n in a seat on the sunny side, which is the cheap
side. And there are two shrivelled, dark, Creole women, in a box; and
there is one girl of eight or ten years, in full dress, with an elderly
man. These are all the women. In the State Box, under the faded royal
arms, are a few officials, not of high degree. The rest of the large
company is a motley collection, chiefly of the middle or lower classes,
mostly standing on the benches, and nearly all smoking.

The music beats and brays again, the great gates open, and another bull
rushes in, distracted by sights and sounds so novel, and for a few
minutes shows signs of power and vigor; but, as he becomes accustomed to
the scene, he tames down; and after several minutes of flaunting of
cloths and flags, and piercing with darts, and punching with the poles
of the horsemen, he runs under the poor white horse, and upsets him, but
leaves him unhurt by his horns; has a leisurely trial of endurance with
the red horse, goring him a little with one horn, and receiving the pike
of the driver--the horse helpless and patient, and the bull very
reasonable and temperate in the use of his power--and then is enticed
off by flags, and worried with darts; and, at last, a new matador
appears--a fierce-looking fellow, dressed in dark green, with a large
head of curling, snaky, black hair, and a skin almost black. He makes a
great strut and flourish, and after two or three unsuccessful attempts
to get the bull head on, at length, getting a fair chance, plunges his
black sword to the hilt in the bull's neck--but there is no fall of the
bull. He has missed the spinal cord and the bull trots off, bleeding in
a small stream, with a sword-handle protruding a few inches above the
hide of his back-neck. The spectators hoot their contempt for the
failure; but with no sign of pity for the beast. The bull is weakened,
but trots about and makes a few runs at cloths, and the sword is drawn
from his hide by an agile dart-sticker (banderillero), and given to the
black bully in dark green, who makes one more lunge, with no better
success. The bull runs round, and reels, and staggers, and falls half
down, gets partly up, lows and breathes heavily, is pushed over and held
down, until a butcher dispatches him with a sharp knife, at the spinal
cord. Then come the opened gates, the three horses abreast, decked with
ribbons, the hard tug at the bull's body over the ground, his limbs
still swaying with remaining life,