If he will not rush at the flag, the crowd shouts for the
demi-lune; and the noble brute is houghed from behind, and your soul
grows sick with shame of human nature, at the hellish glee with which
they watch him hobbling on his severed legs.
This seldom happens. The final act is usually an admirable study of
coolness and skill against brute force. When the banderillas are all
planted, and the bugles sound for the third time, the matador, the
espada, the sword, steps forward with a modest consciousness of
distinguished merit, and makes a brief speech to the corregidor,
offering in honor of the good city of Madrid to kill the bull. He turns
on his heel, throws his hat by a dexterous back-handed movement over the
barrier, and advances, sword and cape in hand, to where his noble enemy
awaits him. The bull appears to recognize a more serious foe than any he
has encountered. He stops short and eyes the newcomer curiously. It is
always an impressive picture: the tortured, maddened animal, whose thin
flanks are palpitating with his hot breath, his coat one shining mass of
blood from the darts and the spear-thrusts, his massive neck still
decked as in mockery with the fluttering flags, his fine head and muzzle
seeming sharpened by the hour's terrible experience, his formidable
horns crimsoned with onset; in front of this fiery bulk of force and
courage, the slight, sinewy frame of the killer, whose only reliance is
on his coolness and his intellect.
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