It is fashionable to drive to the _corrida_ behind four or six horses or mules, with gay trappings and jangling bells. Hawkers, thieves, programme vendors and beggars throng around the _plaza_. The half-hour of waiting, preliminary to the first combat, is enlivened by the arrival of smart people and notabilities of the city, while the orchestra plays a selection of pieces. Reverte or Fuentes arrives, and is acclaimed by his admirers. The knowing _aficionados_, who have seen the doomed bulls in their enclosure, promise an excellent show. The seats gradually fill; there is a loud hum of conversation and a waving of fans by the _señoras_ in the _palcos_. At a signal from the President of the _corridas_, the ring is cleared of the groups of _toreros_ and their friends. Then the band strikes up, and the bull-fighters march out, with the _matadores_ in front of their attendants. They salute the President. The key of the bull enclosure is thrown down, an official unlocks the door, and into the arena canters the first bull, to encounter a charge from the _picador_. Sometimes the bull refuses to fight. The beast is lazy, good-tempered, or dazed. Not even the darts will enrage the creature. It gazes upon its tormentors with benign amazement. This poor sport; _toro_ must be worried into a passion. An explosive dart is thrown at the bull. The fire burns into its nerves. It is more than the most placid bull nature can endure with patience. _Toro_ lowers its horns and rushes upon its assailants. The spectators, men, women and children, closely watch every move and double of the fighters. A _picador_ is thrown. The horse, with a ghastly dripping wound in its flank, rushes around the ring. It is met by the bull, gored, and tossed in the air. The wounded nag cannot regain its feet. Again and again the infuriated _toro_ vents its rage on the struggling horse. Presently, the bull's attention is drawn from the steed, and it turns to face the gaudy _matador_. A thrust of a dagger ends the convulsive kicking of the dying horse. With scientific precision, the swordsman flutters his _muleta_ in the bull's face. At each charge the _matador_ bounds aside, and the beast worries the red rag. At length, _toro_ stands snorting and pawing the ground. The magnificent brute surveys his enemy with hatred, and makes another rush. Again it is thwarted. Finally, the sword is plunged deftly into the creature's viscera. _Toro_ trembles, falls, and lies prone. The _coup de grace_ is administered with a big knife. There is deafening applause, the strains of the band, and the dead bull is dragged from the ring by a team of mules.