We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square.

They were all men eating in the restaurant.

It was full of smoke and drinking and singing.

The food was good and so was the wine.

We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the café and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point.

Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep.

When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd.

Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me.

Directly below us was the callejon (西语，小巷，过道), the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera (西语，栅栏).

Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly.

Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow.

It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth.

The swordhandlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas (西语，红布).

They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets.

The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence.

They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold.

Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details.

"He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?"

"I don't know."

"I wonder if they ever launder them."

"I don't think so. It might spoil the color."

"The blood must stiffen them," Bill said.

"Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood."

Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything.

All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full.

There was not an empty seat except in the President's box.

When he came in the fight would start.

Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena. Brett was watching them with the glasses.

"Here, would you like to look?"

I looked through the glasses and saw the three matadors.

Romero was in the centre, Belmonte on his left, Marcial on his right.

Back of them were their people, and behind the banderilleros, back in the passageway and in the open space of the corral, I saw the picadors.

Romero was wearing a black suit. His tricornered hat was low down over his eyes.

I could not see his face clearly under the hat, but it looked badly marked.

He was looking straight ahead.

Marcial was smoking a cigarette guardedly, holding it in his hand.

Belmonte looked ahead, his face wan and yellow, his long wolf jaw out.

He was looking at nothing.

Neither he nor Romero seemed to have anything in common with the others. They were all alone.

The President came in; there was handclapping above us in the grand stand, and I handed the glasses to Brett.

There was applause. The music started. Brett looked through the glasses.

"Here, take them," she said.

Through the glasses I saw Belmonte speak to Romero.

Marcial straightened up and dropped his cigarette, and, looking straight ahead, their heads back, their free arms swinging, the three matadors walked out.

Behind them came all the procession, opening out, all striding in step, all the capes furled, everybody with free arms swinging, and behind rode the picadors, their pics rising like lances.

Behind all came the two trains of mules and the bull-ring servants.

The matadors bowed, holding their hats on, before the President's box, and then came over to the barrera below us.

Pedro Romero took off his heavy gold-brocaded cape and handed it over the fence to his sword-handler.

He said something to the sword-handler.

Close below us we saw Romero's lips were puffed, both eyes were discolored.

His face was discolored and swollen.

The sword-handler took the cape, looked up at Brett, and came over to us and handed up the cape.

"Spread it out in front of you," I said.

Brett leaned forward. The cape was heavy and smoothly stiff with gold.

The sword-handler looked back, shook his head, and said something.

A man beside me leaned over toward Brett.

"He doesn't want you to spread it," he said. "You should fold it and keep it in your lap."

Brett folded the heavy cape.

Romero did not look up at us. He was speaking to Belmonte.

Belmonte had sent his formal cape over to some friends.

He looked across at them and smiled, his wolf smile that was only with the mouth.

Romero leaned over the barrera and asked for the water-jug.

The sword-handler brought it and Romero poured water over the percale of his fighting-cape, and then scuffed the lower folds in the sand with his slippered foot.

"What's that for?" Brett asked.

"To give it weight in the wind."

"His face looks bad," Bill said.

"He feels very badly," Brett said. "He should be in bed."

The first bull was Belmonte's. Belmonte was very good.

But because he got thirty thousand pesetas and people had stayed in line all night to buy tickets to see him, the crowd demanded that he should be more than very good.

Belmonte's great attraction is working close to the bull.

In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter.

As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe.

Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger.

Belmonte, in his best days, worked always in the terrain of the bull.

This way he gave the sensation of coming tragedy.

People went to the corrida to see Belmonte, to be given tragic sensations, and perhaps to see the death of Belmonte.

Fifteen years ago they said if you wanted to see Belmonte you should go quickly, while he was still alive.

Since then he has killed more than a thousand bulls.

When he retired the legend grew up about how his bull-fighting had been, and when he came out of retirement the public were disappointed because no real man could work as close to the bulls as Belmonte was supposed to have done, not, of course, even Belmonte.

Also Belmonte imposed conditions and insisted that his bulls should not be too large, nor too dangerously armed with horns, and so the element that was necessary to give the sensation of tragedy was not there,

and the public, who wanted three times as much from Belmonte, who was sick with a fistula, as Belmonte had ever been able to give, felt defrauded and cheated,

and Belmonte's jaw came further out in contempt, and his face turned yellower, and he moved with greater difficulty as his pain increased,

and finally the crowd were actively against him, and he was utterly contemptuous and indifferent.

He had meant to have a great afternoon, and instead it was an afternoon of sneers, shouted insults, and finally a volley of cushions and pieces of bread and vegetables, thrown down at him in the plaza where he had had his greatest triumphs.

His jaw only went further out.

Sometimes he turned to smile that toothed, longjawed, lipless smile when he was called something particularly insulting.

And always the pain that any movement produced grew stronger and stronger, until finally his yellow face was parchment color.

And after his second bull was dead and the throwing of bread and cushions was over, after he had saluted the President with the same wolf-jawed smile and contemptuous eyes, and handed his sword over the barrera to be wiped, and put back in its case, he passed through into the callejon and leaned on the barrera below us.

His head on his arms, not seeing, not hearing anything, only going through his pain.

When he looked up, finally, he asked for a drink of water.

He swallowed a little, rinsed his mouth, spat the water, took his cape, and went back into the ring.

Because they were against Belmonte the public were for Romero.

From the moment he left the barrera and went toward the bull they applauded him.

Belmonte watched Romero, too, watched him always without seeming to.

He paid no attention to Marcial.

Marcial was the sort of thing he knew all about.

He had come out of retirement to compete with Marcial, knowing it was a competition gained in advance.

He had expected to compete with Marcial and the other stars of the decadence of bull-fighting, and he knew that the sincerity of his own bull-fighting would be so set off by the false aesthetics of the bull-fighters of the decadent period that he would only have to be in the ring.

His return from retirement had been spoiled by Romero.

Romero did always, smoothly, calmly, and beautifully, what he, Belmonte, could only bring himself to do now sometimes.

The crowd felt it, even the people from Biarritz, even the American ambassador saw it, finally.