The bull is weary now and has lost much of his blood; as from the first, he only longs to escape from this ring, and the mad monkeys who are gibing and gibbering at him in it.  They came forward with their fresh weapons, shafts and arrows of iron decked up with coloured ribbons, which they throw at him and which stick on his shoulders and in his sides, drawing streams of blood wherever they strike him.

Maddened by those, he rushes at the flaming coats the men trail before his eyes; but the cruel little, dancing, monkey-like man with the cloak darts away before he can be touched, and at last, after repeated rushes and repeated failures, the grand creature stands still, wearied and disdainful, his head erect, the blood flowing from his wounds in which the darts move, swaying to and fro each time he stirs, causing him an agony he cannot understand.  So he faces the great crowded ring contemptuously, and the people shout at him and call him a coward and scream for the espada to come and dispatch him.

The banderilleros retire:  they have weakened the bull so that there is now no danger for the puny little two-legged creature who struts in next with a sword, and who is greeted with plaudits and triumphal music.  Flowers are thrown him, bouquets, the men call him hero, the women throw kisses to him.

He bows to the President, then turns towards the bull who stands erect still, though the loss of blood must be telling upon him, stands with that same air of deadly ennui, of weary scorn of all this folly which he has possessed from the first.  Dusty and blood-stained his glossy coat, bloodshot his great lustrous eyes.  As he looks round the circle already growing dim to them, does he long for his green Andalusian pastures, does he see again those pleasant streams by which his herd is wandering?

The little manikin sidles up and jabs him behind the shoulder with his sword.  The bull turns upon him, and he runs for his life.  But the bull does not deign to follow.  With a great show of precaution where there is really no danger, the little man with the sword approaches again.  Amidst cheers from the onlookers he plunges his sword between the shoulders of the dying monarch and then rushes backwards.  The great beast sways, shivers in mortal anguish for a moment, and then without a sound sinks, for the first time in this cruel and unequal combat, to his knees.  Sinks, full of a superb dignity to the end, and one asks oneself—­“What can the scheme of creation be that gives a creature so clean-souled, so grand, into the power of such a miserable mass of vile lusts as man?”

A moment more and the head crowned with its tapering crescent horns sinks forwards.  A gush of blood from the nostrils on the sand, and it is over.  The glossy form is still—­at peace.

With ridiculous manoeuvres the little man comes up again to the great beast, obviously dead and harmless, and withdraws his sword which he waves triumphantly before the applauding populace.