For four to five more years, the selected bulls roam at large over the richest pasturages of the wide unfrequented prairies. Should pasture fail through drought or deluge, the bulls are fed on tares, vetch, or maize, even with wheat, for their début in public must be made in the highest possible condition. The bulls should then be not less than five, nor more than seven years old. The _tentadero_ at the present day brings together aristocratic gatherings that recall the tauromachian tournaments of old. Skill in handling the _garrocha_ and the ability to turn-over a running bull are accomplishments held in high esteem among Spanish youth. Even the Infantas of Spain have entered into the spirit of the sport, and have been known themselves to wield a dexterous lance. At length, however, the years spent in luxurious idleness on the silent plain must come to an end. One summer morning the brave herd find grazing in their midst sundry strangers which make themselves extremely agreeable to the lordly champions, now in the zenith of magnificent strength and beauty. These strangers are the _cabrestos_ (or _cabestros_, in correct Castilian), decoy-oxen sent out to fraternise for a few days with the fighting race preparatory to the _Encierro_, or operation of convoying the latter to the city whereat the _corrida_ is to take place. Each _cabresto_ has a cattle-bell suspended round its neck in order to accustom the wild herd to follow the lead of these base betrayers of the brave. Thus the noble bulls are lured from their native plains through country tracks and bye-ways to the entrance of the fatal _toril_. [Illustration: AFTER THE STROKE.] An animated spectacle it is on the eve of the _corrida_ when, amidst clouds of dust and clang of bells, the tame oxen and wild bulls are driven forward by galloping horsemen and levelled _garrochas_. The excited populace, already intoxicated with bull-fever and the anticipation of the coming _corridas_, line the way to the Plaza, careless if in the enthusiasm for the morrow they risk some awkward rips to-day. Once inside the lofty walls of the _toril_ it is easy to withdraw the treacherous _cabestros_, and one by one to tempt the bulls each into a small separate cell, the _chiquero_, the door of which will to-morrow fall before his eyes. Then, rushing upon the arena, he finds himself confronted and encircled by surging tiers of yelling humanity, while the crash of trumpets and glare of moving colours madden his brain. Then the gaudy horsemen, with menacing lances, recall his day of trial on the distant plain--horsemen now doubly hateful in their brilliant glittering tinsel.