he steps forward to begin the final scene of the drama with the airy grace of a dancing-master. He is dressed in cherry and silver, and his hair is done in a queue, beneath a round black head-piece peculiar to the profession. In one hand he carries a blood-red cloak, the traditional muleta, and in the other a naked sword.
The killing is a work of art; it must not be done in any vulgar way. The matador flaunts his red cloak, invites the bull near it, holds it out to him draped on a stick, spreads it and draws it along on the ground with both hands, like a clerk exhibiting to a patron some new thing in ornamental fabrics. The grim animal, raging with the memory of all his wrongs, his disappointment, his wounds, accepts the invitation. Then the keen rapier flashes like lightning and seeks a vital part. Fatal simplicity, fatal ignorance! Surely there are morals in plenty to be drawn from a bull-fight. The victim thinks the red scarf the cause of all his troubles. It is expected that the accomplished espada will remain pretty firm on his feet and not caper about a great deal. He must move chiefly with his arms and body. He must wound but little; at this stage there must be no clumsy butchery.
The fine play continues. Suddenly the blade touches a fatal spot, which was the object of all the manœuvres—the junction of the neck and spinal column. The stalwart bull takes a startled, half-incredulous look, his eye dims,
he staggers, falls upon his knees, half rises again like a dying gladiator, sways his head from side to side, then falls prone and supine, in all his great bulk, along the ground. The espada, with a fine air of conscious merit, makes his bow, there are shouts, shrieks, whistlings, and catcalls of delight. A citizen of the lower orders, in a much beribboned sombrero, upon a post in front of the first row of seats, roars loud enough to drown the band.
