On this afternoon the bull eyed the horses’ approach with no ill-will, he seemed to be reflecting—­“Perhaps these are friends of mine and will show me the way out.”  But when at last the picador, having spurred his flinching horse close up to the bull’s side, jabbed at his glossy neck with his lance and the pain convinced the great monarch they were hostile, he threw up his head with a snort and in a lithe, agile bound he passed by them and trotted quietly away.

This enraged the people, and screams of “Coward!  Coward!” went up from all parts of the ring.

How they can twist into any semblance of cowardice the benignity of an animal that scorns to take any notice of what it sees is a feeble and puny opponent is amazing, a fit illustration of the weakness of the human intellect.

As the bull continued his gentle trot, unmoved, the audience grew furious, and then began that tedious and utterly sickening chase of the unwilling bull by the faltering and unwilling horses.

The bull, conscious of his great strength and absolutely fearless, had all that chivalry which seems inherent in animals and which is quite lacking in man in his attitude to them.

As the unfortunate horses were ridden up to and across the face of the bull, he did his best to avoid them.  Over and over again the picadors stabbed him with their lances and thrust their naked horses at his head, but his whole attitude and manner said plainly:  “Why should I toss these poor old, trembling horses?  I have no quarrel with them.  I could kill them in a minute, but I don’t want to.”

The screaming fiends above him yelled and cursed and tore pieces of wood from the seats to throw at him.  Insults and invectives were showered on the picadors, until at last one of them, stung by the filthy abuse of the mob, drove his spurs so deep into his horse that the animal reared a little; the picador then, with spur and knee, almost lifted him on to the long pointed horns of the bull, who, forced back against the hoarding, had lowered his head in anger as the blood streamed from the lance wounds in his neck.

Then there was the horrid, low sound of grating horn against the ribs of the horse, the ripping of the hide; the animal was lifted into the air a moment, then fell.  There was a gush of blood on the sand, blood and entrails; with a groan it staggered quivering to its feet, made a step forwards, trod on its own trailing, bleeding insides, fell again, groaning with anguish, quivering convulsively.

The people were delighted.  They shouted and screamed and stood up on their seats and waved their kerchiefs, especially the women!

The picador, who picked himself up unhurt—­indeed, cased in armour, he could not well be otherwise—­was cheered and cheered, and bowed and smiled and took off his cap and swept it to the ground.  And the band crashed loudly to drown the terrible groaning of the dying horse, struggling in agony on the sand.  The bull, sorry rather than otherwise apparently, walked away to another part of the ring, tossing his head in pain as the blood dripped from it.