“AREN’T you going to Los Pedroches?” Remedios asked Quentin one day. The two sisters and the old woman were sewing in the drawing-room.

“What’s doing there?” he asked.

“The Candelaria Picnic,” answered Rafaela.

“Are you going?”

“Yes, I believe so. We are going with our cousins.”

Quentin fell silent for a moment.

“Aren’t you going?” Remedios asked again.

“I? No. I don’t know any one.”

“Don’t you know us?” she asked.

“Yes; but I’d bother you....”

“Why?” asked Rafaela pleasantly.

“And if I did not bother you, I should be certain to annoy your cousins; perhaps they wouldn’t like me to bow to you.”

Rafaela became silent; implying, though perhaps unwittingly, that what Quentin had said might be true. So, somewhat embarrassed, he said:

“What do they do there?”

“Not much nowadays,” answered the old woman. “There are a few dances and supper parties ... but the best thing about it used to be the return home: it was the custom for every lad to bring a lass back to town on his horse’s croup.”

“Has that custom died out?” asked Quentin.

“Yes.”

“Why don’t they still follow it?”

“On account of the fights they had coming back,” answered the old woman. “Boys, and men too, took to scaring the horses, and some of the riders fell off and began to fight furiously with both fists and guns.”

“You seem to know all about it,” said Rafaela to the old woman. “Have you ever been in Los Pedroches?”

“Yes; with a sweetheart of mine who carried me behind him on his horse.”

“My! What a rascal!... What a rascal!” exclaimed Rafaela.

“When we reached Malmuerta,” the old servant continued, “they frightened our horse, so my sweetheart, who had a short fowling-piece on his saddle, made as if to shoot it, and the people couldn’t get away fast enough....”

Quentin decided to go to the picnic.

“I’m going to Los Pedroches, mother,” he said to Fuensanta.

“That’s good, my son,” she replied, “go out and have a good time.”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t any money.”

“I’ll give you what you need; and I’ll find you some riding clothes, too.”

Quentin hired a big horse with a cowboy saddle; then, following his mother’s instructions, he put on a short jacket covered with ribbons and braid, fringed leggings, a tasseled shawl across the saddle bow, and a broad-brimmed hat.

He mounted at the door of his house. He was a good horseman, and as he jumped into the saddle, he made his horse rear. He brought him down at once, waved to his mother who was on the balcony, and rode off at a smart pace.

He went out through the Puerta de Osario to the Campo de la Merced, under the Arco de la Malmuerta and turned his horse’s head toward the Carrera de la Fuensantilla. There he noticed the unusual exodus of people making their way in groups toward Los Pedroches.

It was a splendid February afternoon. The sun poured down like a golden rain upon the green countryside, and smiled in the fields of new wheat which were dotted with red flowers and yellow buds. Here and there a dark hut or a stack of straw surmounted by a cross arose in the broad expanse of cultivated lands.

Quentin rode swiftly along the highway, which was bordered at intervals by large, grey century-plants, from among whose pulpous branches rose flocks of chirping birds.

He reached the picnic-grounds: a meadow near the Los Pedroches ravine. The people were scattered over the meadow in groups. The bright and showy dresses of the girls shone in the sun afar off against the green background of the field. As Quentin drew near the fiesta-grounds, some groups were eating supper, and others were playing the guitar and dancing.

In some places, where the dancers were doubtless experts, curious onlookers crowded about them. An old man with side-whiskers was playing the guitar with great skill, and a dancer in a narrow-waisted suit was pursuing his graceful partner with his arms held high in the air; and one could hear the clacking of castanets, and the encouraging applause of the onlookers.

It was a peaceful happiness, dignified and serene. Girls in showy dresses, Manilla shawls, and with flowers in their hair, were strolling about, accompanied by sour-visaged dueÑas and proud youths.

A little apart from the centre of the picnic, the more wealthy families were lunching peacefully; while little boys and girls were screeching as they swung in the swings hung from the trees.

There were vendors of oranges and apples and walnuts and chestnuts; and taffy women with their little booths of sweets and brandy.

Quentin went around the grounds looking all about him, searching for his cousins; and at last, in a little unpopulated grove, he caught sight of them among a group of several boys and girls.

Remedios recognized Quentin when he was still some distance away, and waving her hand at him, she rose to meet him. Quentin rode up to her.

“Where are you going?” the girl inquired.

“For a little ride.”

“Do you want a cake?”

“If you will give....”

“Come on.”

Quentin dismounted, walked up to the group, gave his hand to Rafaela, and greeted the others with a bow. Undoubtedly Rafaela had informed her friends who the horseman was, for Quentin noticed that several of the girls looked at him curiously.

