When the Holy Week came round, Gallardo gave his mother a great pleasure.

In previous years as a devotee of "Our Father Jesus of Great Power" he had walked in the procession of the parish of San Lorenzo, wearing the long black tunic, with high pointed hood and mask, which only left the eyes visible.

It was the aristocratic brotherhood, and when the torero found himself on the high road to fortune he had entered it, avoiding the popular brotherhood, whose devotion was generally accompanied by drunkenness and scandal.

He spoke with pride of the serious gravity of this religious association. Everything was well ordered and strictly disciplined as in a regiment. On the night of Holy Thursday, as the clock of San Lorenzo struck the second stroke of two in the morning, the church doors would be suddenly opened, so that the crowd massed on the dark pavement outside could see the interior of the church, resplendent with lights and the brotherhood drawn up in order.

The hooded men, silent and gloomy, with no sign of life but the flash of their eyes through the black mask, advanced slowly two by two, each holding a large wax taper in his hand, and leaving a wide space between each pair for their long sweeping trains.

The crowd, with southern impressionability, watched the passing of this hooded train, which they called "Nazarenos," with deepest interest, for some of these mysterious masks might be great noblemen whom traditional piety had induced to take part in this nocturnal procession.

The brotherhood, obliged to keep silence under pain of mortal sin, were escorted by municipal guards to prevent them being molested by the drunken rabble, who began their Holy Week holiday on Wednesday night by visits to every tavern. It happened now and then that the guards relaxed their vigilance, which enabled these impious tipplers to place themselves alongside of the silent brothers, and whisper atrocious insults against their unknown persons, or their equally unknown families. The Nazarene suffered in silence, swallowing the insults, offering them as a sacrifice to the "Lord of Great Power." The rascals emboldened by this meekness would redouble their insults, till at last the pious mask, considering that if silence was obligatory inaction was not, would lift their wax tapers and thrash the intruders, which somewhat upset the holy meditations of the ceremony.

In the course of the procession, when the porters of the "pasos"[96] required rest, and the huge platforms hung round with lanthorns on which the figures stood, halted, a slight whistle was enough to stop the hooded figures, who turned facing each other, resting their large tapers on their feet, looking at the crowd through the mysterious slit of the mask. Above the pointed hoods floated the banners of the brotherhood, squares of black velvet with gold fringes, on which were embroidered the Roman letters S.P.Q.R., in commemoration of the part played by the Procurator of Judea in the condemnation of the Just One.

The paso of "Our Father Jesus of Great Power" stood on a heavy platform of worked metal, trimmed all round with hangings of black velvet which fell to the ground, concealing the twenty half-naked and perspiring porters. At each of the four corners hung groups of lanthorns and golden angels, and in the centre stood Jesus, crowned with thorns and bending under the weight of His cross; a tragical, dolorous, blood-stained Jesus, with cadaverous face and tearful eyes, but magnificently dressed in a velvet tunic, covered with gold flowers, which only showed the stuff as a slight arabesque between the complicated embroideries.

The appearance of the Lord of Great Power drew sighs and groans from hundreds of breasts.

"Father Jesus!" murmured the old women, fixing their hypnotised eyes on the figure—"Lord of Great Power! Remember us!"

As the paso stopped in the middle of the Plaza with its hooded escort, the devotion of this Andalusian people, which confides all its thoughts to song, broke out in bird-like trills and interminable laments.

A childish voice of trembling sweetness broke the silence. Some girl pushing her way to the front would send a "saeta"[97] to Jesus, the three verses of which celebrated the Lord of Great Power, "The most divine sculpture," and the artist MontaÑes, a companion of the artists of the golden age, who had carved it. The hooded brothers listened motionless, till the conductor of the paso, thinking the pause had been long enough, struck a silver bell on the front of the platform. "Up with it," and the Lord of Great Power, after many oscillations, was hoisted up, while the feet of the invisible porters began to move like tentacles on the ground.

After this came the Virgin, Our Lady of the Greatest Sorrow, for all the parishes sent out two pasos. Under a velvet canopy her golden crown trembled in the surrounding lights. The train of her mantle, which was several yards long, hung down behind the paso, being puffed out by a frame-work of wood, which displayed the splendour of its rich, heavy and splendid embroideries, which must have exhausted the skill and patience of a whole generation.

To the roll of the drums a whole troup of women followed her, their bodies in the shadow, and their faces reddened by the glare of the tapers they carried in her hands. Old barefooted women in mantillas, girls wearing the white clothes which were to have served them as shrouds, women who walked painfully, as if they were suffering from hidden and painful maladies, an assembly of suffering humanity saved from death by the goodness of the Lord of Great Power and His Blessed Mother.

The procession of the pious brotherhood, after having slowly walked through the streets, with long pauses during which they sang hymns, entered the Cathedral, which remained all night with its doors open. With their lighted tapers they wound through the gigantic naves, bringing out of the darkness the immense pillars hung with velvet trimmed with gold, but their light was unable to disperse the darkness gathered in the vaults above. Leaving this crypt-like gloom they came out again under the starlight, and the rising sun ended by surprising the procession still wandering about the streets.

Gallardo was an enthusiast about the Lord of Great Power and the majestic silence of the brotherhood. It was a very serious thing! One might laugh at the other pasos for their disorder and want of devotion. But to laugh at this one!... Never! Besides, in this brotherhood one rubbed against very great people.

Nevertheless, this year the espada decided to abandon the Lord of Great Power, to go out with the brotherhood of la Macarena, who escorted the miraculous Virgin of Hope.

SeÑora Angustias was delighted when she heard his decision. He owed it to the Virgin, who had saved him after his last "cogida." Besides, this flattered her feelings of plebeian simplicity.

"Every one with his own, Juaniyo. It is all right for you to mix with gentlefolk, but you ought to think that the poor have always loved you, and that now they are speaking against you, because they think you despise them."

