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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 looked fixedly for some time at the beautiful woman, with his melancholy Moorish eyes, which seemed to beg for pity.

"He still feels his wounds. He ought not to fight. That leg! don't you see it?"

FOOTNOTES:

"Here! Hi! Stop!... Here is the first singer in the world who wants to sing a 'saeta' to the Virgin."

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.

He turned round, smiling on every side, regardless of the anxious looks of the women of the hotel.

"I don't understand that music," said Gallardo, rather pleased at his own ignorance. "I only understand how to kill bulls. Do whatever you like, Don Jos. I am quite confident that whatever you do will be for the best."

The animal, with the hilt of the sword in his neck and the point appearing from the wrench of the espada's arm began to hobble, its enormous bulk swaying with its unsteady gait. This seemed to move every one to a generous indignation. "Poor bull! Such a good one, so noble...." Many threw themselves forward, roaring[Pg 325] with fury, as if they intended throwing themselves bodily into the arena. "Thief! Son of a ...!" "To torture a "bicho" like that who is better than he is!..." All shouted, seized with a vehement tenderness for the brute's suffering, just as though they had not paid to see its death.

When he had stuck in the pair, a few on the vast tiers applauded, while others, alluding to his ideas, found fault with the banderillero in chaffing tones.