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THE ENTRY
The Giralda is always a spectator. Better to study our neighbors and the fight itself, we descend to the lowest row of seats bordering the circular alley of refuge for the fighters. Around us are the amateurs of tauromachia, los aficionados, men who follow the contests with an enthusiasm akin to that which animates our fellow-countrymen at foot-ball games. They know the brave toreros, from the humble chulos to the picadores and world-famed matadores; they are good judges of the bulls' fine points, and know the rules and precedents of the cruel sport as well as a professional. There in the boxes we behold the votaries of fashion, and yonder in the royal box sit the families of Montpensier and Orléans, the little princesses unmoved by the thought of what they are about to witness. Below is the place reserved for the president of the course, whose word is law for the occasion. His word is, however, frequently influenced by the will of an excited audience, whose clamorous desires are not to be disregarded by even the most determined of presiding officers. The suppressed murmur, which has been growing in volume as the crowd increases in