The torero knew it but too well. The turbulent populace who sat on the sunny side of the Plaza were beginning to show a certain animosity against him, thinking themselves forgotten. They criticised his constant intercourse with wealthy people, and his desertion of those who had been his first admirers. Gallardo wished therefor to take advantage of every means of flattering those whose applause he wanted. A few days before the procession, he informed the most influential members of la Macarena of his intention to follow in it. He did not wish the people to know it, it was purely an act of devotion, and he wished his intention to remain a secret.

All the same, in a few days the suburb was talking of nothing else, it was the pride of the neighbourhood. "Ah! we must see la Macarena this year," said the gossips as they spoke of the torero's intention. "The SeÑora Angustias will cover the paso with flowers, it will cost at least a hundred duros. And Juaniyo will hang all his jewellery on the Virgin. A real fortune!"

And so it was. Gallardo gathered together all the jewellery in the house, both his own and his wife's, to hang on the image. La Macarena would wear on her ears those diamond ear-rings which the espada had bought for Carmen in Madrid, which had cost the proceeds of many corridas. On her breast she would wear a large double gold chain belonging to the torero, on which would hang all his rings and the large diamond studs that he wore on his shirt front.

"Jesus! How smart our Morena[98] will be," said they often, speaking of the Virgin. "SeÑo Juan intends to pay for everything. It will make half Seville rage!"

When the espada was questioned about it, he smiled modestly. He had always felt a deep devotion for la Macarena. She was the Virgin of the suburb in which he was born, besides his poor father had never failed to walk in the procession as an armed man. It was an honour of which the family was proud, and had his own position admitted of it he would have been delighted to put on the helmet and carry the lance, like so many Gallardos, his forebears, who were now underground.

This religious popularity flattered him: he was anxious that every one in the suburb should know about his following the procession, but at the same time he dreaded the news spreading about the town. He believed in the Virgin, and he wished to stand well with her, in view of future dangers; but he trembled when he thought of the derision of his friends assembled in the cafÉs and clubs of the Calle de las Sierpes.

"They will turn me into ridicule if they recognize me," said he. "All the same, I must try and stand well with everybody."

On the night of Holy Thursday he went with his wife to the Cathedral to hear the Miserere. The immensely high Gothic arches had no light but that of a few wax tapers hung on to the pillars, just sufficient for the crowd not to be obliged to feel their way. All the people of better social position were seated in the side chapels behind the iron gratings, anxious to avoid contact with the perspiring masses pouring into the nave.

The choir was in complete darkness, except for a few lights looking like a starry constellation, for the use of the musicians and singers. The Miserere of Eslava was sung in this atmosphere of gloom and mystery. It was a gay and graceful Andalusian Miserere like the fluttering of doves' wings, with tender romances like love serenades, and choruses like drinkers' rounds, full of that joy of life, which made the people forgetful of death, and rebel against the gloom of the Passion.

When the voice of the tenor had ended its last romance, and the wails in which he apostrophised "Jerusalem! Jerusalem!" were lost in the vaults, the crowd dispersed, much preferring the liveliness of the streets, as gay as a theatre, with their electric lights, and the rows of chairs on the pavements, and wooden stages in the Plazas.

Gallardo returned home quickly to put on his Nazarene dress. SeÑora Angustias had prepared his clothes with a tenderness which carried her back to her youthful days. Ay! her poor dear husband! who on that night would don his bellicose array, and shouldering his lance, would leave the house, not to return till the following day, his helmet knocked in, his "tonelete"[99] a mass of filth, having camped with his brethren in every tavern in Seville.

The espada was as careful of his underclothing as a woman, and he put on his "Nazarene" dress with the same scrupulous care as he did his fighting costume. First he put on his silk stockings and patent leather shoes, then the white satin robe his mother had made for him, and above this the high pointed hood of green velvet, which fell over his shoulders and face like a mask, and hung down in front like a chasuble as far as his knees. On one side of the breast the coat of arms of the brotherhood was delicately embroidered in variegated colours. The torero having put on his white gloves took the tall staff which was a sign of dignity in the brotherhood. It was a long staff covered with green velvet, with a silver top, and pointed at the end with the same metal.

As Gallardo took his way through the narrow street on his way to San Gil he met the company of "Jews," that is to say, of armed men, fierce soldiers, their faces framed by their helmets' metal chin strap, wearing wine-coloured tunics, flesh-coloured cotton stockings and high sandals, round their waists was fastened the Roman sword, and over their shoulders, like a modern gun strap, was the cord which supported their lances. These soldiers, young and old, marched to the roll of drums and carried a Roman banner with the senatorial inscription.

An imposingly magnificent personage swaggered sword in hand at the head of this troup. Gallardo recognised him as he passed.

"Curse him!" said he, laughing beneath his mask. "No one will pay any attention to me. This 'gacho' will carry off all the palms to-night."

It was Captain Chivo, a gipsy singer, who had arrived that morning from Paris, faithful to his military discipline, to put himself at the head of his soldiers.

To fail in this duty would have been to forfeit the title of Captain, which El Chivo ostentatiously displayed on every music-hall placard in Paris, where he and his daughters danced and sang. These girls were as lively as lizards, graceful of movement, with large eyes, and a delicacy of colouring and suppleness of figure which drove men mad. The eldest had had the good fortune to run away with a Russian prince, and the Parisian papers for days were full of the despair "of that brave officer of the Spanish army," who intended to avenge his honour by shooting the fugitives. In a theatre on the boulevards a piece had been hastily mounted, on the "Flight of the Gipsy," with dances of toreros, choruses of friars, and other scenes of faithful local colouring. El Chivo soon compromised with his left-handed son-in-law in consideration of pocketing a good indemnity, and continued dancing in Paris with the other girls in hopes of another Russian prince. His rank as Captain made many foreigners, well informed as to what was going on in Spain, thoughtful. Ah! Spain! ... a decadent country which does not pay its noble soldiers, and forces its hidalgos to send their daughters on the stage.

On the approach of Holy Week, Captain Chivo could no longer bear his absence from Seville, so he took farewell of his daughters with the air of a severe and uncompromising "pÉre noble."

"My children, I am going.... Mind that you are good ... observe propriety and decency.... My company is waiting for me. What would they say if their Captain failed them?"

