Hardly was the ring cleared before the second bull rushed in and the programme was repeated. The new bull looked quite peaceful, and, instead of rushing into battle, he walked from right to left, looking for a loophole to escape, but nevertheless he was made to go through all the traditional tortures. It was Frascuello’s turn to march on the bull. The Matador didn’t show any pluck. With the first passes of the “mulata” he had missed his bull and only injured the animal without killing him, at which shouts of encouragement to the bull were raised on all sides, “_Viva el toro!_” they cried. The arena resounded with whistles and invectives to the Matador, and the populace fiercely threw orange-peels and empty bottles at him. Frascuello paled with suppressed rage, and had to strike several times before putting his victim to death. The Matador ventures to face the bull when the last spirit had been beaten out of him, and I find there is much less danger for them than for the Russian peasant going to hunt bears, armed only with a spear, whereas the Matadors charge on an unfortunate animal driven into a circle whence he could not escape. After the second bull we pushed resolutely through the crowd, we had to fight our way as best we could by a series of manœuvres, and managed this time to decamp. I had my first, and I am sure of it, my last experience of a bull-fight, the one thing that makes Spain hateful to me. Outside the bull-ring we saw the carcasses of the martyred bulls, whose meat was sold at low prices to the lower classes. We returned to the hotel in a cab. When we asked our driver if his horse was also doomed for the bull-fight, he answered that for some years yet his animal would escape the bull’s horns. My blood being still hot from the remembrance of what I had seen, I locked myself up in my room heart-sick, whilst Sergy went to make a tour in Saragossa. He crossed a bridge and found himself on the other side of the river Ebro. It happened to be a market day and there was a horse-fair on a large square, where more than ten thousand horses and mules were brought for sale. I heard a carriage stop before our hotel, and thinking that it was my husband who was returning home, I went out on the balcony and saw Legartijo, the hero of the day, stepping out of a smart phaeton. A rich marquis had begged, as an honour, to drive him up to his hotel in his four-in-hand. Behind the phaeton came the Picadores on their poor nags, who had been spared to-day, to be disembowelled to-morrow perhaps. There was great animation in the street, carriages drove by containing gaily dressed ladies, wrapped in soft lace mantillas, returning from the bull-fight. Newspaper boys were shouting the triumph of Legartijo, and announced the issue of the bull-fight. It appears that after our departure two Banderillos had been severely wounded.