The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff he did, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount the barrier directly in front of the box of the _Presidente_. And mount it he did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for a moment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain his feet. Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points of his deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat as if frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, for escape into or through the dense mass of spectators about them was utterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless. But at the bull's very start for the barrier, _El Tigre_, realized Sofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it was early in this the last _corrida_ and he did not have his sword, Leaping the wreckage, _El Tigre_ landed directly in front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right hand seizing the bull by the nose--his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust well within its nostrils--and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, with a mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its horn until he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarily helpless. But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also _El Tigre_ fell, the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him to the ground. Before the bull could rise, the men of the _cuadrilla_ had it safely bound and _El Tigre_ released. _El Tigre_, however, did not know it. With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted. When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his head pillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearful eyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: "Mauro _mio_!" Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence. White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked: "Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes. Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired _toreador_ and purveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless blood once noble is in your veins. And so as noble it suits me now to count you. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you my second." "Most happy, Duke," answered Mauro; "mine shall be ready to meet him."