Word: scarlets
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...steps, sharpening conversations. Legates, priests, guards, swarms of distinguished visitors came and went busily or stood in knots waiting. The sheen of myriad deep-dyed silks, the richness of furs and laces and sparkling gems moved everywhere in splendid profusion. Occasionally way was made for the slow, scarlet dignity of a cardinal, gala in ceremonial robes, snowy linens and flashing rings, come to present solemn Christmas greetings to the Pope...
Toward sundown, the stir hushed. All was ready and the imminence pressed to reveal itself. The doors of the Pontiff's apartment trembled, parted, delivered up a gorgeous procession led by a canopied sedan chair on the shoulders of twelve scarlet-clad sediarii. Down vast corridors, down wide steps into the Sistine Chapel moved the procession. There the canopied chair opened and Pope Pius XI stepped out, knelt, worshipped. Entering the chair again, he had himself carried on to the entrance to the great nave of St. Peter's, his followers lowers carrying candles and chanting liturgical verses...
...haughty man of the hour turns his back on the bull, receives his sword and muleta (a brilliant scarlet cloth hung from a short stick) and addresses himself to the president of the fight. He asks permission to commit tauricide and, that received, next dedicates the animal to a portion of the arena, or to a lady, or to a wealthy patron, by tossing his hat into the stand. When the hat comes back, its owner is confident of finding therein some costly gift...
...wealth (in 1902, Mazzantini and his men cleared some $40,000 in three months in Mexico), but public honor and license such as is unknown even by ball-players and pugilists in the U. S. Wherever they go in public, they are known by their gorgeous dress (black broadcloth, scarlet sash, white hose, shiny pumps). It is an honor to sit with them in cafes, to speak with them or be owed money by them. After a fight, the town they are in is theirs? wine and women complete...
...middle of the yellow arena, with a blue arch of sky above, dressed in black and scarlet, stood a slim ama- teur matador. The bull charged. That matador took a single deliberate step aside. The bull hammered past. Into his path again stepped the matador. He danced, he mocked, he swung his scarlet cloak. But this bull was a thief, as they say; he "knew Latin." Drumming hoofs, a broken shout, a thud. "Maria. He is dead!" gasped the onlookers. So ended the last bullfight of Ignacio Zuloaga*, famed Spanish painter...