QUENTIN was worried, and in spite of his two pistols and the sword-cane that he carried, he feared that the first chance they got, they would set a trap for him and leave him in the same condition as they had left Cornejo.

He was very mistrustful of MarÍa Lucena, because she was beginning to hate him and was capable of doing him almost any ill turn.

Some two weeks after the nocturnal attack, Quentin went to the CafÉ del Recreo. As he was learning to be very cautious, before entering he looked through a window and saw MarÍa Lucena talking to an elegantly-dressed gentleman. He waited a moment, and when a waiter went by, he said to him:

“See here, who is that gentleman there?”

“The clean-shaven one dressed in black?”

“Yes.”

“SeÑor GÁlvez.”

“Periquito GÁlvez?”

“SÍ, SeÑor.”

Quentin entered the cafÉ and pretended not to see the fellow. He noticed that MarÍa Lucena was more pleasant to him than ever before.

“There’s something up,” he said to himself. “They are getting something ready for me.”

Quentin was not jealous, he was already very tired of MarÍa Lucena, and if any one had made off with her, he would have thanked him rather than otherwise.

“Between the two of them,” thought Quentin, referring to GÁlvez and MarÍa, “they are plotting something against me.”

Presently, Quentin got up, and left the cafÉ without even nodding to MarÍa.

“I’m going to see Pacheco,” he murmured.

He was going along the Calle del Arco Real, when he looked back and saw two men following him.

“Devil take you,” he remarked, seizing a pistol.

He raised the muffler of his cloak, and began to walk very rapidly. It was a cold, disagreeable night; the crescent moon shone fitfully from behind the huge clouds that were passing over it. Quentin tried to shake off his pursuers by gliding rapidly through tortuous alleyways, but the two men were doubtless well acquainted with the twists and turns of the city, for if he happened to lose them for an instant, he soon saw them behind him again.

After a half-hour’s chase, Quentin noticed that there were no longer only two pursuers, but four of them, and that with them was a watchman. Presently there were six of them.

He sought safety in his legs, and began to run like a deer. He came out opposite the Mosque, went down by the Triunfo Column, through the Puerta Romana, and along the bridge until he reached the foot of the tower of La Calahorra. Everywhere he heard the whistles of the watchmen.

At the exit of the bridge, there were a couple of guardias civiles. Perhaps they were not warned of his flight; but suppose they were?

Quentin retreated. From the bridge he could see the Cathedral, and the black wall of the Mosque, whose battlements were outlined against the sky.

A vapour arose from the river; below him the dark water was boiling against the arches of the bridge; in the distance it looked like quicksilver, and the houses on the Calle de la Ribera were reflected trembling on its surface.

As he turned toward the city, Quentin saw his pursuers at the bridge entrance.

“They’ve trapped me!” he exclaimed in a rage.

They were evidently reconnoitering the bridge on both sides, for the watchman’s lantern oscillated from left to right, and from right to left.

Quentin crept toward one of the vaulted niches in the middle of the bridge.

“Shall I get in there? They will find that easier than anything else. What shall I do?”

To throw himself into the river was too dangerous. To attack his pursuers was absurd.

As if to add to his misfortunes, the moon was coming from behind the cloud that had hidden it, and was shedding its light over the bridge. Quentin climbed into the niche.

What irritated him most was being made prisoner in such a stupid way. He did not fear prison, but rather the loss of prestige with the people. Those who had been enthusiastic over his deeds, when they learned that he had been made prisoner, would begin to look upon him as a common, everyday person, and that did not suit him in the least.

“I must do something ... anything. What can I do?”

To face his pursuers with his pistol from the niche would be gallant, but it would mean exposing himself to death, or going to prison.

Turning about in the niche, Quentin stumbled over a huge rock.

“Let me see. We’ll try a little fake.”

He removed his cloak and wrapped the stone in it, making a sort of dummy. Then he took the bundle in his arms and stepped to the railing of the bridge.

“There he is! There he is!” shouted his pursuers.

Quentin tipped the dummy toward the river.

“He’s going to jump!”

Quentin gave a loud shout, and pushed the stone wrapped in the cloak into the water, where it splashed noisily. This done, he jumped back; and then, on hands and knees, returned quickly to his niche, climbed into it, and pressed himself against the inside wall.

His pursuers ran by the niches without looking into either of them.

“How awful!” said one of the men.

“I can’t see him.”

“I think I can.”

“Let’s go to the mill at El Medio,” said one who appeared to be the leader. “There ought to be a boat there. Watchman, you stay here.”

Quentin heard this conversation, trembling in his hole; he listened to their footsteps, and when they grew fainter in the distance, he got up and looked through a narrow loophole that was cut in the niche. The watchman had placed his lamp upon the railing of the bridge, and was looking into the river.

“I have no time to lose,” murmured Quentin.

Quickly he took off his tie and his kerchief, jumped to the bridge without making the slightest noise, and crept toward the watchman. Simultaneously one hand fell upon the watcher’s neck, and the other upon his mouth.

