moment of truth

ARNELL LARSEN

The quadrangle of the abandoned Mission San Fernando Rey de España was packed with Spaniards and Mexicans. Horses were stamping up clouds of dust to mingle with that stirred by the boots and sandals of the crowd. Today was the second day of the bullfights. Another bull was to meet death in the Mission quadrangle.

"Viva Juanito!" "Juanito!"

"Viva Torero!"

An open carriage that had traveled from the small pueblo de Los Angeles, pulled up beside the other carriages and picketed horses, and the crowd caught sight of Juanito.

They surged forward to meet him with cries of greeting as he descended from the carriage. He held out both arms toward them in a gesture of friendliness, smiling broadly and then he turned. Down from the carriage with loving gentleness, he helped a strikingly handsome young man, whose smooth olive skin was accentuated by the blackness of his hair. Some of the crowd supposed him to be a relative of the torero, but the driver of the carriage and Juanito's valet knew differently.

The valet cleared a way through the crowd and ushered the couple toward a small tent outside the wall of the quadrangle.

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