He took the cake that Remedios gave him, and a glass of wine.

“Won’t you sit down?” Rafaela asked him.

“Thank you, no. I’m going for a ride along the mountain.”

As he drew near Rafaela, Quentin noticed the look of hatred that one of the young men present cast at him.

“He’s a rival,” he thought.

From that instant, the two boys were consumed with hatred for each other. The young man was tall, blond, with a certain rusticity about him in spite of his elegant clothes. Quentin heard them call him Juan de Dios. The youth spoke in a rather uncultured manner, converting his s’s into z’s, his r’s into l’s, and vice versa. He gazed fixedly at Rafaela, and from time to time said to her:

“Why don’t you drink a little something?”

Rafaela thanked him with a smile. Among the girls were Rafaela’s two cousins; the elder, MarÍa de los Angeles, had a nose like a parrot, green pop-eyes, and a salient under lip; Transito, the younger, was better looking, but her expression, which was half haughty and half indifferent, did not captivate one’s sympathies. Like her sister, she had green eyes, and thin lips with a strange curve to them that gave her a cruel expression.

Transito questioned Quentin in a bantering and sarcastic tone; he replied to her pleasantly, with feigned modesty, and in purposely broken Spanish. Presently he announced his intention of going.

“What, are you going?” asked Rafaela.

“Yes.”

“Are you afraid of us?” said Transito.

“Afraid of being enchanted,” replied Quentin gallantly, as he bowed and went in search of his horse.

“Wait! Take me on the croup,” Remedios shouted.

“No, no; you’ll fall,” said Rafaela.

“No, I won’t,” replied the child.

“The horse is gentle,” Quentin put in.

“Very well then; you may take her for a while.”

Quentin mounted rapidly, and Remedios climbed upon the step of the carriage that stood near. Quentin rode up to her and stuck out his left foot for her to use as a support. The little girl stepped upon it, and seizing Quentin about the waist, leaped to the horse’s croup and threw her arms about the rider.

“See how well I do it,” said she to her sister, who was fearfully watching these manoeuvres.

“I see well enough.”

“Where shall we go?” Quentin asked the girl.

“Right through the picnic-grounds.”

They rode among the groups; the arrogance of the rider and the grace of Remedios with her red flower in her hair, attracted the attention of the crowd.

“There’s a pair for you!” said some as they watched them ride by; and she smiled with her shining eyes.

Following Remedios’ orders, Quentin rode back and forth among the places which she pointed out to him.

“Now let’s go to the mountain.”

Quentin rode up hill for half an hour.

The afternoon was drawing to a close; the shadows of the trees were lengthening on the grass; white clouds, solid as blocks of marble, with their under sides ablaze, floated slowly over the mountain; the air smelt of rosemary and thyme. Cordova appeared upon the plain enveloped in a cloud of golden dust; beyond her undulated low hills of vivid green, stretching in echelon one behind the other, until they were lost in the distance in a golden haze of vibrating light. Over the roofs of the city rose church towers, slate-covered cupolas, black, sharp-pointed cypresses. From between the walls of a garden, with a very tall and twisted trunk, a gigantic palm tree raised its head—like a spider stuck to the sky....

Quentin turned back with the idea of leaving Remedios with her sister.

“Well, well!” Rafaela exclaimed. “You certainly can’t complain. We’ve been waiting for you to go home with us. Come, get down.”

“No; he’s going to take me home—aren’t you, Quentin?”

“Whatever you wish.”

“Well, let’s be going.”

“We’re off!”

“Look out for jokers,” warned Rafaela’s cousin Transito.

They took the road cityward, riding among the groups who were returning from the fiesta.

They could see Cordova in the twilight with the last rays of the sun quivering upon its towers. In some houses the windows were commencing to light up; in the dark blue sky, the stars were beginning to appear.

Neither Quentin nor the girl spoke; they rode along in silence, swaying with the motion of the horse. They reached the Carrera de la Fuensantilla, and from there followed Las OllerÍas. At the first gate they came to, El Colodro, Quentin thought he saw a group that might have stationed itself there with the intention of frightening the horses of the passers-by; so he went on through the Arco de la Malmuerta to the Campo de la Merced.

Here there was a group of little boys and young men, one of whom had a whip.

“Be careful, child; hold on to me tightly,” said Quentin.

She squeezed the rider’s waist with her arms.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

The group of young people came toward Quentin, one of them brandishing the whip. Before they had time to frighten his horse, Quentin drove in his spurs and slackened his reins. The animal gave a jump, knocked down several of the jokers, and broke into a gallop, spreading consternation among the youngsters. When they had passed the Campo de la Merced, Quentin reined in his horse and began to walk again.

