TO THE RESCUE.
Frank felt himself turn cold from head to feet. Up to this moment
nothing of flesh and blood had seemed able to withstand the fury of the
bull’s charge.
The girl did not quail. With her lance in position, she calmly awaited
the onset.
Frank’s hands shook as he held the glasses to his eyes. And then, in
astonishment and admiration, he gasped:
“She has not paled! She smiles!”
He knew that the lance in the girl’s hand could not greatly harm the
bull. It had a sharp point, but it was so made that it could not
penetrate very deeply. And yet she was to defend herself with such an
instrument!
The horse did not swerve, and the girl succeeded in planting the point
of her lance properly. Even though she was successful in this, Frank
looked to see her hurled from the saddle.
No! She sat there like a rooted tree, and with her lance she held the
bull at bay. It was a marvel of strength and science. The animal
bellowed and struggled to get at the horse, but the lance held him off.
Then the crowd went wild again. They laughed, they yelled, they clapped
their hands with delight.
“It is wonderful!” muttered Frank, still watching the girl through his
glasses. “How she does it I cannot tell. And she smiles again!”
“Gol derned ef she ain’t a corker!” came admiringly from Ephraim. “It’s
wu’th comin’ jest to see her do that air little trick.”
At last, finding all his efforts in vain, the bull turned and rushed
away. In a twinkling the banderilleros were around him, and again those
maddening darts were planted in his neck and shoulders.
As he felt the fourth dart, the bull uttered a terrible roar, and
charged after one of the fleeing men. The fellow was but a short
distance in advance of those crimson horns, and he was running for his
life.
The barrier was reached, and the man made the leap, but the bull leaped
with him, and both went over into the walk between the two barriers.
Again were the spectators given an opportunity to shriek:
“He is killed! He is killed!”
It seemed that the bull had fallen upon the man, but such was not the
case, and the banderillero scrambled to his feet and was dragged over
the second barrier in time to escape death on those frightful horns.
Frank was one who helped drag the fellow over the high barrier, and he
felt the man quivering with a great terror. He looked in the
banderillero’s face and then uttered an exclamation of surprise, for it
was the man with the scar, whom he had knocked down only some hours
before. He had heard the fellow called Gonzalez by a companion who ran
to his assistance.
Gonzalez recognized the boy, uttered a snarl, and tore away.
“Cowardly American!” he grated, in Spanish. “Do you think I fear the
bull? Bah! I spit on the bull, as Spain spits on the United States.”
“And then, if you remained within reach of the bull, he would do you up
just about as quickly as the United Stales would do up Spain,” retorted
the boy, who felt his patriotic blood stirred.
“I have not forgotten that you struck me,” hissed the scar-faced fellow.
“We shall meet again.”
“Very good. All I ask is that you do not come upon me when my back is
turned.”
There was such an uproar that these words between the man and boy were
not heard by the spectators. The bull was now running back and forward
in the walk, beaten by sticks and fists. Gonzalez sprang into the walk,
just as the bull, finding an open door, darted into the ring again.
The door was closed, and then all the men in the arena dashed at the
bull once more. One passed behind him, giving his tail a pull, one
dropped a scarlet cloth over the animal’s horns, another snatched a
rosette from the shaft of a dart, and still another allowed the bull to
charge, planted a pole in the ground, vaulted into the air, and let the
creature pass beneath him.
It was amazing, bewildering, marvelous. Frank felt his blood stirred by
the wonderful feats. He had been sickened by the spectacle a few moments
before, so that there was a dreadful nausea at his stomach, but now he
was quivering with satisfaction and fascinated by what he saw.
All these tricks were accomplished as if the men were frolicking with a
harmless lamb. They laughed and shouted like children at play, and the
audience, fairly carried away with enthusiasm, gave them round after
round of applause.
Then the trumpets sounded again, and the bull suddenly found himself
deserted, much to his apparent astonishment. All the bull’s late
tormentors had retreated at the signal.
The gate opened again, and one of the fighters came forward, sword in
hand. The spectators knew it was the crisis of the drama, the bull was
to die.
“Villasca—Antonio Villasca! Bravo! bravo!” they shouted.
He bowed, smiling all around. He was cool and confident, as if quite
certain of accomplishing, without difficulty, the momentous task before
him.
Zuera remained in the ring. She had repulsed the bull, and she had a
right to remain there to the death.
The band played a jingling, lively piece, and Villasca advanced with a
springy step toward the bull.
The animal saw him. It pawed the ground and uttered a roar; its tail
arose in the air, and then, with lowered head, it charged.
Villasca stood his ground, aiming with his sword, and then, when the
bull was right upon him, seeing he could not get in a fatal stroke, he
moved aside with a single step.
The dripping horns of the bull grazed his hip, but he was unharmed.
The crowd shrieked its delight, clapping hands and laughing.
“Good Villasca! Brave Villasca! Look at him! He did not even turn pale!
He will kill the bull with the first stroke! Bravo! bravo!”
Like a cat, the bull whirled, furious at being tricked in such a manner.
