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He remained at the head of the table, his face resting on his hands, and a cloud of perfumed smoke before his eyes which he turned from time to time with a self-satisfied air in the direction of some ladies who were watching the famous torero[3] with marked interest.

The espada let his arms fall, utterly disheartened. Was that brute immortal! The rapier thrusts seemed to do him no harm. It seemed as though he would never die.

A groom came out leading a horse with hanging head, tangled coat, and staring ribs.

While terror was singing in his heart: "To-day you will die! This is your last cogida!"

[45] Term applied to a bull which, after much punishment, is still plucky and strong.

She was an orphan living with some uncles who kept a small provision shop in the suburb. Her father, a former wine merchant, had left her two houses in the suburb of la Macarena.

And so Gallardo, trusting in his lucky star, took his way towards the Hotel de Paris, situated at a short distance from his own.

Other enthusiasts kept coming into the dining-room, men of wretched appearance and hungry faces, obscure reporters of papers only known to the bull-fighters, whom they honoured with their praise or censure: people of problematic profession who appeared as soon as the news of Gallardo's arrival got about, besieging him with flatteries and requests for tickets. The general enthusiasm permitted them to mix with the other gentlemen, rich merchants and public functionaries, who discussed bull-fighting affairs with them hotly without being troubled by their beggarly appearance.