Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

Beautiful Dona Sol's love was an evil spell but the dashing torero really loved his wistful little wife. Out of the maelstrom of passion came tragedy — red blood upon the yellow sands of the bull ring BLOOD AND SAND 'Vicente fiasco Ibanez Fictionized by William Almon Wolff HE WAS riding in a carriage — he, Juan Gallarda. It was not some one else; it was he, himself. It was his name, his own name, they were shouting. ' ' Viva! Viva Gallarda ! ' ' All the way from the arena he heard his name, shouted so. He could see the laughing eyes and lips of the girls of the street; Rosa, who had scorned him, not so long ago; all of them. It was all true; it must be true. But he had dreamed of such a triumph so often — and this was just as he had dreamed that it would be: Juan was young — oh, very young. But he was old enough to know that such is not the way of life; that what one dreams too seldom comes to pass unchanged. He closed his eyes as the carriage bumped on over the cobbled streets of Seville. And he played an old game, to see whether, in good truth, he was awake. If you thought back, and back, and back, until your memory went no farther, and started, then, He thought of Carmen, awaiting him at home — hut about this woman there was . . . .. something that he had never seen or felt torero, victorious oyer the before in any ivoman. She maddened him; ferocious bull but fallen be she set his veins on fire fore a woman ! So far, well — here was true stuff he was remembering, and not just the misty texture of a dream! The boy grew up. Juan, his eyes closed still, remembered . . . His flight from home; that queer, crazy corrida in the hills outside the town, when he had killed his first bull — the bull that, just before, had gored his leg and killed his friend, little Chiripa. Ah — now he opened his eyes! No. It was no dream. He could still see his friend, lying before him, his eyes glazing, his breath coming fast as the life went out of him. . . NO. It was all true. He had killed his bull today, in the charity corrida that had been open to the ambitious young toreros your dream was true! of the town, and the multitude had acclaimed him. He had A little boy, a very little boy, indeed — so far Juan's thoughts made his mark. Now he would be sought out by all the cities of went back. A little boy who liked to play; who pretended, even Spain. He would be famous, rich. He could do all those things in those days, that he was a torero; who dreamed, even then, of he had promised his doubting mother when she had scolded him standing in the arena, with a great bull stretched dead before for idling. She should have such clothes as she had dreamed of him — a great bull, slain deftly, gracefully, with a single thrust of wearing in her gay youth, before his father died; a house fit for the torero's sword. Blood and sand — bright yellow sand, red, the mother of the greatest torero in Spain, spreading blood — bull's blood! The crowd was growing thicker as he came near his home. His And a little boy's mother, with scoldings for his dreams, and mother would be waiting; his scornful sister, too — El Carnacione. tears for the way they led him, and dire Well, he would forgive her, as he had for beatings with a broom stick to enforce the Copyright 1922 given her husband, Antonio, who sat beside law — and edicts of "No supper!" too! And by Famous Players-Lasky Corporation him proudly now; Antonio, who had scoffed little Carmen, his playmate, comforting the All rights reserved at his ambitions, urged his mother to show 39