He thought with pride as he travelled from Paris to Seville of his father and grandfather, who had been captains of the Jews of la Macarena, and that to himself fresh glory accrued through this inheritance from his forefathers.

He had once drawn a prize of ten thousand pesetas in the National Lottery, and the whole of this sum he had spent on a uniform suitable to his rank. The gossips of the suburb rushed to have a look at the Captain, dazzling in his gold embroideries, wearing a burnished metal corselet, a helmet over which flowed a cascade of white feathers, and whose brilliant steel reflected all the light of the procession. It was the fantastic magnificence of a red skin; a princely dress, of which a drunken Auracanian might have dreamt. The women fingered the velvet kilt, admiring its embroideries of nails, hammers, thorns, in fact all the attributes of the Passion. His boots seemed trembling at every step from the flashing brilliancy of the spangles and paste jewels which covered them. Below the white plumes of the helmet, which seemed to make his dark Moorish colouring darker still, the gipsy's grey whiskers could be seen. This was not military. The Captain himself nobly admitted it. But he was returning to Paris, and something must be conceded to art.

Turning his head with warlike pride and fixing his eyes on the legionary eagle, he shouted:

"Attention! let no one leave the ranks! ... observe decency and discipline!"

The company advanced, marching slowly, stiffly and solemnly to the rubadub of the drum. In every street were many taverns, and before their doors stood boon companions, their hats well back, and their waistcoats open, who had lost count of the innumerable glasses they had drunk in commemoration of the Lord's death.

As they saw the imposing warrior come along they hailed him, holding up from afar glasses of fragrant amber-coloured wine. The Captain endeavoured to conceal his inward perturbation, turning his eyes away, and holding himself up even more rigidly inside his metal corselet. If only he had not been on duty!...

Some friends more pressing than the others, crossed the street to push the glass under the plumed helmet; but the incorruptible centurion drew back, presenting the point of his sword. Duty was duty. This year at all events it should not be as other years, in which the company had fallen into disorder and disarray almost as soon as they had started.

The streets soon became real Ways of Bitterness for Captain Chivo. He was so hot in his armour, surely a little wine would not destroy discipline; so he accepted a glass, and then another, and soon the company were moving along with gaps in their ranks, strewing the way with stragglers, who stopped at every tavern they passed.

The procession marched with traditional slowness, waiting hours at every crossway. It was only twelve at night, and la Macarena would not have to return home till twelve the following day; it took her longer to go through the streets of Seville than it took to go from Seville to Madrid.

First of all advanced the paso of "The Sentence of our Lord Jesus Christ," a platform covered with figures, representing Pilate seated on a golden throne, surrounded by soldiers in coloured kilts and plumed helmets, guarding the sorrowful Jesus, ready to march to execution, in a tunic of violet velvet with resplendent embroideries, and three golden rays, representing the three Persons of the Trinity, appearing above His crown of thorns. But this paso in spite of its many figures and the richness of its decoration did not rivet the attention of the crowd. It seemed dwarfed by the one following it, that of the Queen of the popular suburbs, the miraculous Virgin of Hope, la Macarena.

When this Virgin with her pink cheeks and long eye-lashes appeared, beneath a canopy of velvet, which swayed with every step of the concealed carriers, a deafening acclamation rose from the populace assembled in the Plaza. Ah! how beautiful she was; the Queen of Heaven! A beauty which never aged!

Her splendid mantle, of immense length, with a wide reticulated gold border like the meshes of a net, extended a long way behind the paso, like a gigantic peacock's folded tail. Her eyes shone, as if they were moistened with tears at the joyous welcome of the faithful. The image was covered with flashing jewels, like a brilliant armour over the velvet dress. They were in hundreds, possibly thousands! She seemed covered with shining rain drops, flaming with every colour of the rainbow. From her neck hung rows of pearls, gold chains on which hundreds of rings were strung, and all the front of her dress was plated with gold watches, pendents of emeralds and brilliants, and ear-rings as large as pebbles. All the devotees lent their jewels for the Santisima Macarena to wear on her progress, and the women showed their unornamented hands on that night of religious mourning, delighted that the Mother of God should be wearing those jewels which were their pride. The public knew them, for they saw them every year; they could tell all the tale of them, and point out any novelties; and they knew that the ornaments the Virgin wore on her breast hanging on a gold chain belonged to Gallardo the torero.

Gallardo himself, with his face covered, leaning on the staff of authority, walked in front of the paso with the dignitaries of the brotherhood. Others carried long trumpets hung with gold-fringed green banners. Now and again they put them to their lips through a slit in their masks, and a heart-rending funereal trumpeting broke the silence. But this horrifying roar woke no echo in the hearts of the people, the soft Spring night with its perfume of orange flowers was too sweet and smiling; in vain the trumpets roared funereal marches, or the singers wept as they sang the sacred verses, or the soldiers marched frowning like veritable executioners, the Spring night smiled, spreading the perfume of its thousand flowers, and no one thought of death.

The inhabitants of the suburbs swarmed in disorder round the Virgin, small shopkeepers, with their dishevelled wives, dragging tribes of children along by the hand on this excursion which would last till dawn; young men with their black curls flattened over their ears flourishing sticks as if some one intended to insult la Macarena, and their strong arms would be required for her protection, crowds of men and women flattening themselves between the enormous paso and the walls in the narrow streets. "OlÉ! La Macarena!... The first Virgin of the world!"

Every fifty paces the saintly platform was stopped. There was no hurry, the night was long. In many cases the Virgin was stopped so that people could look at her at their ease; every tavern keeper also requested a halt in front of his establishment.

A man would cross the road towards the leaders of the paso.

"Here! Hi! Stop!... Here is the first singer in the world who wants to sing a 'saeta' to the Virgin."

The "first singer in the world," leaning on a friend, with unsteady legs and passing on his glass to some one else, would, after coughing, pour forth the full torrent of his hoarse voice, of which the roulades obscured the clearness of the words. Before he had half ended his slow ditty another voice would begin, and then another, as if a musical contest were established; some sang like birds, others were hoarse like broken bellows, others screamed with piercing yells, most of the singers remained hidden in the crowd, but others proud of their voice and style planted themselves in the middle of the roadway in front of la Macarena.

