fourteen inches of tough gristle and driving a knife through it.  He could do it, of course he could, or any man, but he would have to brace legs and back to get enough power in the stroke.  But to stop to brace for that stroke and a rampant seventeen-hundred-pound bull piling down on top of you, and to pick out a spot on his neck no bigger than a fifty-cent piece!  And if you missed your spot!  Or were a little bit slow!  Even in being too soon there was danger, if you could imagine a man being too quick.

“That was how Cogan looked at it, and he felt himself worrying for Torellas.  He looked toward the Rocas.  The mother and Guavera were no longer talking, and Valera was again drawn back between them, but her father was leaning well forward with eyes fixed on Torellas.

“There was great shouting when Torellas faced the bull—­and then a great silence.  Torellas moved his cape-draped forearm—­up, down, coaxingly.  The bull headed for him.  Torellas stepped aside.  The bull passed on and wheeled.  Torellas took half a dozen dancing steps.  The bull followed.  Torellas waved his arm, the bull charged.  Torellas leaped easily to one side.  The bull passed on.  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.  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.