Catalina closed her eyes and turned her back—she felt horribly faint—then looked at Mr. Moulton. He also had turned his back, and his profile was green. Nevertheless, he had the presence of mind to observe a small boy of seven or eight years, whom he had singled out for psychological investigation. The boy looked bored.
“The worst is past for the moment,” said Over to Catalina, and under cover of her mantilla he took her hand. “They will take the poor brute out, and the rest is pure sport.” And Catalina, in a tensity of emotion, held fast to his hand during the rest of the performance, quite unconscious of the act.
The bull, meanwhile, had dashed for the glittering figures in the middle of the arena, his red horns looking as if they would rip the earth did they encounter nothing more inviting. Then came the graceful, agile antics of the banderilleros. After the chulos, with their flirting capes, had tormented and bewildered the bull for a few moments, first one banderillero and then another received him in full charge, leaping aside as he lowered his horns to gore, and thrust the barbed darts, flaunting with colored ribbons, into the back of his neck. One man leaped clear over the bull, planting his darts in his flight. The next went over the wall of the arena into the narrow passage below the front row of seats, the bull in full tilt after him, but diverted by a chulo before he reached the wall.
It was true sport, and Catalina had forgotten her horror and was leaning forward with interest, when she gave a sharp cry and dug her nails into Over’s hand. The picador, instead of retiring with his stricken horse, had leisurely ridden down the arena to see the sport, and there he sat serenely, the bright entrails of the poor brute upholding him hanging to the ground. But only for a moment. A young horse could have stood no more, and the old hack reserved for the sacrifice by an economical people suddenly sank and expired without a shiver. He had not uttered a sound as the bull ripped him open, but he had started and quivered mightily; he had been dying ever since, and collapsed in an instant.
Catalina cowered behind her fan. “I wish I had not come!” she gasped into Over’s ear. Mr. Moulton was in need of consolement himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
