More light play, a charge, another charge, yet
another, all beautiful athletic play, and Torellas had worked his way
across the ring to near the place of refuge where Cogan and Ferrero
were. This also brought the bull under the seats of the Rocas. Cogan,
studying the matador's face, had a feeling that he had drawn the bull
there purposely. It was as if he had said to her up there on the seats:
'Here--here is the product of my highest skill. To do this well I have
dedicated my abounding youth. I offer them a sacrifice to you.' So Cogan
viewed it. Cogan, to be sure, had a sympathy for Torellas, had liked him
from the first. Torellas--he was one who adventured to give the spirit
play as now; and Cogan would have liked just then to be in the shoes of
Torellas.
"The bull was at last properly worked up. Torellas took his final stand.
His feet were well apart, but not too far apart, body and legs set so
that he could have leaped instantly forward, backward, sideways. Cogan,
watching, thought what a painting, or better, what a bit of sculpture
could have been made of him so. He was standing on the balls of his
feet, with his torso canted slightly forward from the waist. His head
was forward, too, but inclining a little to one side, toward his right
shoulder. His eyes were so narrowed that they could hardly be seen, but
the glitter of them was plain enough.
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