They walk towards the box which holds the city fathers, under
whose patronage the show is given, and formally salute the authority.
This is all very classic, also, recalling the _Ave Caesar, morituri,_
etc., of the gladiators. It lacks, however, the solemnity of the Roman
salute, from those splendid fellows who would never all leave the arena
alive. A bullfighter is sometimes killed, it is true, but the percentage
of deadly danger is scarcely enough to make a spectator's heart beat as
the bedizened procession comes flashing by in the sun.
The municipal authority throws the bowing alguacil a key, which he
catches in his hat, or is hissed if he misses it. With this he unlocks
the door through which the bull is to enter, and then scampers off with
undignified haste through the opposite entrance. There is a bugle
flourish, the door flies open, and the bull rushes out, blind with the
staring light, furious with rage, trembling in every limb. This is the
most intense moment of the day. The glorious brute is the target of
twelve thousand pairs of eyes. There is a silence as of death, while
every one waits to see his first movement. He is doomed from the
beginning; the curtain has risen on a three-act tragedy, which will
surely end with his death, but the incidents which are to fill the
interval are all unknown. The minds and eyes of all that vast assembly
know nothing for the time but the movements of that brute.
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