It is a wonderful display of coolness and courage. There are moments in the fight between the bull and the _espada_ when a deep hush spreads among the spectators; and, then, as the man swerves aside from the on-rush of the beast, a deafening roar goes up from the crowd. The last act is protracted at the discretion of the _espada_, who is always delighted to exhibit his cleverness and nimbleness to his thousands of admirers in the _palcos_ and galleries. A master of the art of the _espada_ has an extensive _répertoire_ of tricks and passes of the sword, which he loves to display, and he will risk his life a dozen times in the afternoon in exhibiting his skill and prowess. Often the bull is stupid. He must be made to prove his mettle. But usually _toro_ is already mad with anger when called upon to fight the last duel with the _espada_. It is curious to note how the _muleta_ enrages the bull, who seems to hate it more than the _banderillas_ or the pike of the _picador_. At length the _espada_ determines that _toro_ shall die. There is only one legitimate way to kill him. The thrust must be delivered in the neck, and the point of the sword should reach the heart. Before this death-stroke there is a stillness and tense feeling in the Plaza. Will the _espada_ blunder, or will the blade go home at the first thrust. A rapt excitement is on the faces of the crowd. And now the bull makes his last headlong rush; there is a flash of steel in the sunshine, and the sword pierces the black hide, and the blade disappears up to the hilt. _Toro_ staggers, turns and makes a final assault on the _espada_, only to receive the _muleta_ on his horns. The bull falls, and blood gushes from his wound. He lies dying amid the thunderous din of applause. An attendant appears with a narrow-bladed dagger. He stoops over the bull and plunges the weapon into the spine, near the head. With a shudder, _toro_ dies. During the babel of voices discussing the fight, the mules are driven into the ring, traces are fixed to the horns of the dead bull, and the corpse is dragged out; and with scarcely an interval, another victim is turned into the arena. In “Childe Harold,” Lord Byron records his impressions of a bull-fight: “Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe; Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.