Anna
Mantegazza leaned forward, tense with interest. "_Bravo!_" she
called.
Gheta Sanviano smiled.
The bull did not see Mochales at first, then the man cried tauntingly.
The bull turned and stood with a lowered slowly-moving head, an uneasy
tail. The Spaniard found a small milking stool and, carrying it to the
middle of the yard, sat and comfortably rolled another cigarette. He
was searching for a match when the bull moved forward a pace; he had
found and was striking it when the bull increased his pace; he was
guarding the flame about the cigarette's end when the animal broke into
a charging run.
The Flower of Spain inhaled a deep breath of smoke, which he expelled
in deliberate globes.
"Oh, don't! Oh----" Lavinia exclaimed, an arm before her eyes.
Mochales shifted easily from his seat and apparently in the same
instant the bull crushed the stool to splinters.
"_Bravo! Bravo!_" Anna Mantegazza called again, and the man bowed
until his extended hat rested on the ground.
He straightened slowly; the bull whirled about and flung himself
forward. Abrego y Mochales now had one of the discarded poles; and,
waiting until the horns had almost encircled him, he vaulted lightly
and beautifully over the running animal's shoulder. He waited again,
avoiding the infuriated charge by a scant step; and, when the bull
stopped he had Mochales' hat placed squarely upon his horns. Lavinia
watched now in fascinated terror; she could not remove her gaze from
the slim figure in the short black jacket and narrow crimson sash.
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