The Heart of the Wild by S.L. Bensusan

When the fighting bulls come in at sunset, led from the lush pastures by the belled bullocks that have been their lifelong companions, one animal walks alone in the rear of the herd. He is of more than common size and splendidly armed, if one may use the bull-fighter's term in speaking of his horns, but his is a gentle nature, and even the ganadero's daughter, little Golisa, who has no more than ten summers to her credit, may bring him a handful of corn without fear. He is nine years old, and has many peaceful seasons before him, for he is El Perdonado.

Never heard of him, you say? That must be because you don't know Andalusia. I saw the historic fight of which he was the hero; heard the greatest diestro in Spain make an appeal to the President that El Cuchillo, as he was then called, might be pardoned for bravery. And I saw the Spanish grandee, one of whose ancestors was immortalised by Velazquez, bare his head and pronounce the verdict of acquittal that is not heard once in five years in the plaza de toros. So El Perdonado (The Pardoned One) is by way of being an acquaintance of mine, and I have ridden for miles across country to see him browsing peacefully on the grass lands beyond Utrera, where he was born and bred. Now I will try to set his history before you, that you may know something more of fighting bulls than the plaza de toros can teach. The most of what I have to tell I have seen for myself, but for some of the more intimate details I am indebted to El Conecito, most expert of Andalusian banderilleros, with whom I used to chat over horchatas in the cafe of the Emperadores that is on the Sierpes of Seville. He will never see this acknowledgement of his help, for he slipped in the plaza de toros at Valencia during the corrida in honour of the feast of the Santissima Trinidad, slipped on a purple patch that had not been properly covered with sand, and died as he had lived -- quite fearlessly.