From the top of the street of Alcala could be seen the wide road in all righteousness, white sun, with rows of trees that truth to the breath of spring, black crowd the balconies and the road stretches only visible under the tingling of the crowd and cars rolling down to the Cibeles. At this point the slope elevábase again, between trees and large buildings, and closed perspective, as a triumphal arch, the Puerta de Alcalá, highlighting its mole perforated white against the blue sky in which floated, swan-solitary, some tufts of clouds.

Gellar was silent in his seat, answering the crowd with a smile still. After greeting the banderilleros not spoken word. They also were silent and pale, with the anxiety of the unknown. To be among bullfighters, leaving aside, as useless, the bravery necessary to the public.

A mysterious influence seemed to warn the crowd over the last crew that went to the plaza. Urchins running after the car cheering Gellar had been left behind, shedding the group between the carriages, but despite this, people turned their heads as if they divined behind the proximity of the famous bullfighter, and stopping the pass, siding on the edge of the sidewalk to see him better.

In cars that rolled back their heads in front of women, as advised by the jingle of the mules treadmills. A roar came from some groups report that stopped the passage on sidewalks. Should be enthusiastic exclamations. Some waved their hats, others brandishing sticks, moving as if greeting.