The two brothers, gloomy and silent, approached the ring and, resting their faces against the bamboo railing, watched the preparations. A man approached them and said in their ears: "Hundred to ten on the blanco!" Tarsilo looked at him stupidly. Bruno elbowed his brother, who responded with a grunt. The soltadores handle the roosters with masterly skill, taking great care not to wound them. A deep silence reigns throughout the pit. You would think that those present, with the exception of the two soltadores, were horrible wax figures. The two roosters are brought close together and allowed to pick at each other and thus become irritated. Then they allow them to look at each other, so that the poor little birds may know who has plucked out their feathers, and with whom they should fight. The feathers around the neck stand up; they look at each other fixedly; flashes of wrath escape from their little, round eyes. The moment has come. The birds are placed on the ground in the ring at a certain distance from each other. The cocks advance slowly. Their little steps are heard upon the hard floor. Nobody speaks; nobody breathes. Lowering and raising their heads, as if measuring each other with a look, the two roosters mutter sounds, perhaps of threat or contempt. They have perceived the shining blades. Danger animates them, and they turn toward each other decided, but they stop at a short distance, and, as they look at each other, they bow their heads and again raise their feathers on end. With their natural valor, they rush at each other impetuously; they strike beak against beak; breast against breast, blade against blade, and wing against wing. The blows have been stopped with dexterity and skill, and only a few feathers have fallen. They again measure each other! Suddenly the blanco turns and, raising himself in the air, flashes his death-dealing knife, but the rojo has already doubled up his legs, ducked his head and the blanco has only cut the air. Then, on touching the ground, to avoid being wounded from behind, he turns quickly and faces the other. The red attacks him with fury, but he defends himself with coolness. Not without reason was he the favorite of the crowd. All, trembling and anxious, follow the movements of the battle, now this one and now that one giving an involuntary shout. The ground is being covered with red and white feathers, tinged with blood. But the duel does not go to the one who draws first blood. The Filipino here follows the laws laid down by the Government, which say that the cock which is killed or flees loses the fight. The blood now wets the ground; the blows are repeated, but the victory is still undecided. Finally, making a supreme effort, the blanco throws himself forward to give a last blow; he drives his knife into the wing of the rojo and buries it among the bones. But the blanco has been wounded in the breast, and both, weak from loss of blood,