The drums beat and the trumpets continued their gloomy blasts, everybody sang at once, their discordant voices mixing with the deafening instruments, but no one ever got confused, each one sang straight through his saeta without hesitation as if they were all deaf to other sounds, keeping their eyes steadily fixed on the image.

In front of the paso walked barefoot a young man dressed in a purple tunic and crowned with thorns. He was bending beneath the weight of a heavy cross twice as high as himself, and when the paso resumed its way after a long pause, charitable souls helped him to readjust his burden.

The women groaned with compassion as they saw him. Poor fellow! with what holy fervour he fulfilled his penance. All in the suburb remembered his criminal sacrilege! That cursed wine which was men's undoing.

Three years before on the morning of Good Friday, when la Macarena was on her way back to her church, this poor sinner, who in point of fact was a very good sort of fellow, after wandering about the streets all night with his friends, had stopped the procession in front of a tavern in the market place. He sang to the Virgin, and then fired by holy enthusiasm broke out into compliments. OlÉ! the beautiful Macarena! He loved her more than his sweetheart! In order to display his devotion he wished to throw at her feet what he held in his hand, thinking that it was his hat, but unfortunately it was a glass which smashed itself on the Virgin's face.... He was carried off weeping to prison. He did love la Macarena just as if she were his mother! It was all that cursed wine which took men's wits away! He trembled at the thought of the years of jail awaiting him for this disrespect to religion, and he wept so effectually that even those who were most indignant with him ended by pleading in his favour, and everything was settled on his giving a promise to perform some extraordinary penance as a warning to other sinners.

He dragged along the cross, perspiring and gasping, shifting the place of the heavy weight when his shoulders became bruised by the sorrowful burden. His comrades pitied him, and offered him glasses of wine, not by way of mockery of his penance, but from sheer compassion. He was fainting from fatigue, he ought to refresh himself.

But he turned his eyes from the longed-for refreshments towards the Virgin, taking her as witness of his martyrdom. Never mind, he would drink well, without fear, next day when la Macarena was safely lodged in her church.

The paso was still in the suburb of la Feria, while the head of the procession had reached the centre of Seville. The green-hooded brothers and the company of armed men marched forward with warlike astuteness. It was a question of occupying la Campana, and so gaining possession of the entrance to the Calle de las Sierpes,[100] before any other brotherhood could present itself. Once the vanguard were in possession of this point they could wait quietly for hours till the Virgin arrived, enjoying the angry protests of other brotherhoods, quite inferior people, whose images could in no way compare with their Macarena, and who were therefore obliged to take up a humble position behind her.

Often the rabble escorting the different pasos came to blows, heads were broken, and one or two lads were hurried off to prison or to the nearest chemist's shop. Meanwhile Captain Chivo had executed his great strategic movement, occupying la Campana up to the entrance of the Calle de las Sierpes, to the noisy and triumphant roll of his drums. There is no thoroughfare here! Long live the Virgin of la Macarena!

The Calle de las Sierpes was turned into a saloon, its balconies were full of people, electric lights hung across it from house to house, all the cafÉs and shops were illuminated, heads filled every window, and crowds of people sat on the rows of chairs placed against the walls, on which they stood up whenever a roll of drums or the blast of trumpets announced the coming of any paso.

That night no one in the town slept, even old ladies of regular habits waited now till dawn to watch the innumerable processions.

Although it was now three in the morning, nothing indicated the lateness of the hour. People were feasting in the cafÉs and taverns, succulent odours escaped through the doors of the fried fish shops; in the centre of the street itinerant sellers of drinks and sweets had established themselves, and many families, who only came out on great holidays, had been there since two o'clock on the previous afternoon, waiting to watch the endless passing of Virgins of bewildering magnificence, whose velvet mantles several yards long drew forth cries of admiration, of Redeemers with golden crowns and tunics of brocade: a whole world of absurd images in theatrical splendour, about which there was nothing religious beyond their cadaverous and bloody faces.

The Sevillians in front of the cafÉs pointed out the pasos by name to the foreigners who had come to see this strange Christian ceremony, as lively as a pagan holiday.

They enumerated the paso of the Holy Decree, of the Holy Christ of Silence, of Our Lady of Bitterness, of Jesus with the Cross on His shoulder, of Our Lady of the Valley, of Our Father Jesus of the Three Falls, of Our Lady of Tears, of the Lord of a Holy Death, of Our Lady of the Three Necessities, and all these images were accompanied by their special Nazarenes, black or white, red, green, blue or violet, all masked, and preserving their mysterious personality beneath their pointed hoods.

The heavy pasos advanced slowly and laboriously through the narrow streets, but when they emerged into the Plaza de San Francisco, opposite the boxes raised in front of the Palace of the Ayuntamiento, the pasos gave a half turn, so that the images might face the seats, and by a genuflexion performed by their porters salute the illustrious strangers or Royal personages who had come to see the fiesta.

Alongside of the pasos walked lads carrying jars of water. As soon as the platform halted, a corner of the velvet hangings was raised, and twenty or thirty men appeared, perspiring, half naked, purple with fatigue, with kerchiefs tied round their heads and the look of exhausted savages. These were the Gallicians,[101] the strong porters, for any of that calling were merged in that nationality; they drank the water greedily, and if there were a tavern at hand mutinied against the conductor of the paso to obtain wine or food.

The crowd surged restlessly with eager curiosity in the Calle de las Sierpes as the pasos of the Macarenos ramp along in a compact procession accompanied by bands of music. The drums redoubled their beating, the trumpets roared furiously, all the tumultuous crew from the suburb shouted and yelled, and every one got up on the chairs in order to see better this slow but noisy cortÉge.

At the door of a cafÉ, El Nacional with all his family stood watching the passing of the brotherhood—"Retrograde superstition!"... But all the same, he came every year to watch this noisy invasion of the Calle de las Sierpes by the Macarenos.

