In one circumstance, however, woman does take her place by the side of man, and that is in the bull-ring—­not, indeed, in the arena, but in every part of the amphitheatre, from the worst seats on the sunny side to the costly boxes in the shade.  She takes as great an interest in the bull-fight as the man, and if she does not shout and swear, or fling her hat into the ring in her enthusiasm, she delights probably more than the man in the beauty of the spectacle, and appreciates almost as fully the feats of skill and daring which give such special attraction to the national pastime.  This is a right royal sport, and as in Portugal the horrid cruelty which defaces it in Spain is absent, there is no overwhelming reason why the women should not sit and applaud the picturesque scene and the exhibitions of pluck and agility shown by the performers.

The scene is really magnificent, and the enthusiasm of the audience must be witnessed in order to understand the underlying potentialities of the Portuguese character.  The vile abuse of a bull who will not show fight is comical to listen to.  Probably, in such a case, the bull has been through it all before, and he does not care to make wild rushes at cloaks which have nothing substantial behind them.  So he paws up the sand and looks theatrical, but refuses to budge.  Then a nimble bandarilhero faces him, and fixes a pair of bandarilhas in his neck—­one on each side if he can manage it.  This is unpleasant, no doubt, but the bull’s former experience tells him that it is not serious, and not even very painful.  It was irritating the first time, but no well-bred bull should condescend to be upset by such a trifle.  Another pair of bandarilhas, and yet another, are fixed into his shoulders by their barbed points—­or the attempt is made to fix them.  Then the bull begins to play the game in a condescending sort of way.  Then the great man, the espada himself, comes on the scene, and arranges and waves his scarlet flag, and walks up to the obstinate animal, perhaps flicks him in the nostrils with his pocket-handkerchief and calls him vacca (cow)!  At last, seemingly out of good nature, the bull rushes at the red flag, has the highly decorated dart stuck between his shoulders, by the daring espada who may perform some other feat, listens to the applause, and laughs to himself when he hears the bugle-call and sees the trained oxen rush in with their long bells and their attendant herdsmen, and with more or less of a frolicsome air he trots out of the arena in their company and, having had his sore shoulders attended to, and having had a good feed, chews the cud with a pleasant reminiscence of the afternoon’s work.  It is a mistake not to kill the bull, which is not cruel in itself, but which would prevent some rather tiresome interludes when a knowing old bull refuses to be coaxed into playing his part of the game.