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THE BULLFIGHT 275
in order to be rid of the painful adornment; he whirls
up the sand of the arena in a thick cloud and bellows.
But the arrows are provided with hooks like those of
harpoons, and they continue to project from his neck
like two consecrated candles.
The bull finally makes up his mind to make a clean
sweep of these unclean spirits; but it is love’s labor
lost. They hide behind their red blankets, and if he
selects one of the wretches and attempts to tire him by
a brisk chase, the creature will merely jump over the
fence, into the planks of which the bull may plunge his
horns. Under the fence a horse is writhing in his
death throes. The bull picks him up, carries him a few
paces on his horns and then sets him up again, the
horse’s four legs spread wide apart. The horse stag-
gers on for ten or twelve paces, then falls and rolls
over on his back dead.
A second banderillero steps forward, equipped with
two green arrows; he assumes a challenging posture.
The bull now knows that every one of these arrows
has a devil in it; he foams as he makes for the man; the
arrows are implanted, one on each side, perhaps three
or four inches in front of the other arrows. And the
third banderillero comes and plants his arrows also.
These men work with all the calm and certainty of
fate; but the bull has lost his last powers of cool re-
flection. He dashes about blindly, raging with pain,
while the arrows swing over his neck like the masts of
a ship in the storm; and the people shout with joy.
Another signal—and the third act is ready to begin.
But let the reader turn aside with me for a moment
—from this springtime in Granada’s circus, to another
springtime in Madrid.
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