each hand a dainty paper-covered banderilla. The man and beast rush each upon the other, hearts stand still, and then there burst forth acclamations loud and long; for at the moment of what might have proved a tragic meeting, the man, gracefully rising on tiptoe between the lowered horns, fixes his darts with superb accuracy into the shoulders of the bull and deftly steps aside, leaving the animal to continue his unavailing rush, to bellow and madly to try to shake from his flesh the pain inflicting weapons. Three pairs of banderillas are usually placed; not always without mishap, for I have seen many a jacket rent by a too rapid horn, many a torero rolled in the dust only to rise unhurt and recommence his play, to the delight of breathless spectators.
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THE FINAL STROKE
Now comes the third and final act, the duel between the bull and the Matador, or Espada, the highest rank to which a torero can aspire. Like poets, Espadas, or swordsmen, are born not made, and Spain can boast of but few men of this