He immediately recognized Gallardo from his magnificent stature, and the elegance with which he wore the inquisitorial garments.

"Juanillo," cried he, "make the paso stop. Here are some foreign ladies who would like to see it close."

The holy platform stood still, the band broke out into a spirited march, one of those which delighted the public at the bull-fights, and immediately the hidden porters of the paso began to lift first one foot then the other, executing a dance which made the platform sway with violent oscillations, throwing the surrounding people against the walls. The Virgin, with all her load of jewels, flowers, lanthorns, and even the heavy canopy danced up and down to the sound of the music. This was a spectacle which required immense practise, and of which the Macarenos were extremely proud. The strong young men of the suburb, holding on to each side of the paso supported it, following its violent swaying, while, fired by this display of strength and dexterity, they shouted "All Seville should see this!... This is splendid! Only the Macarenos can do this!"

The brotherhood continued their triumphal march, leaving deserters in every tavern and fallen all along the streets. When the sun rose it found them at the extreme opposite end of Seville from their own parish, and the image and its remaining supporters looked like a dissolute band returning from an orgy.

Close to the market place the two pasos stood deserted, while all the procession took their morning draft in the adjacent taverns, substituting large glasses of Cazalla aguardiente for country wine.

Of the brilliant Jewish army nothing remained but miserable relics, as if they were straggling home after a defeat. The Captain walked with a sad stagger, his feathery plumes hanging down limp over his livid face, and his sole idea seemed to be to preserve his magnificent costume from dirty handling. Respect the uniform!

Gallardo left the procession soon after sunrise. He thought he had done quite enough in accompanying the Virgin throughout the night, and assuredly she would lay it to his account. Besides, this last part of the fiesta was by far the most trying, till the Macarena returned to her church about mid-day. The people who got up fresh after a good night's sleep laughed at the hooded brothers, who looked ridiculous by daylight, and who moreover bore traces of the drunkenness and dirt of the night. It would not be prudent for a torero to be seen with this band of tipplers waiting for them at tavern doors.

SeÑora Angustias was waiting for her son in the patio to assist the Nazarene in removing his garments. He must rest now he had accomplished his duties towards the Virgin. On Easter Sunday there was a corrida, the first since his accident. Cursed profession! In which ease of mind was impossible. And the poor women, after a period of tranquillity, saw all their anguish and terrors revive.

Saturday and the morning of Sunday the torero spent in receiving visits of enthusiastic amateurs who had come to Seville for the Holy Week and the fair. They all smiled, confident in his future exploits.

"We shall see how you fight! The 'aficion' has its eyes on you! How are you with regard to strength?"

Gallardo did not distrust his vigour. Those winter months in the country had made him quite robust. He was now quite as strong as before his "cogida." The only thing that reminded him of his accident when he was shooting at the farm was a slight weakness in the broken leg. But this was only noticeable after long walks.

"I will do my best," murmured Gallardo, with feigned modesty. "I hope I shall not come out of it badly."

The manager intervened with the blindness of his faith.

"You will fight like an angel!... You will put all the bulls in your pocket!"

Gallardo's admirers, forgetting the corrida for a moment, spoke about a piece of news flying round the town.

On a mountain in the province of Cordoba the civil guards had found a decomposed body, with the head almost blown to pieces, apparently by a point blank shot. It was impossible to recognize it, but its clothes, the carbine, everything in short, made them think it must be Plumitas.

Gallardo listened silently. He had not seen the bandit since his accident, but he kept a kindly remembrance of him. His farm people had told him that twice while he was in danger, Plumitas had called at the farm to enquire about him. Afterwards, while he was staying there himself, on several occasions his shepherds and workmen had spoken mysteriously of Plumitas, who, knowing he was at la Rinconada, had asked for news of SeÑor Juan when he met them on the road.

Poor fellow! Gallardo pitied him as he remembered his predictions. The civil guards had not killed him. He had been murdered during his sleep; probably he had been shot by one of his own class, some amateur who wished to follow in his footsteps.

His departure for the corrida on Sunday was even more painful than on former occasions. Carmen did her best to be calm and help Garabato to dress his master, and SeÑora Angustias hovered outside the room longing to see Juanillo once more as if she were going to lose him.

When Gallardo came out into the patio with his montera on his head, and his beautiful cape thrown over one shoulder, his mother threw her arms round his neck and dissolved in tears. She did not utter a word, but her noisy sighs revealed her thoughts. He was going to fight for the first time since his accident, and in the same Plaza where it had happened! The superstitions of this woman of the people rose up against such imprudence!... Ay! when would he retire from this cursed profession? Had they not yet money enough?

But his brother-in-law interfered in his capacity of family adviser.

Now then, little mother, it was not such a great thing after all, it was only a corrida like any other. The best they could do was to leave Juan in peace, and not upset his calmness by this snivelling just as he was going to the Plaza.

Carmen was braver, she did not cry, and accompanied her husband to the door, wishing to encourage him. Now that, in consequence of his accident, love had revived, and they lived quietly together, she could not believe that any accident would occur to disturb them. That accident was God's work, who often brings good out of evil. Juan would fight as on other occasions and would return home safe and sound.

"Good luck to you!"

She watched the departure of the carriage with loving eyes as it drove away, followed by a crowd of little ragamuffins, delighted at the sight of the torero's golden clothes. But when the poor woman was alone she went up to her room, and lighted the tapers before an image of the Virgin of Hope.

El Nacional rode in the coach, frowning and gloomy. That Sunday was the day of the elections, and none of his companions of the cuadrilla had taken any notice of it. They would do nothing but talk of the death of Plumitas and the approaching bull-fight. It was too bad to have his functions as a good citizen, interrupted by this corrida, preventing him carrying off several friends to the voting urn, who would not go unless he took them. Don Joselito had been imprisoned, with other friends, on account of his eloquence on the tribunes, and El Nacional, who wished to share his martyrdom, had been obliged to put on his gala costume instead and go off with his master. Was this assault on the liberty of citizens to remain unnoticed? Would not the people rise?...

