The Blood of the Arena. Vicente Blasco Ibanez

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      From the top of the hill on Alcalá Street the broad straight road shone white in the sun, with its rows of trees turning green at the breath of spring, the balconies black with people, and the highway only visible at intervals beneath the ant-like movement of the crowd and the rolling of the coaches descending to the Fountain of Cibeles. Here the hill rose again amid groves and tall buildings and the Puerta de Alcalá closed the perspective like a triumphal arch, rearing its perforated white mass against the blue space in which flecks of clouds floated like solitary swans.

      Gallardo rode in silence, responding to the multitude with a fixed smile. Since his greeting to the banderilleros he had not spoken a word. They were also silent and pale with anxiety over the unknown. Being all bull-fighters together, they put aside as useless the gallantries necessary before the public.

      A mysterious influence seemed to tell the crowd of the passing of the last cuadrilla that wound its way to the plaza. The vagabonds that ran behind the coach shouting after Gallardo had been outstripped and the group scattered among the carriages, but in spite of this the people turned their heads as if they divined the proximity of the celebrated bull-fighter behind them and they stopped, lining up against the edge of the sidewalk to see him better.

      The women in the coaches in advance turned their heads, attracted by the jingling bells of the trotting mules. An indescribable roar rose from certain groups that barred the passage along the sidewalks. There were enthusiastic exclamations. Some waved their hats; others lifted canes and swung them in salutation.

      Gallardo responded to all with grinning smile but in his preoccupation he seemed to take small account of these greetings. At his side rode Nacional, his confidential servant, a banderillero, older than himself by ten years, a rugged, strong man with brows grown together and a grave visage. He was famous among the men of the profession for his good nature, his manliness, and his political enthusiasms.

      "Juan—don't complain of Madri'," said Nacional; "thou art made with the public."

      But Gallardo, as if he did not hear him and as if he wished to get away from the thoughts that occupied him, answered:

      "I feel it in my heart that something's going to happen this afternoon."

      When they arrived at Cibeles the coach stopped. A great funeral was coming along the Prado from the Castellana, cutting through the avalanche of carriages from Alcalá Street.

      Gallardo turned paler, contemplating with angry eyes the passing of the cross and the defile of the priests who broke into a grave chant as they gazed, some with aversion, others with envy, at that God-forgotten multitude running after amusement.

      Gallardo made haste to take off his cap, in which he was imitated by all his banderilleros except Nacional.

      "But damn it!" yelled Gallardo, "uncover, condenao!"

      He looked furious, as though he would strike him, convinced by some confused intuition that this rebellion would cause the most terrible misfortune to befall him.

      "Well, I take it off," said Nacional with the ill grace of a thwarted child, as he saw the cross pass on, "I take it off, but it is to the dead."

      They were detained some time to let the long cortège pass.

      "Bad sign!" muttered Gallardo in a voice trembling with anger. "Whoever would have thought of bringing a funeral along the road to the plaza? Damn it! I say something's going to happen to-day!"

      Nacional smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

      "Superstitions and fanaticisms! Neither God nor Nature bothers over these things."

      These words, which irritated Gallardo still more, caused the grave preoccupation of the other bull-fighters to vanish, and they began to joke about their companion as they did on all occasions when he dragged in his favorite expression of "God or Nature."

      When the road was clear the carriage began to move at the full speed of the mules, crowding along with the other vehicles that flowed to the plaza. Arrived there it turned to the left toward the gate of the stables that led to the enclosures and stalls, obliged to move now at slower pace among the dense crowd. Another ovation to Gallardo when he descended from the coach followed by his banderilleros; blows and pushes to keep his dress from unclean contact; smiles of greeting; concealment of the right hand which all wished to press.

      "Make way, gentlemen! many thanks!"

      The large enclosure between the body of the plaza and the walls of the outbuildings was full of the curious who wished to see the bull-fighters at close range before taking their seats. Above the heads of the crowd emerged the picadores and guards on horseback in their seventeenth century dress. At one side of the enclosure rose one-story brick buildings with vines over the doors and pots of flowers in the windows, a small community of offices, shops, stables, and houses in which lived the stable boys, the carpenters, and other employees of the bull-ring.

      The matador pressed forward laboriously among the assemblage. His name passed from mouth to mouth with exclamations of enthusiasm.

      "Gallardo! Here is Gallardo! Hurrah! Viva España!"

      And he, wholly preoccupied by the adoration of the public, advanced swaggering, serene as a god, happy and satisfied, as if he were assisting at a feast in his honor.

      Suddenly two arms encircled his neck, and a strong stench of wine assailed his nostrils.

      "You smasher of women's hearts! You glorious one! Hurrah for Gallardo!"

      It was a man of decent appearance; he rested his head on the swordsman's shoulder and thus remained as though falling asleep in spite of his enthusiasm. Gallardo's pushing, and the pulling of his friends, freed the bull-fighter from this interminable embrace. The drunken man, finding himself separated from his idol, broke out in shouts of enthusiasm. "Hurrah! Let all the nations of the world come to admire bull-fighters like this one and die of envy! They may have ships, they may have money, but that's trivial! They have neither bulls nor youths like this—no one to outstrip him in bravery. Hurrah, my boy! Viva mi tierra!"

      Gallardo crossed a great white washed hall bare of furniture where his professional companions stood surrounded by enthusiastic groups. Way was immediately made among the crowd which obstructed a door, and he passed through it into a narrow, dark room, at the end of which shone the lights of the chapel. An ancient painting representing the Virgin of the Dove hung over the back of the altar. Four candles were burning before it and branches of moth-eaten cloth flowers in vases of common earthenware were falling to dust.

      The chapel was full of people. The devotees of the humbler classes crowded in to see the great men close by. They remained in the dimness with uncovered head; some crowded into the foremost ranks, others stood on chairs and benches, the majority of them with their backs to the Virgin and looking greedily toward the door, ready to shout a name the instant they discerned the glitter of a spangled costume.

      The banderilleros and picadores, poor devils who were going to expose their lives as much as were the maestros, scarcely raised the slightest murmur by their presence. Only the most fervent enthusiasts recognized their nicknames.

      Suddenly a prolonged buzzing, a name repeated from mouth to mouth:

      "Fuentes!—That is Fuentes!"

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