
a quiver passes through its body, and it is dead. The people are
shouting with pleasure; the bull is a good one. The first _picador_
comes up again and the bull attacks for the fourth time, but it has lost
much strength, and the man drives it off. It has made a horrible gash in
the horse's belly, and the entrails protrude, dragging along the ground.
The horse is taken out.

The president waves his handkerchief, the trumpets sound, and the first
act of the drama is over.

The _picadors_ leave the ring and the _banderilleros_ take their darts,
about three feet long, gay with decorations of coloured paper. While
they make ready, others play with the bull, gradually tiring it: one
throws aside his cape and awaits the charge with folded arms; the bull
rushes at him, and the man without moving his feet twists his body away
and the savage brute passes on. There is a great burst of applause for a
daring feat well done.

Each _matador_ has two _banderilleros_, and it is proper that three
pairs of these darts should be placed. One of them steps to within
speaking distance of the animal, and holding a _banderilla_ in each hand
lifted above his head, stamps his foot and shouts insulting words. The
bull does not know what this new thing is, but charges blindly; at the
same moment the man runs forward, and passing, plants the two darts
between the shoulders. If they are well placed there is plentiful
hand-clapping; no audience is so liberal of applause for skill or
courage, none so intolerant of cowardice or stupidity; and with equal
readiness it will yell with delight or hiss and hoot and whistle. The
second _banderillero_ comes forward to plant his pair; a third is
inserted and the trumpets sound for the final scene.

This is the great duel between the single man and the bull. The
_matador_ advances, sword in hand, with the _muleta_, the red cloth for
the passes, over his arm. Under the president's box he takes off his
hat, and with fine gesture makes a grandiloquent speech, wherein he vows
either to conquer or to die: the harangue is finished with a wheel round
and a dramatic flinging of his hat to attendants on the other side of
the barrier. He pensively walks forward. All eyes are upon him--and he
knows it. He motions his companions to stand back and goes close to the
bull. He is quite alone, with his life in his hands--a slender figure,
very handsome in the gorgeous costume glittering with fine gold. He
arranges the _muleta_ over a little stick, so that it hangs down like a
flag and conceals his sword. Then quite solemnly he walks up to the
bull, holding the red rag in his left hand. The bull watches
suspiciously, suddenly charges, and the _muleta_ is passed over its
head; the _matador_ does not move a muscle, the bull turns and stands
quite motionless. Another charge, another pass. And so he continues,
making seven or eight of various sorts, to the growing approbation of
the public. At last it is time to kill. With great caution he withdraws
the sword; the bull looks warily. He makes two or three passes more and
walks round till he gets the animal into proper position: the forefeet
must be set squarely on the ground. '_Ora! Ora!_' cry the people. 'Now!
Now!' The bull is well placed. The _matador_ draws the sword back a
little and takes careful aim. The bull rushes, and at the same moment
the man makes one bound forward and buries the sword to the hilt between
the brute's shoulders. It falls to its knees and rolls over.

Then is a perfect storm of applause; and it is worth while to see
fourteen thousand people wild with delight. The band bursts into joyous
strains, and the mules come galloping in, gaily caparisoned; a rope is
passed round the dead beast, and they drag it away. The _matador_
advances to the president's box and bows, while the shouting grows more
frantic. He walks round, bowing and smiling, and the public in its
enthusiasm throws down hats and cigars and sticks.

But there are no intervals to a bull-fight, and the _picadors_
immediately reappear and take their places; the doors are flung open,
and a second bull rushes forth. The _matador_ still goes round bowing to
the applause, elaborately unmindful of the angry beast.

Six animals are killed in an afternoon within two hours, and then the
mighty audience troop out with flushed cheeks, the smell of blood strong
in their nostrils.


XXVI

[Sidenote: On Horseback]


I had a desire to see something of the very heart of Andalusia, of that
part of the country which had preserved its antique character, where
railway trains were not, and the horse, the mule, the donkey were still
the only means of transit. After much scrutiny of local maps and
conversation with horse-dealers and others, I determined from Seville to
go circuitously to Ecija, and thence return by another route as best I
could. The district I meant to traverse in olden times was notorious for
its brigands; even thirty years ago the prosperous tradesman, voyaging
on his mule from town to town, was liable to be seized by unromantic
outlaws and detained till his friends forwarded ransom, while ears and
fingers were playfully sent to prove identity. In Southern Spain
brigandage necessarily flourished, for not only were the country-folk in
collusion with the bandits, but the very magistrates united with them to
share the profits of lawless undertakings. Drastic measures were needful
to put down the evil, and in a truly Spanish way drastic measures were
employed. The Civil Guard, whose duty it was to see to the safety of the
country side, had no confidence in the justice of Madrid, whither
captured highwaymen were sent for trial; once there, for a few hundred
dollars, the most murderous ruffian could prove his babe-like innocence,
forthwith return to the scene of his former exploits and begin again. So
they hit upon an expedient. The Civil Guards set out for the capital
with their prisoner handcuffed between them; but, curiously enough, in
every single case the brigand had scarcely marched a couple of miles
before he incautiously tried to escape, whereupon he was, of course,
promptly shot through the back. People noticed two things: first, that
the clothes of the dead man were often singed, as if he had not escaped
very far before he was shot down; that only proved his guardians' zeal.
But the other was stranger: the two Civil Guards, when after a couple of
hours they returned to the town, as though by a mysterious premonition
they had known the bandit would make some rash attempt, invariably had
waiting for them an excellent hot dinner.

The only robber of importance who avoided such violent death was the
chief of a celebrated band who, when captured, signed a declaration that
he had not the remotest idea of escaping, and insisted on taking with
him to Madrid his solicitor and a witness. He reached the capital alive,
and having settled his little affairs with benevolent judges, turned to
a different means of livelihood, and eventually, it is said, occupied a
responsible post in the Government. It is satisfactory to think that his
felonious talents were not in after-life entirely wasted.

* * *

It was the beginning of March when I started. According to the old
proverb, the dog was already seeking the shade: _En Marzo busca la
sombra el perro_; the chilly Spaniard, loosening the folds of his
_capa_, acknowledged that at mid-day in the sun it was almost warm. The
winter rains appeared to have ceased; the sky over Seville was
cloudless, not with the intense azure of midsummer, but with a blue that
seemed mixed with silver. And in the sun the brown water of the
Guadalquivir glittered like the scales on a fish's back, or like the
burnished gold of old Moorish pottery.

I set out in the morning early, with saddle-bags fixed on either side
and poncho strapped to my pommel. A loaded revolver, though of course I
never had a chance to use it, made me feel pleasantly adventurous. I
walked cautiously over the slippery cobbles of the streets, disturbing
the silence with the clatter of my horse's shoes. Now and then a mule or
a donkey trotted by, with panniers full of vegetables, of charcoal or of
bread, between which on the beast's neck sat perched a man in a short
blouse. I came to the old