, extremely proud of himself in a suit of clothes that he had filched from the espada, and had altered to his own figure.

"You are finer than the real Roger de Flor himself!" said he gaily. "Jump into the coach, and I will take you to the Plaza."

He sat down beside the great man, swelling with pride that all Seville should see him sitting among the torero's silk capes and splendid gold embroideries.

The Plaza was crammed. It was an important corrida, the last one of the autumn, and consequently it had attracted an immense audience, not only from the town but from the country. On the benches of the sunny side were crowds of people from surrounding villages.

From the first Gallardo showed a feverish activity. He stood away from the barrier, going to meet the bull, amusing it with his cape play, while the picadors waited for the time when the brute would turn on their miserable horses.

A certain predisposition against the torero could be noticed. He was applauded the same as ever, but the demonstrations were far warmer and more prolonged on the shady side, from the symmetrical rows of white hats, than from the lively and motley sunny side, where many stood in their shirt sleeves under the heat of the scorching sun.

Gallardo understood the danger. If he had the least bad luck, half the circus would rise up against him vociferating and reproaching him for his ingratitude towards those who had first started him.

He killed his first bull with only moderate good [Pg 230]fortune. He threw himself with his usual audacity between the horns, but the rapier struck on a bone. The enthusiasts applauded, because the estocade was well placed, and the inutility of the endeavour was no fault of his. He put himself again in position to kill, but again the sword struck on the same place, and the bull, butting at the muleta, jerked it out of the wound, throwing it to some distance. Taking another rapier from Garabato's hand, he turned again towards the beast, who waited for him, firm on his feet, his neck dripping with blood and his slavering muzzle almost on the sand.

The maestro, spreading his muleta before the brute's eyes, quietly moved aside with his sword the banderillas which were falling across his poll. He wished to execute the "descabello."[95] Leaning the point of the blade on the top of the head, he sought for a suitable spot between the two horns; he then made an effort to drive in the rapier, the bull shivered painfully, but still remained on foot, and threw out the steel with a rough movement of its head.

"One!" shouted mocking voices from the sunny side.

"Curse them! Why did the people attack him so unjustly?"

Again the matador struck in the steel, succeeding this time in finding the vulnerable spot, and the bull fell suddenly with a crash, his horns sticking into the sand, his belly upward and his legs rigid.

The people on the shady side applauded from a class feeling, but from the sunny side came a storm of whistling and invectives.

[Pg 231]

Gallardo, turning his back to these insults, saluted his partizans with the muleta and the rapier.

The insults of the populace, who had up to now been so friendly, exasperated him, and he clenched his fists.

What do those people want? The bull did not admit of anything better. Curse them! It is got up by my enemies.

He spent the greater part of the corrida close to the barrier, looking on disdainfully at his companions' actions, accusing them mentally of having promoted this display of dissatisfaction, and he launched maledictions against the bull and the shepherd who reared him. He had come so well prepared to do great things, and then to meet with a bull like this! All the breeders who sent in such animals ought to be shot.

When he took his killing weapons for his second bull, he gave an order to El Nacional and to another peon to bring the bull by their cloak play to the popular side of the Plaza.

He knew his public. You must flatter those "citizens of the sun," a tumultuous and terrible demagogy, who brought class hatred into the Plaza, but who would change their whistling into applause with the greatest ease, if a slight show of consideration flattered their pride.

The peons, throwing their capes in front of the bull, endeavoured to attract him towards the sunny side of the circus. The populace saw this man?uvre and welcomed it with joyful surprise. The supreme moment, the death of the bull, would be enacted under their eyes instead of at a distance for the convenience of the wealthy people on the shady side.

The brute, being alone for a moment on that side of the Plaza, attacked the dead body of a horse. It buried its horns in the open belly, lifting on its horns like a[Pg 232] limp rag the miserable carcass which spread its entrails all round. The body fell to the ground almost doubled up, while the bull moved off undecidedly; but it soon turned again to sniff it, snorting and burying its horns in the cavity of the stomach, while the populace laughed at this stupid obstinacy, seeking for life in an inanimate body.

