"craven," as those pacific animals are called
whose temper is known to be meek, had been
tormented with squibs, barbed darts, and the
incessant brandishing of red scarfs before his
eyes, and had finally been despatched by Choco,
who did what may be called the comic business
of the theatre. And now a fine bull, with
widespreading horns, was in possession of the ring.
This animal, however, disappointed the amateurs
of the arena by showing more desire to escape
than ferocity. He ran round and round, seeking
an outlet, and bellowing piteously, as the
active toreadors on foot, with banners and
scarfs, ran nimbly around him, taunting and
teasing him, until his hide was like a pincushion
stuck full of tiny barbed darts adorned with
coloured paper. Of this, too, the people grew
weary, and a general shout arose:

"Toros! toros! the Murcian bull at once!
No, the Portuguese! Let the English matador
show us what stuff he is made of. Toros!"

The manager looked up appealingly to the
captain-general, and, receiving an august nod of
permission, bustled out. Very soon there was
a nourish of trumpets, and then a deep roar, and
then, amid clapping of hands and huzzaing of
countless voices, the brindled Murcian bull came
at a heavy canter into the ring, stopped short,
lifted his head, and gave a second roar of
impatient anger. A noble beast he was, and the
populace enthusiastically shouted forth their
comments on his tossing mane, his deep chest,
his dauntless look, the strength of his limbs,
and the sharpness of his horns. Then, to the
sound of martial music, in poured the mounted
picadors, two and two, fluttering with bright
ribands, and dressed in the old Castilian
garb. They lowered their lances before the
captain-general, and rode three times round the
arena to exhibit their bright scarfs and rich
jackets, while the cymbals clashed and the
drums rolled out their loudest notes. The bull
pawed the ground, distended his nostrils, and,
with a short bellowing cry, stooped his head and
began the attack. The words "Bravo, toro!"
rent the very sky.

It was a butcherly business at best, though I
admit that the rich dresses, the long lances, and
waving of scarf, and riband, and plume, gave a
false glitter and gallantry to what was really
a very dastardly and disgusting scene. The
picadors, padded as they were, and furnished
with immense boots through which the bull's
horns could not pierce, while scores of watchful
attendants stood ready to distract the animal's
attention in case of need, or to carry off a
prostrate combatant, were safe enough. But the
bull, itself bleeding from the repeated
lance-thrusts, did great execution among the horses,
plunging his sharp horns into their quivering
flanks again and again, and inflicting ghastly
wounds, while still the wretched steeds went
reeling round the ring, until loss of blood made
them drop down dying on the ensanguined sand.
And still the music played its most stirring
strains, and still the people shouted, while the
ladies waved fans and handkerchiefs in token of
applause, and all the gory savagery of the
Spanish national sport went on with sickening
repetition. At last, nine horses being dead or
frightfully injured, two picadors having been
bruised by falling against the oaken barriers,
and the bull being much spent, the remaining
horsemen left the ring. Ropes and hooks were
fixed to the carcases of the slain horses, and
they were dragged away, and fresh sand and
sawdust were thrown down. It was time for
the matador to appear.

"Now, Englishman, they are waiting for you.
Remember the thrust, and be cool," whispered
the manager. He led me into the ring, and I
made my bow to the captain-general, and
another to the audience, while the manager,
with much grandiloquence, presented me to
the public as "Don Enriquez, of London, the
distinguished volunteer, who had so kindly
undertaken to fill the office of the eminent
Manuel Zagal." Scarcely had he finished this
speech before the bull began to advance, and my
introducer hastily retired. I stood alone in the
ring, my heart beating thickly, and a red film
seeming to obscure my dazzled eyes, while the
clamour of the crowd, and the consciousness
that I was the mark on which thousands were
gazing in pitiless expectation, almost unnerved
me. I had faced danger before, but not in such
a shape, and I am not ashamed to own that for a
moment my knees felt strangely weak, and my
pulses fluttered like a bird over which the hawk
hovers. Then came back the thought of Alice,
and I was myself once more. Disregarding the
spectators, I bent my whole attention on the
bull, which was slowly approaching me, with its
head bent down, and bloody foam dropping
from its lips. I steadied myself on my feet,
carrying the cloak gathered up on my left arm,
and with my right I kept the sword pointed to
the earth, ready to spring aside when my
antagonist should charge. But the bull was
more hurt than I had expected. His movements
were slow and painful, and the blood trickled
fast from his brindled flanks. His rolling eyes
fixed upon me, then he gave a roar, and dashed
at me, while, following the manager's instructions,
I avoided him by springing aside. I
thought the animal would have wheeled to renew
the attack, but the last rush had manifestly
exhausted his remaining strength. He fell on
his knees, and did not rise till the men on foot
beset him with squibs and darts, when pain and
fury revived his forces, and he again made a
floundering charge. This time I stepped aside,
and, without throwing the cloak over the bull's
horns, plunged the sword into his neck. He fell,
and the audience set up a shout of "Well
done, Inglese!"

"That was an easy victory," whispered my
friend, the manager, as he led me off, after
making my bow to the people; "but don't let
it make you rash. The poor brute was bleeding
to death; anybody could see that! It will be
different with the black Portuguese."

And so it proved, for the audience loudly
demanded that the lances of the picadors should