This last operation is as dangerous as it is dexterous.
At the moment in which the matador hits the bull, the pointed horn must
be within an inch or two of his heart, and if he were to fail he must
himself be the victim. When he succeeds in levelling to the ground with
a single stroke his furious and irresistible enemy, the music strikes
up, the applauses of the amphitheatre are showered upon the conqueror,
he stalks proudly round the area, strewed with dead horses, and reddened
with blood, bowing first to the judges of the fight, and then to the
spectators, and leaves the place amid enthusiastic _vivas_ for his
successful audacity. The field of slaughter is then cleared by a yoke of
horses, richly decorated with plumes on their heads and ribands on their
manes, to which the dead bull or horses are attached, and by which they
are dragged out at a gallop. That no part of the amusement may want its
appropriate parade, this operation goes on amid the sound of a trumpet,
or the playing of a military band. The horsemen are then remounted anew,
and enter on fresh steeds--the door of the den is again opened--another
furious animal is let loose on the possessors of the ring, till ten or
twelve are thus sacrificed.
The bull-fights in Lisbon are a very inferior species of amusement to
this, though much better than I was led to anticipate. Here the bulls
are generally not so strong or so spirited as the Spanish breed. In the
morning of the sport, the tips of their horns, instead of being left
sharp, are covered with cork and leather.
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