A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned and passed him. Once more the bull so charged and passed. Whether because it mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spirit mightier than its own, only the bull knew. Before the audience had well caught its breath, _El Tigre_, wearing again his usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing the bull, a show _banderilla_, no more than six inches long, held in his teeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actual arm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his body quick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck the teeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past. Now was the time for the kill. El Tigre received his sword, _muleta_, and cape. The _muleta_ is a straight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the _matador's_ left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body. Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-red cape, and not the _matador_. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined to make this the fight of his life, _El Tigre_ tossed aside the _muleta_, wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting the bull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve into heart or lungs. With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal, but _El Tigre_ smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the _matador_ must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until the third may he strike. On the first charge _El Tigre_ stood like a rock until the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonally across his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after the first, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftly side-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leap aimed at his elusive enemy. It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits while hats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena--all of which, by _toreador_ etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier to their owners. Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; the ugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the second bull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three more bulls were fought and killed.