A bugle note rings out like a challenge, and the key of the _toril_, or bulls’ den, is thrown by the President into the arena. The ring is now cleared of all the combatants except a trio of _picadores_, who, sitting astride their wretched nags, await the entry of the bull. Amid the hush, _toro_ rushes into the arena, a huge black beast, with elongated horns, a thick, brawny neck, a sleek, shining coat, and a pair of flashing, angry eyes. He paws the ground, and snorts, and catching sight of the gaudy colours of the _picadores_, lowers his head, and charges them. His assault is received on the blunt point of the _garrocha_, or spear; and, incensed by the pain, he pauses, lashing his tail, and deliberating a second attack. Perchance the bull is not especially fierce or courageous. He has led a placid life on the plains, and has followed the herd-boy as sheep follow a shepherd. But to-day he must fight and die, and if he is indifferent at the sight of his assailants, means must be employed to anger him.
But a valiant bull needs no such incitement to fury. He is angry with every one, indignant at the whole proceedings, and he charges the _picadores_ with terrific vehemence. Sometimes a rider is unhorsed, and, handicapped by his pads and protectors, he is in peril till the attendants divert the attention of _toro_.
The hapless horses are the worse sufferers, for they cannot escape from the ring. They serve as butts for the bull’s horns; they are frequently ripped open, and sometimes lifted off their feet by the horns of their maddened enemy. To English eyes it is a heartrending spectacle to see a sorry old horse, which has patiently served man all his life, urged up to the sharp horns of the bull, and made to receive his cruel charges. The wounded horses lie quivering and expiring in the ring; a look of supplication and suffering in their eyes fills the unaccustomed spectator with compassion, and the sight of their terrible injuries sickens the sensitive.
The _banderilleros_ now appear, armed with steel barbed darts, adorned with coloured papers, and with coolness and dexterity, they approach _toro_, and throw their stinging missiles at his neck and shoulders. The bull winces, shakes his head, and turns upon his tormentors. He chases one of them across the ring; the pursued _banderillero_ vaults over the high wooden barrier, and the horns of the bull resound against the wood with a dull crash. Another dart-thrower runs up, and deftly plants his weapons in the bull’s flesh. Again _toro_ turns, and as he runs with lowered horns, a third _banderillero_ stands in his course, leaps aside at the crucial instant, and delivers his darts.