and go home and find fault—­there they were, one solid, sloping, circling sweep of rippling and flashing color under the downpour of the summer sun—­just a garden, a gaudy, gorgeous flower-garden!  Children munching oranges, six thousand fans fluttering and glimmering, everybody happy, everybody chatting gayly with their intimates, lovely girl-faces smiling recognition and salutation to other lovely girl-faces, gray old ladies and gentlemen dealing in the like exchanges with each other—­ah, such a picture of cheery contentment and glad anticipation! not a mean spirit, nor a sordid soul, nor a sad heart there—­ah, Thorndike, I wish I could see it again.

“Suddenly, the martial note of a bugle cleaves the hum and murmur—­ clear the ring!

“They clear it.  The great gate is flung open, and the procession marches in, splendidly costumed and glittering:  the marshals of the day, then the picadores on horseback, then the matadores on foot, each surrounded by his quadrille of chulos.  They march to the box of the city fathers, and formally salute.  The key is thrown, the bull-gate is unlocked.  Another bugle blast—­the gate flies open, the bull plunges in, furious, trembling, blinking in the blinding light, and stands there, a magnificent creature, centre of those multitudinous and admiring eyes, brave, ready for battle, his attitude a challenge.  He sees his enemy:  horsemen sitting motionless, with long spears in rest, upon blindfolded broken-down nags, lean and starved, fit only for sport and sacrifice, then the carrion-heap.

“The bull makes a rush, with murder in his eye, but a picador meets him with a spear-thrust in the shoulder.  He flinches with the pain, and the picador skips out of danger.  A burst of applause for the picador, hisses for the bull.  Some shout ‘Cow!’ at the bull, and call him offensive names.  But he is not listening to them, he is there for business; he is not minding the cloak-bearers that come fluttering around to confuse him; he chases this way, he chases that way, and hither and yon, scattering the nimble banderillos in every direction like a spray, and receiving their maddening darts in his neck as they dodge and fly—­oh, but it’s a lively spectacle, and brings down the house!  Ah, you should hear the thundering roar that goes up when the game is at its wildest and brilliant things are done!

“Oh, that first bull, that day, was great!  From the moment the spirit of war rose to flood-tide in him and he got down to his work, he began to do wonders.  He tore his way through his persecutors, flinging one of them clear over the parapet; he bowled a horse and his rider down, and plunged straight for the next, got home with his horns, wounding both horse and man; on again, here and there and this way and that; and one after another he tore the bowels out of two horses so that they gushed to the ground, and ripped a third one so badly that although they rushed him to cover and shoved his bowels back and stuffed