“If you call out, I’ll throw you into the river,” said Quentin in a low voice.

The man scarcely breathed from fright. Quentin gagged him with the handkerchief, then tied his hands behind him, took off his cap, placed his own hat upon the watchman’s head, and carrying him like a baby, thrust him into the niche.

“If you try to get out of there, you’re a dead man,” said Quentin.

This done, he put on the watchman’s hat, seized his pike and lantern, and walked slowly toward the bridge gate.

There were two men there, members of the guardia civil.

“There! There he goes,” Quentin said to them, pointing toward the meadow of El Corregidor.

The two men began to run in the indicated direction. Quentin went through the bridge gate, threw the lantern and the pike to the ground, and began to run desperately. He kept hearing the whistles of the watchmen; when he saw a lantern, he slipped through some alley and fairly flew along. At last he was able to reach El Cuervo’s tavern, where he knocked frantically upon the door.

“Who is it?” came from within.

“I, Quentin. They’re chasing me.”

El Cuervo opened the door, and lifted his lantern to Quentin’s face to make sure of his identity.

“All right. Come in. Take the light.”

Quentin took the lantern, and the innkeeper slid a couple of formidable-looking bolts into place.

“Now give me the lantern, and follow me.”

El Cuervo crossed the tavern, came out into a dirty courtyard, opened a little door, and, followed by Quentin, began to climb a narrow stairway which was decorated with cobwebs. They must have reached the height of the second story when the innkeeper stopped, fastened the lantern to a beam on the wall, and holding on to some beam ends that were sticking from the wall, climbed up to a high garret.

“Let me have the lantern,” said El Cuervo.

“Here it is.”

“Now, you come up.”

The garret was littered with laths and rubbish. El Cuervo, crouching low, went to one end of it, where he put out the light, slid between two beams that scarcely looked as if they would permit the passage of a man, and disappeared. Quentin, not without a great effort, did the same, and found himself upon the ridge of a roof.

“Do you see that garret?” said El Cuervo.

“Yes.”

“Well, go over to it, keeping always on this side; push the window, which will give way, and enter; go down four or five steps; find a door; open it with this key, and you will be in your room—safer than the King of Spain.”

“How about getting out?”

“You will be notified.”

“And eating?”

“Your meals will be sent to you. When SeÑor JosÉ gets back, he’ll come to see you.”

“Good; give me the key.”

“Here it is. AdiÓs, and good luck.”

The innkeeper disappeared whence he had come. Quentin, following the example of a cat, went tearing across the tiles.

From that height he could see the city, caressed by the silver light of the moon. Through the silence of the night came the murmuring of the river. In the background, far above the roofs of the town, he could make out the dark shadow of Sierra Morena, with its white orchards bathed in the bluish light, its great bulk silhouetted against the sky, and veiled by a light mist.

Quentin reached the attic, pushed open the window, descended the stairs as he had been told, opened the door, lit a match, and had scarcely done so when he heard a shriek of terror. Quentin dropped the match in his fright. There was some one in the garret!

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“Oh, sir,” replied a cracked voice, “for God’s sake don’t harm me.”

When Quentin saw that he was being begged for help, he realized that there was no danger, so he lit another match, and with it, a lamp. By the light of this, he saw a woman sitting up in a bed, her head covered with curlpapers.

“Have no fear, SeÑora,” said Quentin; “I must have made a mistake and entered the wrong room.”

“Well, if that is the case, why don’t you go?”

“The fact is, I’m surprised that it should be so. This was the only garret in the roof. Would you like an explanation? El Cuervo, the landlord of yonder corner tavern, told me to come here; that this was his garret.”

“Well, I came here because JosÉ Pacheco brought me.”

“Pacheco?”

“Yes.”

“Then, this is the right garret.”

“Do you know Pacheco?” asked the woman.

“He is a good friend of mine. Do you know him too?”

“Yes, sir. He is my lover,” sighed the woman. Quentin felt an overpowering desire to laugh.

“Then, my lady,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I am pursued by the police, and cannot leave this place.”

“Nor can I, my good sir, permit you to remain in my bedroom.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go and sleep outside.”

“Where? Upon the roof? You don’t know what kind of a night it is.”

“You are not very gallant, SeÑor.”

“Pneumonia would be less gallant with me, SeÑora.”

“Do you think that I am going to allow you to remain in this room all night?”

“See here, SeÑora, I’m not by any means trying to violate you. Allow me to take a mattress, and stretch out upon the floor.”

“Impossible.”

“If you are afraid, leave the lamp lit. Furthermore, for your better tranquillity, and as a means of defence for your honour, I hand you these two pistols. They are loaded,” said Quentin, as he cautiously unloaded them.

“Very well, then; I agree,” replied the woman.

Quentin took a mattress, spread it upon the floor, and threw himself upon it.

“Woe unto you, SeÑor,” said the woman in a terrible voice, “if you dare to take any undue liberties.”

