After much effort
the matador gave him the final stroke and killed him.
The crowd applauded and the band blared forth. The whole business
struck Manuel as pretty disagreeable, but he waited eagerly. The mules
came out and dragged off the dead bull.
Soon the music ceased and another bull appeared. The picadores
remained close to the walls while the toreros ventured a bit nearer to
the beast and waved their red flags, at once rushing back.
This was hardly anything like the picture Manuel had conjured up for
himself, or like what he had seen in the coloured illustrations of
_La Lidia_. He had always imagined that the toreros, in the sheer
skill of their art, would play around with the bull, and there wasn't
any of this; they entrusted their salvation to their legs, just like
the rest of the world.
After the inciting tactics of the toreros, two _monosabios_ began
to beat a picador's horse with several sticks, until they got him to
advance as far as the middle of the arena. Manuel had a close view of
the horse; he was a large, white, bony creature with the saddest look
on his face. The _>monosabios_ goaded him on toward the bull.
Soon the beast drew near, the picador pricked him with the point of
his lance, the bull lowered his head for the attack and threw the
horse into the air. The rider fell to the ground and was picked up in
a trice; the horse tried to raise himself, with his intestines
sprawling on the sand in a pool of blood; he trampled on them with his
hoofs, his legs wavered and he fell convulsively to the ground.
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