In a twinkling, the animal charged again, and this time Villasca made a
greater exertion in getting out of the way, but escaped unharmed again.
However, he had planted his sword, and the bull recovered after passing,
turning about with marvelous adroitness. Like a panther, the creature
rushed again.
This time, with a hasty aim, Villasca struck with his gleaming sword.
He failed!
Planting his sword awkwardly, he simply succeeded in wounding the bull.
The sword fell from his hand, and he barely saved himself by a great
leap.
What a howl of rage went up from the spectators. It seemed that the
laughing, applauding multitude had been turned, in a twinkling, into one
vast body of furious animals. Everybody seemed to stand up, screaming
and hurling abuse at the man they had applauded a few moments before.
Every one forgot that Villasca had killed a score of savage bulls in
other fights. He had failed now; and he failed awkwardly. That was
enough.
“Assassin! Impostor! Go hide yourself! Let yourself be killed!”
They reviled him, they spat at him, they threw orange peel and stubs of
cigars at him. It seemed that they would have torn him limb from limb if
they could have placed their hands on him.
But the bull did not hesitate. Once more he charged after the
discomfited espada.
Villasca knew that he must kill the bull, or his bull fighting days
would be over. Every paper in Madrid would revile him if he failed, and
he made an effort to recover his sword. He tried to do it adroitly,
laughing in the face of the bull.
Again he failed. One of those sharp horns cut his leg, leaving a streak
of red. He was wounded! Blood was flowing down his leg!
Then the mad mob called down blessings on the bull, imploring him to
kill the wretch; and Villasca, who was not seriously wounded, grew
confused, dodged, and fell to the ground.
There was a wild cry, and across the arena dashed Señorita Zuera, going
to the rescue. She did not hesitate, but rode between the bull and the
fallen espada.
Villasca scrambled up and darted away a short distance, where he halted
in a manner that showed how confused he was.
Zuera had saved him, but she was in danger. The horse could not get out
of the way, and the bull struck the creature.
Down went horse and rider in a heap!
How the crowd shrieked! A great yell of mingled terror and delight went
up.
“The coward! He has deserted her! She will be killed!”
She seemed stunned, for she did not attempt to arise. The bull tore the
horse, and then turned his attention to the girl.
“Great Scott!” cried Frank. “Are they all benumbed! Will they let her be
killed before their very eyes!”
Scarcely had the last words left his lips when he sprang up, leaped into
the ring, and darted to the rescue of the helpless girl.
Professor Scotch tried to grasp and hold the excited lad, but failed.
With one bound, Frank sailed over the heads of those near him and
reached the first barrier, another bound took him into the ring, and he
snatched a scarlet cloth from the hands of a hesitating banderillero.
Waving this cloth, he dashed straight toward the raging bull.
Cries of wonder came from the spectators. Not one of all the Spaniards
who had paid the price of admission would have thought to go to the
rescue of the girl. They would not have interfered if she had been
killed by slow torture.
Frank saw nothing but the bull and the imperiled girl. He did not see
other persons coming to the rescue, the banderilleros and picadores. His
one thought was to divert the attention of the bull from the fallen
girl.
Being a swift runner, he reached the bull in a moment, flaunted the
cloth in its face, and turned its attention to himself.
The bull hesitated. In that moment, Frank saw the espada’s sword at his
feet, and he snatched it up.
Then the bull charged.
The boy had seen Villasca attempt to kill the bull, and he seemed to
understand how it should be done. Still, he had not time for thought,
and what he did was done with the rapidity of instinct.
He dropped the cloth, aimed with the sword, and struck the bull fairly
in the neck. He felt the weapon plunge into the mad animal, and leaped
aside at the same instant.
The bull staggered, a torrent of blood sprang from its mouth, and then
it fell as if struck by lightning!
For a single instant it seemed that the crowd could not realize what had
happened, and then, as they saw the bull was really dead, they gave a
burst of tempestuous applause, such as had not before been heard that
day.
“Beautiful boy! You angel! God bless you! God bless you!”
They were crazed with delight and admiration. Never before had such a
thing happened in a Madrid bull ring. It was a marvel.
Frank could scarcely realize that he had accomplished this wonderful
feat. With the bloody sword in his hand, he stood looking down at the
bull in a dazed way. To the crowd it seemed that he was quite cool, and
that he had been quite cool and confident all the time.
Seeing there was no further danger from the bull, he returned to
Señorita Zuera.
She was on her feet, gazing at him in a curious, wondering way. He took
off his hat and bowed very low to her, saying, in Spanish:
“I trust you are not harmed, señorita?”
“Not at all,” she answered, in a musical tone of voice. “I was stunned
for a moment, and I should have been killed but for you.”
He bowed again.
“Then I am happy in having been able to serve you, señorita.”
She looked at him admiringly, and now he saw that she was, indeed, young
and handsome. There was no paint or powder on her face. Her cheeks did
not need paint, for they were tinted with the blush of perfect health,
while her skin seemed smooth as marble and soft as silk. Her hair and
eyes were dark. She had delicate, arching eyebrows, long silken
eyelashes, red lips, milk-white teeth, and a throat that was smooth and
white as alabaster.
There was something fascinating and dashing about her beauty, something
that affected him like wine in his veins.
“You have gotten yourself into trouble, señor,” she said. “Villasca is
furious; I can see that.”
Indeed, the unlucky espada was in a great rage. He was gnashing his
teeth and glaring at the boy, muttering fierce and bitter curses. He
realized that he had been disgraced forever by his own cowardice and
confusion, and this foreign lad had become a hero in the eyes of the
spectators. How he hated Frank Merriwell! He swore to have the boy’s
life—to drive a dagger through his heart.
And now the boy and girl were surrounded by toreadors and the servants
of the bull ring. Frank saw Gonzalez scowling blackly. The fellow seemed
longing to rush upon the lad. Indeed, he was speaking swiftly to another
man at his side, and both were regarding the boy with murderous looks.
Indeed, it seemed that all those men were ready to fling themselves on
the unknown slayer of the bull and kill him on the spot. But the
blood-dripping sword was still in Frank’s hand, and they had seen him do
execution with it. They feared that sword.
Zuera seemed to read the thoughts expressed on their faces. She stepped
swiftly to Frank’s side, saying, softly:
“Come away, señor. You are in danger. Come with me.”
They passed through the circle and walked toward the box of the alcalde.
When the spectators saw them thus, another great cheer went up.
“Beautiful boy!” screamed the spectators. “He has Villasca’s sword! Keep
it! keep it! He is a great espada!”
And then, in their wild enthusiasm, the crowd began to fling presents to
Frank—hats, canes, flowers, cigars, money, anything, in fact, that their
hands found.
“Take them,” directed Zuera—“take them and bow! The people will be
offended if you do not.”
So Frank picked up the money, the cigars and the flowers. The money and
cigars he put in his pockets. Zuera caught up the hats and tossed them
back to their owners, laughing merrily and calling to each one. Frank
bowed his thanks, feeling his face flushing and his heart leaping. It is
not strange that he was somewhat bewildered, for his was an experience
such as never before befell an American youth.
At last they came to the box of the alcalde, and Frank saw the
magistrate and several personages of authority in a most excited
discussion. At first the boy was not noticed, but the attention of the
chief magistrate was called to him after a time. The dignitary turned
and glared down at the lad, and a sudden hush settled over the vast
throng of spectators.
“Boy, who are you?”
“I am Frank Merriwell, señor.”
“English?”
“No, señor, American.”
Frank uttered the words distinctly, with a feeling of pride, and yet not
in an offensive or boasting manner.
Zuera gave a little exclamation of astonishment and alarm, and a hoarse
murmur rang over the throng of spectators.
Frank knew very well that he was in the heart of a country inclined to
be hostile to the United States and friendly toward England, but the boy
would have scorned to save himself from any peril by denying his
nationality and proclaiming himself something that he was not.
There was another excited discussion within the alcalde’s box, and then
the magistrate demanded:
“Do you know you have committed a grave offense by entering the bull
ring without permission during a fight, Señor Merriwell?”
“I was not aware of it, señor,” answered the lad, calmly. “But had I
known it was an offense punishable by imprisonment or death, I could not
have hesitated when I saw a lady in danger.”
This answer produced a sensation. There were those among the spectators
who started to cheer, while others hissed. Great excitement ensued.
Somebody shouted:
“Brave American!”
Then there was a commotion, and general riot seemed about to break out.
Two men were seen fighting; others joined in the battle. Thousands of
spectators shouted and screamed.
Frank remained perfectly calm. Indeed, his calmness was astonishing to
himself.
The alcalde turned to the others in the box. He was assailed on all
sides by excited gentlemen. Plainly some were greatly angered, while
others were defending the young American.
Ephraim Gallup arose and shouted:
“Yeou’re all right, Frank, and I’ll stand by ye till the caows come hum,
b’gosh! I’m comin’ right down there.”
Professor Scotch caught hold of the excited Yankee boy and pulled him
back into the seat, clinging to him in a frantic manner.
“I tell yeou I’m goin’ daown and back him up!” roared Ephraim, smiting
one clinched hand into the open palm of the other. “He’s a jim-cuckoo,
that’s what he is.”
“Do not leave me!” implored the professor. “I shall be murdered by these
creatures! They have gone mad!”
“But I tell yeou I’m going to back him up. Come on, professor, we’ll
both go daown.”
Frank, however, motioned for Ephraim to remain in his seat, and the
professor succeeded in persuading the excited lad to do so.
The civil guards came in and subdued the riot among the spectators.
When she could be heard, Señorita Zuera addressed the alcalde.
“It is true that I should have been killed by the bull if this brave
youth had not come to my rescue,” she declared. “I entreat pardon for
him.”
The alcalde frowned.
“That is not for me to grant, señorita,” he said.
Then he waved his hand, and several of the civil guards rushed into the
arena. They placed themselves about Frank Merriwell, and the boy was
marched off, a captive, while the spectators howled their applause or
anger.
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