"Can they take the mare round to the stable to rest a little?" enquired the bandit.
"Where is that man going to?"
And spurring his horse, he rode out of the courtyard.
It was Potaje, the picador, who came out half dressed and stretching himself, with all the rough strength of his athletic body. He rubbed his eyes, always bloodshot and inflamed by drink, and approaching the bandit let one huge hand fall on his shoulder with studied familiarity, as if he enjoyed feeling him squirm under his grasp and wished at the same time to express his rough sympathy.
Now he wished to examine them closely, to choose them, to prepare for his success by a careful study of their dispositions.
"To-morrow there are Muira bulls," said the espada. "I know what these turns mean. You will come back at dawn to-morrow, having taken a few glasses too much, or done something else which will impair your vigour. No, no one goes out; you shall have your fill when we have done."
Others more enthusiastic excited his audacity by more daring advice.