embroidery, yellow horsemen with great beaver hats, guards on horseback, and the assistants in their suits of gold and blue.

The bull-fighters formed with customary promptness before the horses' gate beneath an arch that gave exit to the plaza, the maestros at the front, then the banderilleros keeping far apart, and behind them, in the enclosure itself, stamped the sturdy rough squadron of the picadores, smelling of burnt hide and dung, mounted on skeleton-like horses with one eye bandaged. As rearguard of this army the teams of mules intended for dragging out the slaughtered bulls fretted behind them; they were restless, vigorous animals with shining coats, covered with trappings of tassels and bells, and wore on their collars the waving national flag.

Beyond the arch, above the wooden gates which half obstructed it, opened a narrow space, leaving visible a portion of the sky, the tiled roof of the plaza, and a section of seats with the compact multitude swarming like ants, amid which fans and papers seemed to flutter like gayly colored mosquitoes. Through this gallery entered a strong breeze—the respiration of an immense lung. An harmonious humming was borne on the undulations of the air, making certain distant music felt, rather divined than heard.

About the archway peeped heads, many heads; those of the spectators on the nearby benches were thrust forward, curious to see the heroes without delay.

Gallardo arranged himself in line with the other bull-fighters, who exchanged among themselves grave inclinations of the head. They did not speak; they did not smile. Each one thought of himself, letting his imagination fly far away; or he thought of nothing, lost in that intellectual void produced by emotion. They occupied themselves with a ceaseless arranging of the cape, throwing it loosely over the shoulder, rolling its ends about the waist, and trying to make their legs, encased in silk and gold, show agile and brave under this gorgeous funnel. Every face was pale, not with a deathly pallor, but brilliant and livid, with the sweaty gloss of emotion. They thought of the arena, still unseen, experiencing that irresistible terror of events that take place on the other side of a wall, that fear of the hidden, the unknown danger that makes itself felt though invisible. How would the afternoon end?

Behind the cuadrillas sounded the trotting of the horses that entered through the outer arcades of the plaza. They bore the constables with their long black cloaks and bell-shaped hats decorated with red and yellow feathers. They had just cleared the ring, emptying it of the curious, and they came to put themselves at the head of the cuadrillas, serving them as advance guards.

The doors of the archway and those of the barrier wall opposite opened wide. The great ring appeared, the real plaza, the circular space of sand where the tragedy of the afternoon was to be enacted for the excitement and entertainment of fourteen thousand souls. The harmonious and confused buzzing increased, developing into gay and bizarre music, a triumphal march of sounding brass that caused arms to swing martially and hips to swagger. Forward, ye brave!

And the bull-fighters, winking at the violent transition, passed from the shadow to the light, from the silence of the quiet gallery to the roar of the ring on whose surrounding seats surged the crowd in waves of curiosity, rising to their feet to see to better advantage.

The toreros advanced, seeming suddenly to diminish in size in comparison to the length of the perspective as they trod the arena. They resembled brilliant little puppets, whose embroideries caught rainbow reflections from the sun. Their graceful movements fired the people with an enthusiasm like to that of the child in the presence of a wonderful toy. The mad gust that stirred the crowds, causing their nerves to tingle and their flesh to creep, they knew not why, moved the whole plaza.

The people applauded, the more enthusiastic and nervous yelled, the music rumbled and, in the midst of this outburst which spread in every direction, from the door of the exit to the president's box, the cuadrillas advanced with solemn pace, the graceful movements of arms and bodies compensating for the shortness of step. In the ring of blue ether overhanging above the plaza white doves were winging as if frightened by the roar that escaped from this crater of brick.

The athletes felt themselves different men as they advanced across the arena. They exposed their lives for something more than money. Their uncertainty and terror in the presence of the unknown were left behind those barriers; now they were before the public; they faced reality. And the thirst for glory in their barbarous and simple souls, the desire to outstrip their comrades, their pride of strength and skill, blinded them, made them forget fear and filled them with a brutal courage.

Gallardo had become transfigured. He walked erect, aspiring to be taller; he moved with the arrogance of a conqueror. He gazed in all directions with a triumphant air, as though his two companions did not exist. Everything was his; the plaza and the public. He felt himself capable of killing every bull that roamed the pastures of Andalusia and Castile. All the applause was for him, he was sure of it. The thousands of feminine eyes shaded by white mantillas in boxes and benches, dwelt only on his person. He had no doubt of it. The public adored him and, as he advanced, smiling flippantly, as though the entire ovation were directed to his person, he looked along the rows of seats on the rising tiers knowing where the greater number of his partisans were grouped and seeming to ignore those sections where his rivals' friends were assembled.