As the coach drove along through la Campana, the toreros saw a large crowd of people, apparently shouting seditiously and waving their sticks. The police agents were charging them sword in hand, and a free fight seemed in progress.

El Nacional rose from his seat trying to throw himself out of the carriage. Ah! At last! The moment has come!... The revolution! Now the populace is rising!

But his master half laughing, half angry, seized him and pushed him back in his seat.

"Don't be an idiot, Sebastian! You only see revolutions and hobgoblins everywhere!"

The rest of the cuadrilla laughed as they guessed the truth. The noble people, being unable to obtain tickets for the corrida at the office in la Campana were trying to take it by storm, and set fire to it, being prevented by the police. El Nacional bent his head sorrowfully.

"Reaction and ignorance! All the want of knowing how to read and write!"

A noisy ovation awaited them as they arrived at the Plaza, and frantic rounds of clapping greeted the procession of the cuadrilla. All the applause was for Gallardo. The public welcomed his reappearance in the arena, after that tremendous "cogida" which had been talked of all over the Peninsula.

When the time came for Gallardo to kill his first bull, the explosions of enthusiasm recommenced. Women in white mantillas followed him with their opera-glasses. He was applauded and acclaimed on the sunny side, just as much as on the shady side. Even his enemies seemed influenced by this current of sympathy. Poor fellow! He had suffered so much!... The whole Plaza was his. Never had Gallardo seen an audience so completely his own.

He took off his montera before the presidential chair to give the "brindis." "OlÉ! OlÉ!" Nobody heard a word, but they all yelled enthusiastically. The applause followed him as he went towards the bull, ceasing in a silence of expectation as he approached it.

He unfolded his muleta, standing in front of the animal, but at some distance, not as in former days, when he fired the people by spreading the red rag almost on its muzzle. In the silence of the Plaza there was a movement of surprise, but no one uttered a word. Several times Gallardo stamped on the ground to excite the beast, who at last attacked feebly, passing under the muleta, but the torero drew himself on one side with visible haste. Many on the benches looked at each other. What did that mean?

The espada saw El Nacional by his side and a few steps further back another peon, but he did not shout as formerly, "Every one out of the way!"

From the benches arose the sound of sharp discussions. Even the torero's friends thought some explanation necessary.

"He still feels his wounds. He ought not to fight. That leg! don't you see it?"

The capes of the two peons helped the espada in his passes; the beast was restless, bewildered by the red cloths, and as soon as it charged the muleta, some other cape attracted it away from the torero.

Gallardo, as if he wished to get out of this disagreeable situation, squared himself with his rapier high, and threw himself on the bull.

A murmur of absolute stupefaction greeted the stroke. The blade entering only a third of its length trembled, ready to fly out. Gallardo had slipped out from between the horns, without driving the blade in up to the hilt as in former days.

"The stroke was well placed all the same!" shouted the enthusiasts, clapping as hard as they could, so that their noise should supply the place of numbers.

But the connoisseurs smiled with pity. That lad was going to lose the only merit he possessed, his nerve and daring. They had seen him instinctively shorten his arm at the moment of striking the bull with the rapier, and they had seen him turn his face aside, with that shrinking of fear which prevents a man looking danger full in the face.

The rapier rolled on the ground, and Gallardo, taking another, turned again towards the bull accompanied by his peons. El Nacional's cape was constantly spread close to him to distract the beast, and the banderillero's bellowing bewildered it, and made it turn, whenever it approached Gallardo too closely.

The second estocade was scarcely more fortunate than the first, as more than half the blade remained uncovered.

"He does not lean on it!" They began to shout from the benches. "The horns frighten him."

Gallardo opened his arms like a cross in front of the bull, to show the public behind him, that the bull had had enough and might fall at any moment. But the animal still remained on foot, moving its head about uneasily from side to side.

El Nacional, exciting him with the rag, made him run, taking advantage of every opportunity to hit him heavily on the neck with his cape with all the strength of his arm. The populace, guessing his intention, began to abuse him. He was making the brute run in order that the sword should fix itself in firmer, and his heavy blows with the cape were to drive it in deeper. They called him a thief, abusing his mother and other relations, threatening sticks were flourished on the sunny side, and a shower of bottles, oranges and any missiles to hand showered down on the arena, with the intention of striking him, but the good fellow bore all the insults as if he were blind and deaf, and he continued following up the bull, happy in fulfilling his duties and saving a friend.

Suddenly a stream of blood gushed from the brute's mouth, and he quietly bent his knees, remaining motionless, but still with his head high as if he intended to rise again and attack. The puntillero came up anxious to finish him as quickly as possible and get the espada out of the difficulty. El Nacional helped him by leaning furtively on the sword and driving it in up to the hilt.

Unluckily the populace on the sunny side saw this manoeuvre and rose to their feet transported with rage, howling:

"Thief! Assassin!"

They were furious in the name of the poor bull, as if he had not to die in any case, and they shook their fists threateningly at El Nacional, as if he had committed some crime under their very eyes, and the banderillero, ashamed, ended by taking refuge behind the barriers.

Gallardo in the meanwhile walked towards the president's chair to salute, while his unreasoning partizans accompanied him with applause as noisy as it was ill supported.

"He had no luck," said they, proof against all disillusions. "The estocades were well placed! No one can deny that."

The espada stood for a few moments opposite the benches where his most fervent partizans were seated, and leaning on the barrier he explained, "It was a very bad bull. There had been no means of making a good job of it."

The partizans, with Don JosÉ at their head, assented. It was just what they had thought themselves.

Gallardo remained the greater part of the corrida by the step of the barrier, plunged in gloomy thought. It was all very well making these explanations to his friends, but he felt a cruel doubt in his own mind, a distrust of his own powers that he had never felt before.

The bulls seemed to him bigger, and endowed with a "double life," which made them refuse to die, whereas formerly they had fallen under his rapier with miraculous facility. Indubitably they had loosed the worst of the herd for him, to do him an evil turn. Some intrigue of his enemies most probably.