"Go it.... What strength he has!... Go on, son!... I'm looking at you!"

But suddenly the attention of the audience was turned from the furious brute to watch Gallardo, who was crossing the Plaza with light step, bending his figure, carrying in one hand the folded muleta, and balancing the rapier in the other like a light cane.

All the populace roared with delight at the torero's approach.

"You have gained them," said El Nacional, who had placed himself with his cloak in readiness close to the bull.

The multitude, clapping their hands, called the torero: "Here! here!" every one wishing to see the bull killed in front of his own bench so as not to lose a single detail, and the torero hesitated between the contradictory calls of thousands of voices.

With one foot on the step of the barrier, he was considering the best place to kill the bull. He had better take him a little further on. The torero felt embarrassed by the body of the horse, whose miserable remains seemed to fill all that side of the arena.

He was turning to give the order to El Nacional to have the body removed, when he heard behind him a voice he knew, and though he could not at once recall to whom it belonged, it made him turn round suddenly.

"Good evening, Se?o Juan! We are going to applaud 'the truth.'"

[Pg 233]

He saw in the first rank, below the rope of the inside barrier, a jacket folded on the line of the wall; on it were crossed a pair of arms in shirt sleeves, on which rested a broad face, freshly shaved, with the hat pulled down to its ears. It looked like a good-natured countryman come in from his village to see the corrida.

Gallardo recognized him; it was Plumitas.

He had fulfilled his promise; there he was, audaciously among twelve thousand people who might recognise him, saluting the espada, who felt pleased and grateful for this mark of confidence.

Gallardo was astounded at his temerity. To come down into Seville, to enter the Plaza, far away from the mountains, where defence was so easy, without the help of his two companions, the mare and the rifle, and all to see him kill bulls! Truly, of the two, which was the braver man?

He thought, furthermore, that in his farm he was at Plumitas' mercy, in the country life which was only possible if he kept on good terms with that extraordinary person. Certainly this bull must be for him.

He smiled at the bandit, who was placidly watching him. He took off his montera, shouting towards the heaving crowd, but with his eyes on Plumitas.

"This bull is for you!"

He threw his montera towards the benches, where a hundred hands were outstretched, fighting to catch the sacred deposit.

Gallardo signed to El Nacional, so that with opportune cape play he should bring the bull towards him.

The espada spread his muleta, and the beast attacked with a deep snort, passing under the red rag. "Olé!" roared the crowd, once more bewitched by their old idol, and disposed to think everything he did admirable.

He continued giving several passes to the bull, amid the[Pg 234] exclamations of the people a few steps from him, and who seeing him close were giving him advice. "Be careful, Gallardo! The bull still has his full strength. Don't get between him and the barrier. Keep your retreat open."

Others more enthusiastic excited his audacity by more daring advice.

"Give him one of your own!... Zas! Strike and you pocket him!"

But the brute was too big and too mistrustful to be put in anybody's pocket. Excited by the proximity of the dead horse, he constantly returned to it, as though the stench of the belly intoxicated him.

In one of his evolutions, the bull fatigued by the muleta, stood motionless. It was a very bad position, but Gallardo had come out of worse corners victorious.

He wanted to take advantage of the brute's quiescence, the public incited him to action. Among the men standing by the inside barrier, leaning their bodies half over it so as not to lose a single detail of the supreme moment, he recognised many amateurs of the people, who had begun to turn from him, and who were now again applauding him, touched by his show of consideration for the populace.

"Take advantage of it, my lad.... Now we shall see the truth.... Strike truly."

Gallardo turned his head slightly to salute Plumitas, who stood smiling, with his moon face leaning on his arms over the jacket.

"For you, comrade!"...

And he placed himself in profile with the rapier in front in position to kill, but at the same instant he thought that the ground was trembling beneath him, that he was flung to a great distance, that the Plaza was falling down on him, that everything was turning to[Pg 235] deep blackness, and that a furious hurricane was raging round him. His body vibrated painfully from head to foot, his head seemed bursting, and a mortal agony wrung his chest; then he seemed falling into dark and endless space, plunging into nothingness.

