“Want to take a turn out to the park?” Brett asked. “I don’t want to go up yet. I fancy he’s sleeping.”
We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park.
“Don’t let’s go there,” Brett said. “I don’t want staring at just now.”
We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea.
“I hope the wind goes down,” Brett said. “It’s very bad for him.”
“So do I.”
“He says the bulls are all right.”
“They’re good.”
“Is that San Fermin’s?”
Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel.
“Yes. Where the show started on Sunday.”
“Let’s go in. Do you mind? I’d rather like to pray a little for him or something.”
We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead.