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Updated: May 15, 2025
It was like a field of battle. The dead lay around everywhere, while the wounded sobbed and groaned and some of them died. One man, whom John Harned had thrust through the belly with the bayonet, clutched at himself with both his hands and screamed. I tell you for a fact it was more terrible than the screaming of a thousand horses. No, Maria Valenzuela did not marry Luis Cervallos.
"It can never be known what they will do next. They are wise. They are half cow. The bull-fighters never like them. See! He has turned!" Once again, baffled and made angry by the walls of the ring that would not let him out, the bull was attacking his enemies valiantly. "His tongue is hanging out," said John Harned. "First, they fill him with water.
And John Harned smote him with his fist so that in falling he overthrew General Salazar. John Harned was now in what-you-call Berserker rage no? The beast primitive in him was loose and roaring the beast primitive of the holes and caves of the long ago. "You came for a bull-fight," I heard him say, "And by God I'll show you a man-fight!" It was a fight.
Why should a man feel shame for the hair on his face? Did not God put it there? Yes, I believe in God I am not a pagan like many of you English. God is good. He made me an Ecuadoriano with ten thousand slaves. And when I die I shall go to God. Yes, the priests are right. But John Harned. He was a quiet man. He talked always in a low voice, and he never moved his hands when he talked.
It is said she is to marry an Arch-Duke or some high nobleman. I do not know. I think she liked John Harned before he followed her to Quito to see the bull-fight. But why the horse? That is what I desire to know. Why should he watch the bull and say that it did not count, and then go immediately and most horribly mad because a horse screamed? There is no understanding the Gringos.
"Yet we Spanish like the bull-fight," said Luis Cervallos; and I swear the devil was whispering then in his ear, telling him to do that which I shall relate. "Then must it be a cultivated taste," John Harned made answer. "We kill bulls by the thousand every day in Chicago, yet no one cares to pay admittance to see." "That is butchery," said I; "but this ah, this is an art. It is delicate.
All fight was now out of the bull, and, though it was no vital thrust, he trotted lamely what of the sword that stuck through him, in one side and out the other. He ran away from the matador and the capadors, and circled the edge of the ring, looking up at the many faces. "He is saying: 'For God's sake let me out of this; I don't want to fight," said John Harned. That was all.
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