Monoculus, who is up in Gomes, and Montez,
and Pepe-illo and all the tauromachian books.
"Then they ham-string them with the
Iberian half-moon, or the butcher stabs them
with the puntilla; but they, generally before
this, try and rouse them with dogs and
fireworks. These chulos are nothing. Montez
used to sit for a second between the bull's
very horns, or leap over his back with a
hunting-pole."

See how those fellows there, with the rakes,
who have been scooping up the sand over that
pool of horse-blood to prevent the other
Rosinantes losing courage, are plugging that great
gaping wound in the third horse's chest with
tow! They have not time just now to sew it
up. See how he stumbles, staggers, reels!
Now they bandage the eyes of the other horse.

"Dead, by Jove!" said Driver, "why, how
many horses does that make. I never knew
a bull kill more than a dozen."

I turned away my head for a moment to
get rest and freshness for the sight. I looked
again, and saw a fourth horse overthrown,
and gasping on the sand. The bull's neck
was red, as if it had been painted with
thick wet vermilion. Another dash or two,
and its rushes grew weaker. The brute
begins to paw the sand and trot in an
unmeaning way, chasing the chulos round the
arena. The picadors canter round, or stand
lance in rest. Taurus is cowed; gives no
more quick angry one-two stabs. He is
done for.

There is a great angry cry of "Banderillas!
Banderillas!"

"They want the fireworks," says Spanker;
and all the pit rise with shells blowing and
fans working, and turn their faces to the
phlegmatic governor. He gives a quiet signal,
and the picadors trot discontentedly out. The
first act of the tragedy is over.

The bull wants stimulants—tonics; and
here they are. There is a bustle at the barriers,
as two chulos—the green and red—
leap over with the firework darts, ready
lit. The darts look, from our distance, mere
chimney-piece ornaments; but are literally
spears about three feet long, with barbs
an inch deep, and strong enough to kill a
shark. The ash sticks of these instruments of
torture are ornamented with hoops of red and
blue cut paper, containing squib and cracker
mixture.

The chulos—each holding one of these, in
either hand, far above his head, so that they
all look like large butterflies, and increasing
the resemblance by fluttering the banderillas,
to give them an impetus—run nimbly towards
the bull. The other chulos—rolling up their
dusty and torn cloaks round their arms—
await the interlude with cruel, thoughtless
gusto. Number one runs forward, and, meeting
the bull, with quick eye and winged foot,
just as his red horns go down to toss, lodges
the two darts with light, strong thrust into
the neck, so as to match exactly.

"Buenos pares!" a pretty pair, shout the
populace; who think this quite a piece of
epigrammatic humour. Blue follows suit, and
lodges his pair; orange runs up and stabs in
a third pair, and away goes the outwitted
monster, shaking the darts that toss and
rattle together like loose Indian arrows in
a hunted lion's side.

A third trumpet—now for it. The chulos
depart, as the great El Tato, throwing by
his cloak, comes forward with bare, shining
Toledo-rapier in his strong right hand, and,
in his left the red muleta flag; which is to
irritate the bull, and assist his stroke. He
struts up to the governor's box. There is an
awful silence that makes even the bull—who
is clashing the banderillas together and trying
to shake them out at the further end of the
arena—look for a moment stupidly round. El
Tato raises the sword, that shines like a
sunbeam, high and threateningly in his right hand,
kisses it, repeats in a loud, clear voice, an
oath, in the name of all the saints, that
either he or the bull shall die; and, so saying,
with proud look, and flashing eye, tosses off
his cap, and turns fiercely to achieve the deed
of "derring do" amid a murmur of applause
that passes round like a shudder,—it is so
deep and earnest. Are there no such men to
stride forth and battle with the vices of Spain
—the cruelty, the bigotry, the lust, cowardice,
and pride?

El Tato wraps his left arm in his red flag,
and tosses it at the bull's horns, leaping
aside as it charges, and tiring it with wheeling
and vaultings. Suddenly the head of
Taurus turns towards him favourably. He
has already studied the bull: learned if it is
cunning or sullen; hot or shy. He has drawn
with his flag all the banderillas to one side.
They are no longer lying in the way,
dishevelled about the creature's neck. Suddenly
El Tato presents the bright sword that he has
kept behind his back. One steady, strong,
deep thrust between the shoulders: the bull
falls: is dead.

What cheers, like thunder! What brown
showers of votive cigars and black caps! as
El Tato, drawing out the steel, wipes it on the
red flag, and bows to the governor, lowering
the point.

"Give him the bull!" roar the two thousand;
and so say the fans, and shells. All
eyes turn with a black twinkle to the
governor. He waves his hand. The bull is
El Tato's. He must cut off the right ear that
he may know it among the other dead eight
which he and his assistants are yet to slay.

"Alas!" sighed Monoculus, "this chivalrous
but cruel amusement is sadly fallen
off and degenerated since the days of the
Abencerrages. The picadores then were
gentlemen, who displayed their courage and
dexterous riding; not for hire, but to win
smiles from their ladies, who sat looking
on. The mere death-thrust was then a
secondary thing; and, instead of those carrion