There were three of these men. They had remained standing motionless in a very nonchalant way, waiting for the signal of the _coup de grace_. The one who now stepped out to the task, was a lithe, handsome fellow. With a light bound, he sprung at the side of the bull, avoided the side-sweep of his angry horn, and plunged his weapon in the animal's neck. A storm of hisses burst from the audience, for the blow was not the death-blow; and the _matadore_ recovered his sword and returned to his former position; for one of the rules of the bull-fight is that the blow which is intended to be final must not be repeated, if it be unsuccessful. And now, at another signal from the major domo, an old _matadore_, who had stood gravely in front of us throughout the entire performance, now advanced easily toward the bull, who made a staggering charge upon him. But he easily evaded the charge, gained the animal's side, and drove in his thin sword to the hilt, right behind the shoulder-blade. This time it was the _coup de grace_. The bull stumbled forward, and then fell to the ground dead, while a thundering cheer greeted the successful _matadore_, who bowed carelessly, as if he was used to it, wiped his sword, and quietly resumed his former position. Now the supernumeraries entered the ring, with a wagon, to remove the dead bull and horses and other _débris_. Several other bulls, more or less formidable, were disposed of in rapid succession. But the greatest bull was reserved for the _finale_. A hum went through the audience as he sprung into the arena. I think I never saw a nobler animal than this bull. He was of a bright bay, and as glossy as the costliest satin. His eyes were brilliant and large. The strength as displayed in the splendid limbs and glorious neck was prodigious. All "our crowd" sent up a rousing cheer as soon as this animal made its appearance.