the rents with tow and rode him against the bull again,
he couldn’t make the trip; he tried to gallop,
under the spur, but soon reeled and tottered and fell,
all in a heap. For a while, that bull-ring was
the most thrilling and glorious and inspiring sight
that ever was seen. The bull absolutely cleared
it, and stood there alone! monarch of the place.
The people went mad for pride in him, and joy and delight,
and you couldn’t hear yourself think, for the
roar and boom and crash of applause.”
“Antonio, it carries me clear out of myself
just to hear you tell it; it must have been perfectly
splendid. If I live, I’ll see a bull-fight
yet before I die. Did they kill him?”
“Oh yes; that is what the bull is for.
They tired him out, and got him at last. He
kept rushing the matador, who always slipped smartly
and gracefully aside in time, waiting for a sure chance;
and at last it came; the bull made a deadly plunge
for him—was avoided neatly, and as he sped
by, the long sword glided silently into him, between
left shoulder and spine—in and in, to the
hilt. He crumpled down, dying.”
“Ah, Antonio, it is the noblest sport that
ever was. I would give a year of my life to
see it. Is the bull always killed?”
“Yes. Sometimes a bull is timid, finding
himself in so strange a place, and he stands trembling,
or tries to retreat. Then everybody despises
him for his cowardice and wants him punished and made
ridiculous; so they hough him from behind, and it is
the funniest thing in the world to see him hobbling
around on his severed legs; the whole vast house goes
into hurricanes of laughter over it; I have laughed
till the tears ran down my cheeks to see it.
When he has furnished all the sport he can, he is
not any longer useful, and is killed.”
“Well, it is perfectly grand, Antonio, perfectly
beautiful. Burning a nigger don’t begin.”
“Sage-Brush, you have been listening?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it strange?”
“Well, no, Mongrel, I don’t know that
it is.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I’ve seen a good many human beings in
my time. They are created as they are; they
cannot help it. They are only brutal because
that is their make; brutes would be brutal if it was
their make.”
“To me, Sage-Brush, man is most strange and
unaccountable. Why should he treat dumb animals
that way when they are not doing any harm?”
“Man is not always like that, Mongrel; he is
kind enough when he is not excited by religion.”
“Is the bull-fight a religious service?”
“I think so. I have heard so. It
is held on Sunday.”
(A reflective pause, lasting some moments.) Then:
“When we die, Sage-Brush, do we go to heaven
and dwell with man?”
“My father thought not. He believed we
do not have to go there unless we deserve it.”