At the very moment that he was preparing to strike, the bull had reared unexpectedly against him, attracted by his "querencia" for the horse which was behind him.

It was a terrific shock, which made the silk and gold clad man roll and disappear beneath the hoofs. The horns did not gore him, but the blow was horrible, crushing, as head, horns, and all the frontal of the brute crashed down on the man like a blow from a club.

The bull, who only saw the horse, was going to charge it again, but feeling some obstacle between his hoofs, he turned to attack the brilliant figure lying on the ground, lifted it on one horn, shaking it for a few seconds, and then flinging it away to some distance; again a third time it turned to attack the insensible torero.

The crowd, bewildered by the quickness of these events, remained silent, their hearts tightened. The bull would kill him! Perhaps he had killed him already! But suddenly a yell from the whole multitude broke the agonizing silence. A cape was spread between the bull and his victim, a cloth almost nailed on to the brute's poll by two strong arms, endeavouring to blind the beast. It was El Nacional who, impelled by despair, had thrown himself on the bull, choosing to be gored himself if only he could save his master. The brute, bewildered by this fresh obstacle, turned upon it, turning his tail towards the fallen man. The banderillero engaged between the horns, moved backwards with the bull, waving his cape, not knowing how to extricate himself from this perilous position, but satisfied all the same, at having drawn the ferocious brute away from Gallardo.

[Pg 236]

The public absorbed by this fresh incident, almost forgot the espada. El Nacional would fall also; he could not get out from between the horns, and the brute carried him along as if he were already impaled.

The men shouted as if their cries could have been of any assistance, the women sobbed, turning their heads aside and wringing their hands, when the banderillero, taking advantage of a moment when the brute lowered his head to gore him, slipped from between the horns to one side, while the bull rushed blindly on, carrying away the ragged cape on his horns.

The tense feeling broke out into deafening applause. The unstable crowd, only impressed by the danger of the moment, acclaimed El Nacional. It was the finest moment of his life, and in their excitement they scarcely noticed the inanimate body of Gallardo, who with his head hanging down was being carried out of the Plaza between the toreros and arena servants.

In Seville that night nothing was spoken of but Gallardo's accident, the worst he had ever had. In many towns special sheets had already been published, and the papers all over Spain gave accounts of the affair, which was wired in all directions, as if some political personage had been the victim of an attempt.

Terrifying news flew about the Calle de las Sierpes, coloured by the vivid southern imagination. Poor Gallardo had just died, he who brought the news had seen him lying on a bed in the infirmary of the Plaza, as white as paper, with a crucifix between his hands, so it must be true. According to others less lugubrious, he was still alive, though he might die at any moment. All his bowels were torn, his heart, his loins, everything, the bull had made a perfect sieve of his body.

Guards had been placed around the Plaza to prevent the mob anxious for news from storming the infirmary.[Pg 237] Outside, the populace had assembled, asking every one who came out as to the espada's state.

El Nacional, still in his fighting dress, came out several times, frowning and angry, as the preparations for his master's removal were not ready.

Seeing the banderillero, the mob forgot the wounded man in their congratulations.

"Se?or Sebastian, you were splendid!... Had it not been for you!..."

But he refused all congratulations. What did it signify what he had done? Nothing at all ... rubbish. The important thing was Juan's condition, who was in the infirmary struggling with death.

"And how is he, Se?o Sebastian?" asked the people, returning to their first interest.

"Very bad. He has only just recovered consciousness. He has one leg broken to bits: a gore underneath the arm, and what besides, I know not!... The poor fellow is to me like my own saint.... We are going to take him home."

When the night closed in, Gallardo was carried out of the circus on a litter. The crowd walked silently after him. Every few moments El Nacional, carrying the cape on his arm, and still wearing his showy torero's dress amongst the common clothes of the people, leaned over the cover of the litter and ordered the porters to stop.

