“Cogan said that if he was a bull, no doubt he’d prefer the bull-ring, but would the bull?

“‘Of a certainty, yes—­if he was a blooded bull—­yes,’ said Ferrero.  ’A high class bull always.  He should be keeled no other way.  No.  And in the ring there was always a hope to make man pay—­but in a slaughter-house—­p-ff-f.  And some day, my friend, the bull will obtain his revenge.  Have no doubt of it.  Bull-fighters die one way—­all matadors surely.  Let them attend to it long enough and no fear—­some day the bull shall get heem.  View Torellas now.  He is strong, brave, agile, superb, triumphant as he stands there, let him continue and some day a slip shall come and he shall go.’

“Cogan said no doubt, at the same time wishing he were in the place of Torellas.  The matador—­he had had his supreme moment.

“Cogan looked up to the Roca’s party.  Her father was still wildly cheering Torellas.  Her mother and Guavera were applauding, too, but their applause did not have the quality of Senor Roca’s.  Valera’s face was still hidden by her fan.  Cogan looked to the matador.  He seemed to be limp, apathetic.  ‘The reaction,’ Cogan thought, and Torellas, being so young and such a high-strung fellow, maybe it was only natural, and yet, thinking a moment later, it had come rather soon for an athlete in his fine condition.

“In the sand lay the sword with which he had killed the bull, and while the people were cheering, stamping, hurling words of applause, endearment, love, at Torellas, he picked it up.  Already the President of the Republic was standing up in his box with the cloak and hat of the master, to hand them back to him with words of appreciation, and to him and the crowd Torellas was bowing.

“Cogan, with eyes only for Torellas and the Rocas, did not see the beginning of what happened next.  He first heard a cry, then a loud voice or two, then a hundred, a thousand voices.  He turned.  The gate which held the next bull in confinement had been opened or else it had burst out.  The gateman was there, but with despairing hands on high, and across the ring the fresh bull was coming.  Torellas was standing with his back to the gate, and not twenty feet from it, almost in the spot where he had killed his bull, and wiping the sword blade in a fold of Cogan’s cape, which he was now holding loosely.  He was looking up at the Rocas and seemed at first not to hear the cries.  He turned—­slowly, with horrible slowness, Cogan thought, when he recalled how fast he could move when he wanted to.

“He turned too slowly.  The bull caught him sideways, and when he came down, it was astraddle of the bull’s back, from which he fell to the sand beside the bull, who had wheeled and was waiting.  He must have been stunned when he landed, for the sword and cape had fallen from him, and he lay motionless.  The bull lunged like lightning.  The horn went into the left thigh, just above the knee, and, not done then, the bull ripped on upward with that same horn until it came out under the matador’s left breast.