Carlos had never seen his friend perform so well. His initial passes with the pink and yellow capote were brilliant. It wrapped around his body as he swirled gracefully in a daring chicuelina. The bull wheeled to charge again, and this time Jose half turned his back to the animal for a series of faroles, dropping to his knee for a final spectacular display. The crowd was on its feet and the regularly repeated shouts of Ole! echoed in Carlos ears.

Jose retired while the picadores did their grisly work; but not for longhe asked permission of the presidente to dismiss the pikes early, and so further earned the admiration of the crowd, as the bull would not be as weakened as usual. "He must be crazy," thought Carlos, and his eyes widened in fear when he saw Jose enter the ring clutching a pair of red and blue banderillas in his hand. The crowd roared their approval. Seldom did they witness the exciting spectacle of a matador attaching his own banderillas. As he cited the bull, his hips moved languidly and he swung forward, one foot carefully placed in front of the other. Carlos tingled at the sight, and mentally he could feel the roll of those taut thighs as they pressed against his own.

Ole! And Jose leapt nimbly to one side as the bull thundered past, the barbed sticks tossing up and down. The second pair were inserted just as neatly; but Jose declined to place the third-not a sign that he lacked courage, but that he wanted the bull stronger, and hence more dangerous still.

The third suerte, the final act-the one of death-had come. Formally, Jose walked to the presidencia and bowed his respects to the presidente. Then he turned slightly to his left and gazed into the sobrepuertas. His eyes met Carlos', and, as he did every time, he silently dedicated the bull to his amor. All the senoritas in the vicinity fluttered and squeaked, thinking the dedication was for them. But only Jose and Carlos knew the truth; and this precious moment had become, strangely and uniquely, in front of twenty thousand people, their most intimate.

Carlos was as ecstatic as the crowd at the perfect passes executed by Jose with the muleta, the small red cape. Again and again the Oles' rang out, as again and again Jose baffled the bull with his wizardry. Finally, the moment of truth came, and with one deep, certain thrust, the brave bull fell to his knees and rolled to his side. With the ears, tail, and one hoof awarded him, the exultant Jose proudly made his triumphant vuelta around the ring, to the shouts and applause of the audience, which was in a frenzy of joy. Waving white handkerchiefs, they showered their idol with flowers, hats and wineskins, and joined together to chant to accolade "To-re-ro! To-re-ro!" Carlos sat quietly as he watched the scene, his heart aglow with pride-and love.

In the hour that followed, both Pablo and Jose Maria dealt expertly with their second bulls, and as far as the crowd was concerned both matadores were neck and neck in their contest.

Now, with the sun about to dip down behind the top of the stand, and almost the whole plaza de toros in shadow, Pablo Rojas started the final suerte of his last bull of the day. He passed his muleta skillfully-too skillfully, Carlos thought. "Is he getting careless in his boldness?" he wondered to himself.

As the bull wheeled and turned in a series of fast giraldillas, Pablo, his feet firm in the scuffed sand, his back stiff and straight, raised his brown face to stare at the crowd in supreme confidence, as the bull dashed under the

raised cape.

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