Behind Justa and El Carnicerin, Senor Custodio, his wife and Manuel
attracted everybody's attention and left a wake of laughter.
Justa turned back to look at them and could not help smiling. Manuel
walked along in a rage, stifling, his hat pressing tightly against his
forehead and his feet aching.
They got into a street car at Toledo Street and rode to the Puerta del
Sol; there they boarded art omnibus, which took them to the bull ring.
They entered and, guided by El Carnicerin, sat themselves down in
their respective places. The spectacle had begun and the amphitheatre
was packed. Tier upon tier was crammed with a black mass of humanity.
Manuel glared into the arena; they were about to kill the bull near
the stone wall that bounded the ring, at a short distance from where
they were. The poor beast, half dead already, was dragging himself
slowly along, followed by three or four toreros and the matador, who,
curved forward, with his red flag in one hand and his sword in the
other, came behind. The matador was scared out of his wits; he stood
before the bull, considered carefully just where he was to strike him,
and at the beast's slightest movement he prepared to escape. Then, if
the bull remained quiet a while, he struck him once, again, and the
animal lowered his head; with his tongue hanging out, dripping blood,
he gazed out of the sad eyes of a dying creature.
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