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The winter was passing by, Gallardo rode and hunted over the country estates of several wealthy gentlemen, who used the familiar "thou" with a patronizing air. It was necessary for him to preserve his bodily agility by continual exercise, till the time of the corridas came round again. He was afraid of losing his great advantages of strength and lightness.

"And how about that Republic, Doctor? When is it[Pg 23] going to come?..." asked Gallardo, with Andalusian laziness.... "El Nacional[28] says that we are on the verge, and that it will come one of these days."

The telegrams to the "Forty-Five" often differed, but Don Jos�� would pass it over with a gesture of contempt, breaking out into noisy protests.

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

Gallardo's ears were buzzing, his eyes were dim, he could scarcely distinguish the two clear eyes fixed on him with an expression at once caressing and ironical. To conceal his emotion he smiled, showing his teeth��the stiff stereotyped smile of a child who wishes to be amiable.

A few moments passed in silence. All the farm men (about a dozen), who had not gone out to work in the fields, were looking with almost childish wonder at this terrible personage, whose very name obsessed them with its gloomy fame.

Gallardo swelled out the muscles of his legs and ordered his servant to tighten the cords without fear. This was one of the most important operations as a matador's "machos" must be well tightened and Garabato, with nimble dexterity soon had the cords wound round and tucked away out of sight underneath the ends of the breeches, with the tassels hanging down.

The breeder, who was constantly galloping alone over[Pg 162] the plains where his bulls grazed, suspected that he had several times come across Plumitas. He was probably one of those poor-looking horsemen whom he met in the solitary plains without so much as a village on the horizon, who would raise his hand to his greasy sombrero, and say with respectful civility:

When she found herself in the holy place, close and hot from the crowd of people who had watched the torero's prayers, she fixed her eyes in astonishment on the poverty of the altar. Four lights only were burning before the Virgin of the Dove, which seemed to her a wretched tribute.

"I had fancied him different, but in any case I am delighted to have seen him. We will give him some alms when he goes. What an original country this is! What types!... And how interesting his chase after that civil guard all over Spain!... With this material one might write a most delightful feuilleton."