“How did you like that, little girl?” asked Quentin.

“Fine! Fine!” exclaimed Remedios, brimming over with delight. “They wanted to shoot us.”

“And they fell down.”

The girl laughed delightedly. Quentin guided his horse to the Puerta del Osario, and once through it, threaded his way along lonely alleyways. The horse went at a walk, his iron shoes resounding loudly on the pavement.

“Would you like me to treat you?” asked Quentin.

“Yes.”

They were passing a tavern called El Postiguillo; so Quentin stopped his horse, clapped his hands loudly twice, and the innkeeper appeared in the doorway.

“What does the little girl want?” said the man.

“Whatever you have,” answered Remedios.

“A few cakes, and two small glasses of Montilla?”

“Would you like that?” asked Quentin.

“Very much.”

They ate the cakes, drank the wine and went on their way. Just as they reached the Calle del Sol, a carriage stopped at the door, from which Rafaela, her cousins, and the blond young man descended. The latter, who helped the girls down, called to Remedios: “I’ll be with you in a moment!” But the girl pretended not to hear him, and called Juan. Quentin took the child by the waist and lifted her into the arms of the gardener; then he bowed, and turned his horse up the street.

When he reached his house, he found that his family had not yet returned from the picnic. He saw Palomares in the street and joined him; gave his horse to a boy to take to the livery stable, and, in the company of the clerk, entered a cafÉ. He told him how he had passed the afternoon, and then began to speak casually of his grandfather’s family.

“It looks as if they were about ruined, eh?”

“Yes; completely.”

“Still they must have some cash haven’t they?”

“Oof! The old man was very rich; more through his wife than himself. He is a fine man but very extravagant. When the rebel leader Gomez took possession of Cordova the old Marquis, who was then a Carlist, took him in and gave him thousands of dollars. He has always spent his money lavishly.”

“What about the son?”

“The son is nothing like his father. He is a disagreeable profligate.”

“And the son’s wife?”

“La Aceitunera? She’s a sinner of the first water.”

“Pretty, eh?”

“Rather! A fine lass with unbounded wit. When she left her husband, she went to live with Periquito GÁlvez; but now they say she is trotting about with a lieutenant. Just pull Juan the gardener’s tongue a bit, and he’ll tell you some curious things.”

“Didn’t the family ever have any relative clever enough to save it from ruin?”

“Yes; the Marquis has a brother called El Pollo Real; but he is a selfish sort who doesn’t want to mix in anything for fear they will ask him for money. Have you never seen him?”

“No.”

“Well, El Pollo Real has been a Tenorio. Now he is a half paralytic. They say that he is devoting himself to writing the history of his love affairs, and has hired a painter to paint pictures of all his mistresses. He’s been at it for years. The first artist he had was a friend of mine from Seville, and he used to tell me that El Pollo Real would give him a miniature or a photograph for him to enlarge, and then he would explain what the subjects looked like: whether blondes or brunettes, tall or short, marchionesses or gipsies.”

“Do you know Rafaela?”

“Do I know her! Rather! Poor little girl!”

“Why ‘poor little girl’?” exclaimed Quentin, feeling cold from head to foot.

“The girl has had hard luck.”

“Why, what happened to her?”

“Oh, affairs of a wealthy family, which are always miserable. After she was thirteen or fourteen years old, Rafaela was engaged to the son of a Cordovese count. It seemed as if the two children loved each other, and they made a fine couple. They were always seen together; going for walks, and in the theatre; when it began to be rumoured that the Marquis’ family was on its way to ruin. Then her sweetheart went away to Madrid. Month after month went by, and the lad did not return; finally some one brought the news that he had married a young millionairess in Madrid. Rafaela was ill for several months, and since that time she has never been as well or as gay as she used to be.”

Quentin listened to this story profoundly mortified. He no longer cared to ask questions; he arose, left the cafÉ, and took leave of Palomares.

He was unable to sleep that night.

“Why this anger and mortification?” he asked himself. “What difference does it make whether Rafaela has had a sweetheart or not? Aren’t you going to work out your problem, Quentin? Aren’t you going to follow out your plan in life? Aren’t you a good Boeotian? Aren’t you a swine in the herd of Epicurus?”

In spite of Quentin’s efforts to convince himself that he ought not to be irritated, it was impossible to do so. Merely to think that a man, probably a young whipper-snapper, had scorned Rafaela, offended him in the most mortifying manner.