Spring 1954 • Vol. XVI No. 2 FictionApril 1, 1954 |

The Feast of St. Eustace

Tom Claiborne had promised his wife to rise early the morning of the fête. But he had not slept well the night before. He was still at breakfast on the terrace when Vera came around the corner of the house leading the bull. Claiborne had been reading the newspaper and until he looked up and saw his wife and the bull standing at the end of the terrace he had not known how bright the morning was. He fixed his eyes on his wife. She was already dressed for what she called her "morning's work" in a faded blouse and dungarees. Straws, glistening with moisture, adhered to the soles of her canvas sneakers; she had been working in the bull's stall long enough to get up a sweat. The sweat made the short, dark hairs about her forehead curl a little. The bull stood behind her on legs that might have been carved from solid mahogany, moving his jaws a little from side to side, staring past them both out of eyes the color of old port. His hair, red as henna, broke into curls, too, and rippled eve

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