The doctors belonging to the Plaza walked behind and with them the Marquis de Moraima, and Don José, the manager, who seemed ready to faint in the arms of some friends of the "Forty-five," one common anxiety mixing them up with the ragged crew, who also followed the litter.

The crowd were horrified; it was a sad procession, as[Pg 238] though some national disaster had occurred which levelled all beneath the general misfortune.

"What a misfortune, Se?o Marque!" said a chubby-faced, red-haired peasant, who carried his jacket on his arm, to the Marquis de Moraima.

Twice this man had pushed aside some of the porters of the litter, wishing to assist in carrying it. The Marquis looked at him sympathetically. He must be one of those country peasants who were accustomed to salute him on the roads.

"Yes, a great misfortune, my lad."

"Do you think he will die, Se?o Marque?"

"It is to be feared, unless a miracle saves him. He is ground to powder."

And the Marquis, placing his right hand on the shoulder of the unknown man, seemed pleased by the sorrow expressed on his countenance.

Gallardo's return to his house was most painful. Inside the patio were heard cries of despair, and outside other women, friends and neighbours of Juaniyo, were screaming and tearing their hair, thinking him already dead.

The litter was carried into a room off the patio, and the espada with the greatest care was lifted on to a bed. He was wrapped in bloody cloths and bandages smelling of antiseptics, of his fighting dress he retained nothing but one pink stocking, and his under garments were all torn or cut with scissors.

His pigtail hung unplaited and entangled on his neck, and his face was as pale as a wafer. He opened his eyes slightly, feeling a hand slipped into his, and saw Carmen, a Carmen as pale as himself, dry-eyed and terrified.

The friends of the torero prudently intervened. She must remember the wounded man had only received[Pg 239] first aid, and a great deal remained for the doctors to do.

The wounded man made a sign with his eyes to El Nacional, who leaned over him to catch the slight murmur.

"Juan says," he murmured, going out into the patio, "he would like Doctor Ruiz sent for."

"It is already done," said the manager, pleased with his prevision. He had telegraphed at once when he knew the importance of the accident, and he had no doubt but that Doctor Ruiz was already on the way and would arrive on the following morning.

After their first bewilderment, the doctors were more hopeful. It was possible he might not die. He had such a splendid constitution and such energy. What was most to be dreaded was the terrible shock, which would have killed most men instantaneously, but he had recovered consciousness, although the weakness was great. As far as the wounds were concerned, they did not think them dangerous. That on the arm was not much, though it was possible the limb might be less agile than before. The hurt on the leg did not offer equal hopes, the bones were fractured, and probably Gallardo would be lame.

Don José, who had endeavoured to keep calm, when hours before he had thought the espada's death inevitable, quite broke down. His matador lame! Then he would no longer be able to fight!

He was furious at the calm with which the doctors spoke of the possibility of Gallardo becoming useless as a torero.

"That could not be. Do you think it logical that Juan should live and not fight?... Who would fill his place? I tell you, it cannot be! The first man in the world!... And you want him to retire!"

[Pg 240]

He spent the night watching with the men of the cuadrilla and Gallardo's brother-in-law, and next morning early he went to the station to meet the Madrid express. It arrived and with it Dr. Ruiz. He came without any luggage, as carelessly dressed as ever, smiling behind his yellowish beard, bobbing along in his loose coat, with the swinging of his little short legs and his big stomach like a Buddha.

As he entered the house, the torero, who seemed sunk in the extreme of weakness, opened his eyes, reviving with a smile of confidence. After Ruiz had listened in a corner to the other doctors' opinions and explanations, he approached the bed.

"Courage, my lad; this will not finish you! You have good luck!"

And then he added, turning to his colleagues:

"See what a magnificent animal this Juanillo is! Another one by now, would not be giving us any work."

He examined him very carefully; it was a "cogida" which required great care. But he had seen so many!... Bull-fighting wounds were his spécialité, and in them he always expected the most extraordinary cures, as if the horns gave at the same time the wound and its remedy.

"You may almost say that he who is not killed outright in the Plaza is saved. The cure becomes then only a matter of time."

