The sword up to this time he held
loose in his right hand, palm up and shoulder-high, with the blade
horizontal, the point toward the bull. His left arm held forward, well
clear of the body, was the final effect in the miracle of his balance.
Standing like that, he was planted solidly enough on the earth, but he
gave out, too, such an impression of energy, force, power bottled up,
that he made you feel that he could fly if he tried.
"Standing so, he didn't seem to breathe. But the crowd were breathing
for him. From the seats behind him Cogan could hear, almost feel, their
hot breaths.
"The bull now stopped and studied this last enemy. The others had come
at him in groups, but here was one all alone.
"The bull stood with half-lowered head, weaving it from side to side,
like when from behind the barrier he first appeared to the crowd. He
eyed the red cape. It must have flamed like blood in the sun to him. His
nostrils, his eyes, were flaming like blood, too. He ceased his weaving,
raised, lowered his head, and bounded toward Torellas. And everybody
there knew that it was the bull or the matador this time. The red cape
of the matador seemed to leap forward, no loose ends now for a flying
horn to catch, but a tight roll around the matador's left forearm.
Standing now four feet away Torellas, to blind the charging bull as the
capeadors had done, had to step close in.
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