Mrs. Rothe was talking to Over with a great show of animation, and her companion—a virile, good-looking young man, evidently college-bred—had greeted the Englishman with an enthusiasm suspicious in the travelling husband.
“She is going to Granada next week,” whispered Over, significantly, as he took his seat once more beside Catalina. “I have asked if I may take you to call on her to-morrow.”
“Yes,” said Catalina, absently. The president of the occasion, the mayor of Toledo, had entered his box; the mounted police, in crimson and gold, to the sudden rush of martial music, were careering about the arena driving the stragglers to their seats. A moment later came the Paseo de la Cuadrilla, the procession of all the bull-fighters across the arena to the foot of the president’s box—the espadas and their understudies, the banderilleros, the picadores and chulos, all gorgeous in the gold-embroidered short clothes and brocades of old Spain. None of them looked young, in spite of picturesque finery and pigtails, and their smoothly shaven faces may best be described by the expressive Americanism “tough”; but between bull-fights they do not live the lives of model citizens, and may be younger than they look; certainly their calling demands the agility and unbrittle brain-cells of youth.
The president, who received them standing, bowed with much ceremony and then cast a key into the arena. It unlocked one of the dark cells, or toriles, adjoining the arena, where the first of the angry bulls was bellowing for light and space and dinner.
The picadores, with one exception, retired, this hero of the first engagement taking his stand by the door whence all had emerged. The espadas, banderilleros, and others of lower estate, scattered at safe distances from the door of the toril, near which stood a chulo to direct the attention of the bull to the picador, lest he fly first at the unmounted men and disappoint the spectators of their whet of blood.
But the bull might have been rehearsed for his part. As the door of his toril was cautiously opened he flew straight at the blindfolded horse without a side glance or a roar; and not waiting for the teasing prod of the picador’s pike, he bored his horns into the luckless animal’s side and dragged out his entrails.