furiously upon one of the Picadores and plunged his horns into the horse’s side, rolling him over. I covered my eyes with my hands to keep off the dreadful sight. Looking up accidentally, I nearly had a nervous attack, and started back with a cry of horror. A horse was there before me, his four hoofs up in the air, disembowelled, with two streams of blood pouring down its gored sides, rolling in convulsions in mortal agony. I shall never forget the sight of this quivering, dying creature! The executioner, dressed in a red blouse, ran up to the horse and, with a butcher’s knife, he deftly cut the poor animal’s throat, giving him the touch of mercy. After fifty minutes of this horrid sport the bugle sounded for the final act, the putting to death of the bull. It was Legartijo’s turn to kill the first bull. Wrapped up in his “capa” he strode out into the ring with a firm step and approached the President’s box, whom he saluted with a theatrical flourish of his hat, after which he extended his “mulata” (sword) and made his announcement to present the bull to the President. Then he threw his hat to the audience, to be kept until his return, and advanced slowly, with an almost devilish expression of cruelty on his face, his sword hidden in the folds of his “capa,” to his victim, and began his “passadas” (passes), whilst the bull, who was by now one bleeding lump, stood motionless and trembled all over, his eyes out of their sockets and tongue hanging out. For the space of half-a-minute both man and beast stood as if turned to stone, then with a quick movement Legartijo stuck his sword up to the hilt into the neck of the bull, nothing but the handle remaining visible. The tortured animal tottered to his knees, bowed his head in the dust, rolled over and died. It was a master-stroke, and the air resounded with deafening applause; flowers and cigars (the highest token of Spanish approval) were thrown into the arena at the Torero’s feet. More bugles, and at the same moment a door was flung open and in galloped the team of mules; the bleeding corpses of the martyred animals were hooked to their yoke by the hind legs, and off they went full speed round the arena, dragging the corpses on the sand. It was unworthy of mankind; my nerves could not stand it any longer, and I had but one desire—to flee from the spot. We struggled with all our might but couldn’t pass, being encompassed on all sides by a dense crowd, and we had to return to our seats.