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Hewasawareofnothingelse—exceptthatthesumofitwastheexultantfeelingofaction,ofhisowncapacity,ofhisbody’sprecision,ofitsresponsetohiswill.Andwithnotimetoknowit,butknowingit,seizingitwithhissensespastthecensorshipofhismind,hewasseeingablacksilhouettewithredraysshootingfrombehinditsshoulders,itselbows,itsangularcurves,theredrayscirclingthroughsteamlikethelongneedlesofspotlights,followingthemovementsofaswift,expert,confidentbeingwhomhehadneverseenbeforeexceptineveningclothesunderthelightsofballrooms.
Therewasnotimetoformwords,tothink,toexplain,butheknewthatthiswastherealFranciscod’Anconia,thiswaswhathehadseenfromthefirstandloved—theworddidnotshockhim,becausetherewasnowordinhismind,therewasonlyajoyousfeelingthatseemedlikeaflowofenergyaddedtohisown.
Totherhythmofhisbody,withthescorchingheatonhisfaceandthewinternightonhisshoulderblades,hewasseeingsuddenlythatthiswasthesimpleessenceofhisuniverse:theinstantaneousrefusaltosubmittodisaster,theirresistibledrivetofightit,thetriumphantfeelingofhisownabilitytowin.HewascertainthatFranciscofeltit,too,thathehadbeenmovedbythesameimpulse,thatitwasrighttofeelit,rightforbothofthemtobewhattheywere—hecaughtglimpsesofasweat-streakedfaceintentuponaction,anditwasthemostjoyousfacehehadeverseen.
