From beyond the cuadrillas was heard the sound of the trotting of two horses, coming along underneath the outer arcades of the Plaza. This was the arrival of the alguaciles in their small black capeless mantles and broad hats surmounted with red and yellow feathers. They had just finished clearing the ring of all the intruding crowd and now came to place themselves as advance-guard at the head of the cuadrillas.
In Seville that night nothing was spoken of but Gallardo's accident, the worst he had ever had. In many towns special sheets had already been published, and the papers all over Spain gave accounts of the affair, which was wired in all directions, as if some political personage had been the victim of an attempt.
"Look out for the tobacco," he would order his troup. "Whoever filches a single cigar end will not see the corrida on Sunday."
"Because I was bored.... Do I speak clearly?... And when a person is bored, I think they have every right to escape in search of fresh distraction. But I am bored to death everywhere; pity me."
His most enthusiastic partizans stood up, waving their hands and sticks, to greet the matador, and loudly proclaiming their hopes. "Let us see what the lad from Seville will do!"...