For three days Gallardo endured tortures, his weakness preventing the use of an?sthetics, and Doctor Ruiz extracted several splinters of bone from the broken leg.

"Who has said you would be useless for fighting?" exclaimed the Doctor, satisfied with his own cleverness. "You will fight, my son. The public will still have to applaud you."

The manager agreed with this. Exactly what he had[Pg 241] thought; how could that lad, who was the first man in the world, end his life in that fashion?

By order of Doctor Ruiz, the torero's family were moved to Don José's house. The women drove him wild, and their proximity was intolerable during the hours of the operations. A groan from the torero would instantly be answered from every part of the house by the howls of his mother and sister, and Carmen struggled like a mad woman to go to her husband.

Sorrow had changed the wife, making her forget her rancour. "The fault is mine," she would often say despairingly to El Nacional. "He said very often he wished a bull would end him once for all. I have been very wrong; I have embittered his life."

In vain the banderillero recalled all the details to convince her that the misfortune was accidental. No; according to her, Gallardo had wished to end it for ever, and had it not been for El Nacional he would have been carried dead out of the arena.

When the operations were over the family returned to the house, and Carmen paid her first visit to the sick man.

She entered the room quietly, with cast down eyes, as if she were ashamed of her former hostility, and taking Juan's hand in both hers she asked:

"How are you?"

Gallardo seemed shrunk by pain, pale and weak, with an almost childish resignation. Nothing remained of the proud and gallant fellow who had delighted the populace with his audacity. He seemed daunted by the terrible operations endured in full consciousness, all his indifference to pain had vanished and he moaned at the slightest discomfort.

After ten days stay in Seville, the Doctor returned to Madrid.

"Now, my lad," he said to the sick man, "you don't[Pg 242] require me any longer, and I have a great deal to do. Now don't be imprudent, and in a couple of months you will be well and strong. It is possible you may feel your leg a little, but you have a constitution of iron, and it will go on getting better."

Gallardo's cure progressed, as Doctor Ruiz had foretold. At the end of a month the leg was liberated from its enforced quiet, and the torero, weak and limping slightly, was able to sit in a chair in the patio, and receive his friends.

During his illness, when fever ran high, and gloomy nightmares troubled him, one thought always remained steadfast in his mind, in spite of all restless wanderings—the remembrance of Do?a Sol. Did that woman know of his accident?

While he was still in bed, he had ventured to question the manager about her when they chanced to be alone.

"Yes, my man," said Don José, "she has remembered you. She sent me a wire from Nice, enquiring after you, two or three days after the accident. Most probably she saw it in the papers. They spoke about you everywhere, as if you were a king."

The manager had replied to the telegram, but had not heard subsequently from her.

Gallardo appeared satisfied for some days with this explanation, but afterwards asked again, with a sick man's persistence, had she not written? Had she not enquired again after him?... The manager tried to excuse Do?a Sol's silence, and console him. He must remember she was always moving about. Goodness knows where she might be at that time.

But the torero's despair, thinking himself forgotten, forced Don José to pious lies. Some days before, he had received a short letter from Italy, in which Do?a Sol inquired after him.

[Pg 243]

"Let me see it!" said the espada anxiously.

And, as the manager made some excuse, pretending to have left it at home, Gallardo implored this comfort.

"Do bring it to me. I long to see her letter, to convince myself that she remembers me."

To avoid further complications in his pretences, Don José invented a correspondence that did not pass through his hands, but was directed to others. Do?a Sol had written (according to him) to the Marquis about her money matters, and at the end of every letter she enquired after Gallardo. At other times the letters were to a cousin, in which were the same remembrances of the torero.

Gallardo listened quietly, but at the same time shook his head doubtfully. When would he see her! Should he ever see her again? Ay! what a woman to fly like that without any motive, except the caprices of her strange character.

"What you ought to do," said the manager, "is to forget all about women-kind and attend to business. You are no longer in bed, and you are almost cured. How do you feel as to strength? Say, shall we fight or no? You have all the winter before you to recover strength. Shall we accept contracts, or do you decline to fight this year?"

