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When the time came for Gallardo to kill his first bull, the explosions of enthusiasm recommenced. Women in white mantillas followed him with their opera-glasses. He was applauded and acclaimed on the sunny side, just as much as on the shady side. Even his enemies seemed influenced by this current of sympathy. Poor fellow! He had suffered so much!... The whole Plaza was his. Never had Gallardo seen an audience so completely his own.

The son of Se?ora Angustias was known to all his ragged companions as "Zapaterin,"[50] and he seemed delighted at having a nickname, like almost all the great men who appeared in the circus. Everything must have a beginning. Round his neck he wore a red handkerchief filched from his sister, and from beneath his cap the hair fell over his ears in long locks, which he smoothed with saliva. He wanted to have his drill blouses made short to the waist with many pleats, his trousers, old remains of his father's wardrobe, high in the waist, full in the legs, well fitting over the hips; and he wept with humiliation when his mother would not give in to these requirements.

"Do not be afraid, Do?a Sol, he is mine," said the[Pg 136] torero, pale with emotion, but smiling, sure of his dexterity.

The riders who had escorted Do?a Sol greeted the espada with the greatest display of enthusiasm, his manager winked at him and then whispered mysteriously: