high at least. It is bright yellow, and hung
with bells which jingle acclamation. Now,
all at once, as the band begins to launch into
strange seas of exciting sound, the fans work
in a paroxysm of delight. The noise is as of
windmills; of orange-groves in a storm; of
wind in a fleet of sails. Some man, in his
shirt-sleeves, smoking a white cigarette, is the
Palinurus who raises or quolls these
acclamations. Bang! goes the drum, bang!
bang!—more like a cannon than a drum.
In and out slides the trombone, drawing
out yards of sound. Clash! go the Moorish
cymbals; and, over all, the clarinet screams
like a mad wild-goose.

"This is something like music," says
Driver, lighting a cheroot.

The band dies away in an apologetic squeak
as the fat governor pulls a sort of bell-rope
tied to the arm of a one-eyed deaf scarlet-clad
trumpeter in the box below him; who,
raising his shining horn three times to his
lips, gives the signal for the doors of the
arena to be flung open.

The procession enters.

"Observe their dresses," says Spanker,
putting his chin between his two hands,
"they shine like blazes, and cost two hundred
pounds each, so Solomon (a Jew attendant)
told me."

First come four picadors, or lancers, two
and two, mounted on Rosinantes. They
wear broad-brimmed, mouse-coloured hats,
bobbed and tasselled with silver-lace. Their
jackets are pink and silver, and thickly
frosted with a glittering spider-work of
embroidery, which laps them like a coat of
mail. They have red sashes round their
waists, and their legs are swollen and cumbrous
with buff-breeches, plated with iron. They sit
astride heavy, high, peaked war-saddles such
as the Cid may have used, and their stirrups
are huge green boxes, intended to guard the
foot from heat as well as from the bull's
horns. They look calmly brave and ready
for any sort of death. Next come the chulos,
or footmen, who are to draw the bull from
the overthrown or hard-pushed picador, by
the lure of those red and blue cloaks that trail
from their left shoulders. They are agile as
leopards; and, when they run, seem to fly.
They wear short Figaro breeches and stockings,
and their shining black hair is fastened
up in the old silk nets of the Iberians. They
are six in number, and wear liveries of green,
red, yellow, purple, brown and blue. They
walk with the strut of kings, and keep time
to the music that is again uneasy by fits.
After the chulos with their bare heads, come
the two matadores, caps in hands. The first
is the great El Tato, the rival of Salamanchino
and Domingez, who was once a rich
solicitor. He is not unfit to compare with
the immortal Montes, the slayer of hecatombs
of bulls. He doffs his round black
Montero cap to the governor, and, straightway
at the sight of their favourite, the fans
break out into turbulent coloured breakers
of applause. "Bravo, El Tato! Bravo!"
shout two or three thousand voices, as many
cigars, for a moment, leaving as many
mouths. El Tato is all in torquoise blue
velvet, and has a blue and silver cloak, the
colour of the August sky above us. It hangs
regally from his left shoulder. The deadly
Toledo is not visible; nor are the paper-lace
hoops of the tormenting firework spears.
"Time enough for them," says Driver, biting
a red hole in a pomegranate. The muleta,
or little red flag, which is to rouse the bull
to fury, and the dagger of mercy is also
unseen. Last of all comes El Tiro, the tinkling
mule-team, intended to draw away the dead
victims, horse or bull. The four mules are
trapped in vermilion housings, and wear
tufted head-stalls. They bound and kick in
chorus to the click of the accompanying
runners with whips.

Then comes a deep hush like the hush of
twilight, as, with a clash and crack, the
procession retires through the open doors. The
two picadors alone remain, and rein up their
horses, put their strong lances in firm rest,
and back to the furthest arena wall, waiting
for their brute enemy. The other two are
ready, out of sight, to fill up fallen men's
vacancies. Again the trumpet sounds just,
Monoculus remarks, as it did in the Colosseum-
fights; and, trotting through the open
folding doors, comes the manager on
horseback, looking rather clumsy and foolish. It
used to be the alguacil, or constable. Then
the fun was to let out the bull and laugh at
alguacil's dismay, for fear he should be too
late in retreat, and get gored. This amiable
joke is no longer indulged in.

"That old rogue," says Spanker, "makes
two thousand pounds a-year by his troop: so
Solomon says."

The manager reins up his horse under the
governor's box. He is to have a reward if
he catch in his hat the key of the Toril, or bull-
cell, that the governor throws to him. The
key with the crimson bow passes in a fiery
arc from the box into the arena. The manager
makes a clumsy scoop at it with his hat,
of course misses it, turns red, and then—
being hooted like a butter-fingered boy who
has missed an important catch at cricket—
turns tail. His exit is followed by another
trumpet. The government trumpeter is of
course incompetent; being weak in the lung,
and blows a wailing melancholy toot.

Hurrah! Bravo toro! Fans work like
machinery. Eyes turn to one spot, as if they
were so many dolls' eyes worked with a
single string. Look out! the devil is broke
loose. Here is the bull. Not a real Utera
bull, not a Jarama bull, but a lean, dun,
sharp-horned, ugly customer. Seco (dry),
carnudo (lean), pegajoso (vicious), duro (tough),
chocado (a charger), are the criticisms that
flash around: a butchering, tough, hardy,
fleet beast that will not flinch. As he