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270 DAYS IN THE SUN
-their pride in the provocative slant of their head-gear, ,
street boys who have sneaked in, and more. In the
arena, where the bulls will soon be slaying and being
slain, cake-sellers walk about with big baskets, crying:
“Rolls, Rolls!” Large wine-pouches are passed from
hand to hand across the rows. The people insist on
having something to nibble. They howl and shove out
an arm as a signal, and the cake-sellers hop about like
frogs, jumping and throwing their wares; the rolls
fly in all directions, rising even to the uppermost rows,
where they are caught in their flight with equal skill.
Money is thrown downward and intercepted in its
course by the tradesmen who work like rubber balls,
jumping, throwing and catching with motions that fol-
low one another like the strokes of a skilled tennis
player.
“Toros! Toros!’ The racket suddenly increases;
the people are attacked by a veritable frenzy of
whistling, stamping and hissing. They bite into their
rolls and throw them back again without paying for
them; the brass band strikes up a tune to quiet them,
but its music is drowned in the general noise. They
stamp their feet to a new rhythm and oblige the or-
chestra to start playing the Toreador March from
“Carmen.” Suddenly there is complete silence: the
Prefect has pushed aside the velvet curtains of his box.
He makes a sign. There are a few breathless seconds.
The gates fly open as far as they can; the band in-
dulges in a great flourish.
Two heralds dressed in the ancient chivalrous Span-
ish manner, all in black velvet, gallop into the arena.
Each trots around one of its semicircles, and both meet
again under the box of the Prefect, where they bow
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