Gallardo raised his head proudly, as though something dishonouring was being proposed to him. Renounce bull-fighting?... Spend a whole year without being seen in the circus? Could the public resign themselves to such an absence?

"Accept them, Don José. There is plenty of time to get strong between now and the Spring. You may promise for the Easter corrida. I think this leg may still give me some trouble, but, please God, it will soon be as strong as iron."

[Pg 244]

He longed for the time to return to the circus. He felt greedy of fame and the applause of the populace, and in order to get quite strong he decided to spend the rest of the winter with his family at La Rinconada. There, hunting and long walks would strengthen his leg. Besides, he could ride about to overlook the work, and visit the herds of goats, the droves of pigs, the dairies and the mares grazing in the meadows.

The management of the farm had not been good, everything cost him more than it did other landlords, and the receipts were less. His brother-in-law, who had established himself at the farm as a kind of dictator to set things right, had only succeeded in disturbing the routine of the work, and rousing the labourers' anger. It was fortunate that Gallardo could count on the certain incomings from the corridas, an inexhaustible source of wealth, which would over and above recoup his extravagances and bad management.

Before leaving for La Rinconada, Se?ora Angustias wished her son to fulfil her vow of kneeling before the Virgin of Hope. It was a vow she had made that terrible night when she saw him stretched pale and lifeless on the litter. How many times she had wept before La Macarena, the beautiful Queen of Heaven, with the long eye-lashes and swarthy cheeks, imploring her not to forget Juanillo!

The ceremony was a popular rejoicing. All the gardeners of the suburb were summoned to the church of San Gil, which was filled with flowers, piled up in banks round the altars, and hanging in garlands between the arches and from the chandeliers.

The ceremony took place on a beautiful sunny morning. In spite of its being a working day, the church was filled with people from the suburb. Stout women with black eyes, wearing black silk dresses, and lace [Pg 245]mantillas over their pale faces, workmen freshly shaved, and the beggars arrived in swarms, forming a double row at the church door.

A Mass was to be sung, with accompaniment of orchestra and voices; something quite out of the way, like the opera in the San Fernando theatre at Easter. And afterwards the priests would intone a Te Deum of thanksgiving for the recovery of Se?or Juan Gallardo, the same as when the king came to Seville.

The party arrived, making their way through the crowd. The espada's mother and wife walked first, among relations and friends, dressed in rustling black silks, smiling beneath their mantillas. Gallardo came after, followed by an interminable escort of toreros and friends, all dressed in light suits, with gold chains and rings of extraordinary brilliancy, their white felt hats contrasting strangely with the women's black clothes.

Gallardo was very grave. He was a good believer. He did not often remember God, though he often swore by Him blasphemously at difficult moments, more by habit than anything else; but this was quite another affair, he was going to return thanks to the Santisima Macarena, and he entered the church reverently.

They all went in except El Nacional, who leaving his wife and children, remained in the little square.

"I am a freethinker," he thought it necessary to explain to a group of friends. "I respect all beliefs; but that inside there is for me ... rubbish. I do not wish to be wanting in respect to La Macarena, nor to take away any credit which is hers, but, comrades, suppose I had not arrived in time to draw away the bull when Juaniyo was on the ground!"...

Through the open doors came the wail of instruments, the voices of the singers, a sweet and flowing melody,[Pg 246] accompanied by the perfume of the flowers and the smell of wax.

When the party came out, all the poor people scrambled and quarrelled for the handfuls of money thrown to them. There was enough for everybody, for Gallardo was liberal, and Se?ora Angustias wept with joy, leaning her head on a friend's shoulder.

The espada appeared at the church door radiant and magnificent, giving his arm to his wife, and Carmen smiling, with a tear on her eyelashes, felt as if she were being married to him a second time.
FOOTNOTE:

[95] The "descabello" is a coup de grace given to a bull already pierced by a rapier—the stroke consists in driving the rapier straight down behind the skull so as to pierce the spinal marrow—if it is badly delivered the animal only gets a slight wound—and it is considered very unskilful and rouses the indignation of the populace.