surprisingly, half decent. Lorenzo, looking away, took another swallow of beer, spat it out in disgust and flung the rest away. He leaned against the wall of the Mission smokehouse, propping one booted foot up behind him and lowered his sombrero over his eyes to shade them as he stared fixedly at the tent by the quadrangle.

The wiry black bull, small but muy bravo, pawed at the earth, impatient to be let out of his corral. His tail switched at the pestering flies buzzing and biting his hind-quarters. Two small Indian boys teased the animal, tossing pebbles against his flanks, making him run about. Suddenly the pull pricked up his ears as the band grew louder and a trumpet blared.

"They are playing the march," Manuel said. "It is time for you to go out and meet with the bull now."

"Any piece they play with such solemnness means it is time for me to greet el toro. Hand me my cape."

Manuel gave Juanito the folded cape. "They do not have any picadores?" "This is not Plaza Mexico. A few peons will tease el toro with shirts or sombreros and that will give me time to study his movements, to judge how strong he is. Then I -"

"Please, Juanito," Manuel interrupted, "please be very careful, make sure of yourself, make sure of the bull. If anything, anything should happen to you, 1 would die of grief."

"Do not worry,mi amor, I know my business." He paused at the entrance of the tent and made the Sign of the Cross, praying to St. Alphonse. "Bless me with good fortune," he murmured aloud and went out into the dust-filled quadrangle.

The bull was let out of his small pen and galloped into the adobe-enclosure. He was thirsty. His tongue rolled from the side of his mouth. With madness he looked at the world about and then charged at the high-crowned straw hats that were being shaken in front of him. The first stage of the bullfight had begun. Lorenzo showed his white teeth in a grin as he watched the peons run the bull about the quadrangle in an effort to weaken him. They jabbed at the animal's neck with knives, and tiny beads of blood rolled outward. Lorenzo gave a wider grin. He saw Juanito's head in place of el toro's and each knife thrust was into Juanito's neck. Lorenzo yelled with the crowd.

Manuel Rodriguez heard the roarings of the crowd and though he did not look at the valet, he spoke aloud to him. "I like bullfights, but I do not like it when Juanito has to fight. Listen to them yell." He closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his ears.

"That is his life, his love," the valet answered. He uncovered the banderillas and carefully separated the eighteen-inch-long wood darts tipped with iron barbs. As he fluffed up the red, yellow, blue and green paper pompoms on them, he spoke out a question. "If it is torture to you, Manuel, why do you stay? Is love that strong?"

"Love has special agonies for certain people to endure. Love is funny that way." Manuel opened his eyes. "I am trying to compete with his love for the bulls, I am trying so hard. I love him . . . he loves the bulls . . . there is some competition."

"But, I am afraid that you will never completely win him away from them. Do not use your love to pull him the other way, you will only succeed in tearing him apart and yourself as well." He picked up the banderillas. "Are you coming

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