Other suspicions, too, rose confusedly from the depths of his mind, but he scarcely dared to drag them out of their darkness and verify them. His arm seemed shorter at the moment when he presented the rapier in front of him; formerly it had reached the brute's neck with the quickness of lightning, now there seemed a fearful and interminable space that he knew not how to cover. His legs too seemed different. They seemed to be free and independent of the rest of his body. In vain his will ordered them to remain calm and firm as in former days, but they did not obey. They seemed to have eyes which saw the danger, and leapt aside with exceeding lightness as soon as they felt the brute charging.

Gallardo turned against the public the rage he felt at his failure, and his sudden weakness. What did those people want? Was he to let himself be killed for their pleasure?... Did he not carry marks enough of his mad daring on his body? He had no need to prove his courage. That he was still alive was a miracle and owing to celestial intervention, because God is good, and had listened to the prayers of his mother and his poor wife. He had seen the fleshless face of Death closer than most people, and he now knew better than any one the value of living.

"If you think you are going to have my skin!" he said to himself as he looked at the crowd.

In future he would fight much as his companions did. Some days he would do well, some days ill. After all bull-fighting was only a profession, and once one had got into the front rank the most important thing was to live, carrying out one's engagements as best one could.

When the time came for him to kill his second bull his cogitations had brought him into a calmer frame of mind. There was no animal that could kill him! All the same, he would do what he could not to get within reach of the horns.

As he went towards the bull, he carried himself with the same proud bearing as on his best afternoons.

"Out of the way, everybody!"

The audience rustled with a murmur of satisfaction. He had said ... "Out of the way, everybody!" He was going to repeat one of his old strokes.

But what the public hoped for did not happen, neither did El Nacional cease to follow him with his cape on his arm, guessing with the knowledge of an old peon, accustomed to the bombast of matadors, the theatrical hollowness of that order.

Gallardo spread his cape at some distance from the bull, and began the passes with visible apprehension, always helped by Sebastian's cape.

Once when the muleta remained low for an instant, the bull moved as if intending to charge; he did not, but the espada, over and above alert, deceived by this movement, took a few steps back, which were real bounds, flying from an animal which did not intend to attack him.

This unnecessary retreat placed him in a very ridiculous position, and the crowd laughed with surprise, and many whistles were heard.

"Hey! he's catching you!" ... yelled an ironical voice.

"Poor dear!" cried another in comically feminine tones.

Gallardo crimsoned with anger. This to him! And in the Plaza of Seville! He felt the proud heart-throb of his early days, a mad desire to fall wildly on the bull, and let what God would happen. But his limbs refused to obey. His arms seemed to think, his legs to see the danger.

But with a sudden reaction at these insults, the audience themselves came to his assistance and imposed silence. What a shame to treat a man like this, who was only just convalescent from his serious wounds! It was unworthy of the Plaza of Seville! At least let them observe decency!

Gallardo took advantage of this expression of sympathy to get out of the difficulty. Approaching the bull sideways he gave him a treacherous and crossways stroke. The animal fell like a beast at the shambles, a torrent of blood rushing from his mouth. Some applauded, others whistled, but the great mass remained gloomily silent.

"They have loosed you treacherous curs!" cried his manager from his seat, in spite of the corrida being supplied from the Marquis' herds. "These are not bulls! We shall see a difference when they are noble 'bichos,' bulls 'of truth.'"

As he left the Plaza, Gallardo could gauge the discontent of the people by their silence. Many groups passed him, but not a salutation, not an acclamation, such as he had always received on his lucky days.

The espada tasted for the first time the bitterness of failure. Even his banderilleros were frowning and silent like defeated soldiers. But when he got home and felt his mother's arms round his neck, and the caresses of Carmen and the little nephews, his sadness vanished. Curse it all!... The really important thing was to live that the family should be quiet and happy, and to earn the public's money without any foolhardiness, which must lead to death.

On the following days he recognized the necessity of showing himself, and of talking with his friends in the people's cafÉs and in the clubs of the Calle de las Sierpes. He thought that his presence would impose a courteous silence on evil speakers, and cut short commentaries on his fiasco. He spent whole afternoons amid the poorer aficionados whom he had neglected for so long, while he cultivated the friendship of the richer class. Afterwards he went to the "Forty-five," where his manager was enforcing his opinions by shouts and thumps, maintaining as ever the superiority of Gallardo.

Excellent Don JosÉ! His enthusiasm was immutable, bomb proof. It never could occur to him that his matador could possibly cease to be as he had always been. He did not offer a single criticism on his fiasco; on the contrary, he himself endeavoured to find excuses, mingling with them the comfort of his good advice.

"You still feel your 'cogida.' What I say is: 'You will all see him, when he is quite cured, and then you will give me news of him.' Do as you did formerly. Go straight to the bull with that courage which God has given you, and Zas! plunge the blade in up to the cross ... and you put him in your pocket."

Gallardo assented with an enigmatic smile.... Put the bulls in his pocket! He wished for nothing better. But ay! lately they had become so big and so intractable! They had grown so enormously since he last trod the arena!

Gambling was Gallardo's consolation, making him forget his anxieties for the moment; and with fresh energy he returned to the green table to lose his money, surrounded by his former friends, who did not care in the least about his failures as long as he was an "elegant" torero.

One night they all went to supper at the inn at Eritana, a festivity given in honour of some foreign ladies of gay life, with whom some of the young men had become acquainted in Paris. They had come to Seville in order to see the festival of the Holy Week and the fair, and were anxious to see all that was most picturesque in the place.

Consequently they wished to become acquainted with the celebrated torero, the most elegant of all the espadas, that Gallardo whose portrait they had so often admired in popular prints and on the tops of match-boxes.

The gathering was held in the large dining-room of Eritana, a pavilion in the gardens, decorated in extremely bad taste with vulgar imitations of the Moorish splendours of the Alhambra.

Gallardo was greeted as a demigod by these three women, who, ignoring their other friends, quarrelled for the honour of sitting beside him. In a way they reminded him of the absent one, with their golden hair and elegant dresses, and their all-pervading perfumes produced a kind of bewilderment.

