“Huh!” Manuel said, “Toro!” and leaning back, swung the cape forward. Here he comes. He side-stepped, swung the cape in back of him, and pivoted, so the bull followed a swirl of cape and then was left with nothing, fixed by the pass, dominated by the cape. Manuel swung the cape under his muzzle with one hand, to show the bull was fixed, and walked away. There was no applause. Manuel walked across the sand toward the barrera, while Zurito rode out of the ring. The trumpet had blown to change the act to the planting of the banderillos while Manuel had been working with the bull. He had not consciously noticed it. The monos were spreading canvas over the two dead horses and sprinkling sawdust around them. Manuel came up to the barrera for a drink of water. Retana’s man handed him the heavy porous jug. Fuentes, the tall gypsy, was standing holding a pair of banderillos, holding them together, slim, red sticks, fish-hook points out. He looked at Manuel. “Go on out there,” Manuel said. The gypsy trotted out. Manuel set down the jug and watched. He wiped his face with his handkerchief. The critic of _El Heraldo_ reached for the bottle of warm champagne that stood between his feet, took a drink, and finished his paragraph. “—the aged Manolo rated no applause for a vulgar series of lances with the cape and we entered the third of the palings.” Alone in the centre of the ring the bull stood, still fixed. Fuentes, tall, flat-backed, walking toward him arrogantly, his arms spread out, the two slim, red sticks, one in each hand, held by the fingers, points straight forward. Fuentes walked forward. Back of him and to one side was a peon with a cape. The bull looked at him and was no longer fixed. His eyes watched Fuentes, now standing still. Now he leaned back, calling to him. Fuentes twitched the two banderillos and the light on the steel points caught the bull’s eye. His tail went up and he charged. He came straight, his eyes on the man. Fuentes stood still, leaning back, the banderillos pointing forward. As the bull lowered his head to hook, Fuentes leaned backward, his arms came together and rose, his two hands touching, the banderillos two descending red lines, and leaning forward drove the points into the bull’s shoulder, leaning far in over the bull’s horns and pivoting on the two upright sticks, his legs tight together, his body curving to one side to let the bull pass. “Olé!” from the crowd. The bull was hooking wildly, jumping like a trout, all four feet off the ground. The red shaft of the banderillos tossed as he jumped. Manuel standing at the barrera, noticed that he hooked always to the right. “Tell him to drop the next pair on the right,” he said to the kid who started to run out to Fuentes with the new banderillos. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. It was Zurito. “How do you feel, kid?” he asked. Manuel was watching the bull.