Quentin, who was tired, began in a very few minutes to snore like a water-carrier. The woman sat up in bed and scrutinized him closely.

“Oh! What an unpoetic person!” she murmured.

When Quentin awoke and found himself in the room, where a ray of light poured in through a high, closed window, he got up to open it. The poetic woman at that moment was snoring, with a pistol clasped in her fingers.

Quentin opened the window, and as he did so, he discovered that a cord was attached to the window lock. He jerked it, found that it was heavy, and pulled it toward him until a covered basket appeared.

“Here’s breakfast,” announced Quentin.

And sure enough; inside was a roast chicken, bread, a bottle of wine, and rolled in the napkin, a paper upon which was written in huge letters:

“Do not come out; they are still hanging around the street.”

Quentin threw the basket out of the window, and lowered it the full length of the string. He was preparing to eat his breakfast with a good appetite, when the woman opened her eyes.

“Good morning, SeÑora,” said Quentin. “They have sent me my breakfast. I’ll treat if you wish. I’ll go out for a stroll on the roof, and meanwhile, you can be dressing yourself. Then, if you would like to heat the food....”

“Oh, no. No cooking,” replied she. “I feel very ill.”

“Well, then; we’ll eat the chicken cold.”

Quentin went out on the roof. He took out his pencil and notebook, and busied himself writing an article for La VÍbora.

When he had finished, he went back to the garret.

“I’m not dressed yet,” said the woman.

Quentin returned to the roof; wrote two selections for the paper, one insulting the Government and the other the Mayor; then he crawled about the roof. On an azotea some distance away, a girl was arranging some flower pots. Probably she was pretty.... Quentin drew near to watch her.

He was surprised in this espionage by Pacheco, who came on all fours along the ridge pole.

“Good day, comrade,” said Pacheco.

“Hello, my friend.”

“I must congratulate you, comrade; what you did yesterday is one of the funniest things I ever heard of.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Why, they talk of nothing else in the whole town! This morning, some were still betting that your corpse was at the bottom of the river, and they went out in boats; but instead of the fish they expected to catch, they pulled out a rock wrapped in a cloak. All Cordova is laughing at the affair. You certainly were a good one.”

“But listen, comrade,” said Quentin, pointing to the garret, “what kind of a lark have you in that cage?”

“Ah! That’s true! It’s a crazy woman. She says she’s in love with me, and in order to get rid of her, I brought her to this place, where she can’t bother me.”

“How did she get here? Along the roofs, too?”

“Yes; disguised as a man. In her pantaloons she had a look about her that was enough to make you want to kick her in the stomach and throw her into the courtyard.”

“Very well, then; let’s go to the garret, where breakfast is waiting. The thing I hate about this, comrade, is not being able to get out.”

“Well, it’s impossible now; the police have their eyes peeled.”

“And haven’t they tried to arrest you, my friend?”

“Me? They can’t do it.... I have a pack of bloodhounds that can smell from here everything that goes on in the other end of Cordova. Just give one of them a message, and he tears through the atmosphere faster than a greyhound.”

They knocked at the garret.

“I’m not dressed yet,” came from within.

“Come, SeÑora,” exclaimed Quentin. “You are abusing my appetite. If you don’t want to open the door, give me the basket. I warn you, Pacheco is here.”

When she heard this, the woman opened the door and threw herself into the arms of the bandit. She had her hair crimped, covered with little bow knots, and was wearing a white wrapper.

Quentin took the basket.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll leave you two alone if you wish.”

“No!” exclaimed Pacheco in terror; then turning to the woman, he added: “This gentleman and I have some important matters to discuss. We are gambling with life.”

“First we’ll eat a little,” said Quentin. “That’s an idea for you.”

“An alimentary one.”

They divided the chicken.

“And do they say in town who it was that ordered them to pursue me?” asked Quentin.

“Everybody knows that it was La Aceitunera,” answered Pacheco. “You insisted upon discrediting her, but she grew strong under the punishment, and wants no more stings from La VÍbora. Then, so they say, as she seemed no mere stack of straw to the Governor, she allowed herself to be flirted with, and begged him to throw you into jail, and to stop your paper.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“It will be done. He does what he wants here,” replied the bandit. “You already know what they say in Cordova: ‘Charity in El Potro, Health in the cemetery, and Truth in the fields.’”

“Then we’ll go into the fields to look for it,” said Quentin.

“Not that”—answered Pacheco. “I won’t allow you to lose out; but if you want to give that woman a good scare....”

“Have you thought of some way?”

“Not yet; are you capable of doing something on a large scale?”

“I am capable of anything, comrade.”

“Good. Wait for me until tonight.”

“Very well,” said Quentin. “Will you take these papers to the printer for me?”

“What are they?”

“Poison for La VÍbora, or articles, if you like that better.”

“Give them to me. I’ll be here at seven.” Then the bandit, turning to the woman, said: “AdiÓs, my soul!”

“Won’t you stay a little while, JosÉ?” she asked.

“No. Life is too short,” he answered gruffly, and went out through the attic window.