The presence of his friends helped to make the remembrance still more vivid. All were friends of DoÑa Sol, many even belonged to her family, and he had come to look on these as relations.

They all ate and drank with that almost savage voracity usual at nocturnal feasts, where every one goes with the fullest intention of exceeding in everything, a gipsy band stationed at the further end of the room intoning their somewhat melancholy songs, varied by sprightly dance music, added to the general hilarity.

By midnight all were more or less tipsy, but Gallardo in his cups was sad and gloomy. Ay! for that other one ... for the real gold of her hair! The golden hair of these women was artificial, their skin was thick and coarse, hardened by cosmetics, and through all their perfumes his imagination detected an atmosphere of innate vulgarity. Ay! for that other one ... that other one.

Gallardo drank deeper and deeper, and the women who had quarrelled for a place by his side, finding him dull and unresponsive, now turned their backs with insulting taunts on his gloom. The guitarists scarcely played any longer, but, overcome with wine, bent drowsily over their instruments.

The torero was also nearly falling asleep on a bench, when one of his friends offered to give him a lift home in his carriage; he was obliged to leave early so as to be home before the old Countess, his mother, arose to hear Mass, as she did daily, at dawn.

The night wind did not disperse the torero's drunkenness. When his friend dropped him at the corner of his own street, Gallardo turned with unsteady steps towards his house. Close to the door he stopped, leaning against the wall with both hands, resting his head on his arms as though he could no longer endure the weight of his thoughts.

He had completely forgotten his friends, the supper at Eritana, and the painted strangers, who had begun by quarrelling for him and who had ended by insulting him. Some memory of the other one still floated through his mind, that always! ... but vaguely, and at last that, too, faded. Now his thoughts, by one of the capricious turns of drunkenness, were entirely filled by memories of the bull-ring.

He was the first Matador in the world. OlÉ! so his manager and his friends declared, and it was the truth. His enemies would see a fine sight when he returned to the Plaza. What had happened the other day was only an accident, a trick that bad luck had played him.

Proud of the overpowering strength that the excitement of wine had momentarily given him, he imagined all the Andalusian and Castillian bulls to be like feeble goats that he could overthrow with a single blow from his hand.

What had happened the other day was really nothing. Rubbish!... As El Nacional said, "From the best singer there sometimes escapes a cock-crow."

And this proverb, heard from the lips of many venerable patriarchs of his profession on days of disaster, inspired him with an irresistible desire to sing, to fill the silence of the street with his voice.

With his head still leaning on his arms, he began to croon a verse of his own composition, one of overweening praise of his own merit.

"I am Juaniyo Gallardo....

Who has more c ... c ... courage than God," and being unable to improvise more in his own honour, he repeated the same words again and again in a hoarse and monotonous voice, which disturbed the silence, and made an invisible dog at the end of the street bark.

It was the paternal inheritance springing up afresh in him; that singing mania which had always accompanied SeÑor Juan in his weekly outbreaks.

The door of the house opened, and Garabato pushed out his sleepy head, to have a look at the toper whose voice he thought he recognised.

"Ah! is that you?" said the espada, "wait a bit while I sing the last."

And he repeated several times the incomplete ditty in honour of his own bravery, till at last he made up his mind to go into the house.

He felt no desire to go to bed. Guessing his condition he put off the time when he would have to go up to his own room, where Carmen would probably be awake and waiting for him.

"Go to sleep, Garabato; I have a great many things to do."

He did not know what they were, but he was attracted by the look of his office, with its decoration of life-like portraits, frontals won from bulls, and placards proclaiming his fame.

When the electric light was turned on and the servant moved away, Gallardo stood swaying unsteadily on his legs in the middle of the room, casting admiring glances over the walls, as though he were contemplating for the first time this museum of his triumphs.

"Very good. Very good, indeed!" he murmured. "That handsome fellow is me, and that other one too, all of them! And yet some people say of me.... Curse it all! I am the first man in the world. Don JosÉ says so, and he speaks the truth."

He threw his sombrero on to a divan, as if he were divesting himself of a glorious crown which oppressed his brow, and went staggering to lean with both hands on the writing bureau, fixing his eyes on the enormous bull's head which decorated the further end of the office.

"Hola! Good night, my fine fellow!... What are you doing here?... Muu! Muu!"

He saluted the head with bellowings, imitating childishly the lowing of the bulls on their pastures and in the Plaza. He did not recognize it; he could not remember why the shaggy head with its threatening horns should be there. But by degrees the memory came back to him.

"I know, you rascal.... I remember how you made me rage that afternoon. The crowd whistled at me and pelted me with bottles ... they even insulted my poor mother, and you! ... you were so pleased!... How you did enjoy it! Eh, shameless one?"...

His drunken glance thought he saw the brightly varnished muzzle twitch, and the glass eyes flash with peals of concentrated laughter; he even thought that the horned head was nodding an acknowledgment to his question.

The drunken man up to now smiling and good humoured, suddenly felt his anger rise at the remembrance of that afternoon's disgrace. And was that evil beast still laughing at it?... Those bulls with perverse minds, so cunning and reflective, were the evil causes of a worthy man being insulted and turned into ridicule. Ay! how Gallardo hated them! What a glance of hatred was his as he fixed it on the glassy eyes of the horned head.

"Are you still laughing, you son of a dog? Curse you, rascal! Cursed be the dam that bore you, and the thief your master who grazed you on the pastures! Would to God he were in jail.... Are you still laughing? Still making grimaces at me?"

Impelled by his ungovernable rage, he leant over the desk, and stretching out his arm opened a drawer. Then he drew himself up erect, and raised one hand towards the head.

Pum! Pum ... two revolver shots.

In the twinkling of an eye one of the electric globes was smashed to fragments, and in the bull's forehead a round black hole appeared surrounded by singed hair.

N.B.—This anecdote is related as true of Frascuelo.

[96] Large platforms with life-size figures carved in wood and magnificently dressed, representing scenes from the life of Jesus—or the Virgin Mary, or the Apostles. Each parish sends two. The figures are ancient and often by eminent artists.