SPRINGER was somewhat taken aback when he saw Quentin enter his store, and he rose to his feet and said, turning a trifle pale:

“I can imagine why you have come.”

“You can? It would be rather hard. But first do me the favour of giving me a few pesetas with which to pay the coachman.”

The Swiss opened a drawer and gave him two dollars. Quentin paid the coachman, and returned to the watch store.

“Boy,” he said to his friend, “I came here because you are the only trustworthy person I know.”

“Thanks,” said Springer sourly.

“I would like you to keep a large amount of money for me,” continued Quentin as he held out the pocketbook.

“How much is it?”

“I don’t know, I’m going to see.”

Quentin opened the purse and began counting the bills.

“Before you place this trust in me,” said the Swiss with the air of a man making a violent decision, “I have something to tell you—as a loyal friend. Something that may annoy you.”

“What is it?” asked Quentin, fearing that the low trick he had played on the Count of DoÑa Mencia had become known in the city.

“MarÍa Lucena and I have come to an understanding—I cannot deceive a true friend like you....”

Quentin gazed in astonishment at the Swiss, and seeing him so affected, felt like bursting into laughter; but laughter seemed improper under the circumstances.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely. “I was thinking of leaving Cordova, and now, knowing this, I shall go as soon as possible.”

“And it will not cool your friendship?”

“Not in the least.”

Springer affectionately pressed his friend’s hand.

“Well, will you keep this money for me?”

“Yes; give it to me.”

The Swiss placed the bills in an envelope.

“What must I do with it?”

“I’ll let you know; I shall probably tell you to send it to me in Madrid in various quantities.”

“Good; it shall be done.”

The Swiss climbed the spiral staircase that went from the back room to the main floor, and returned presently, saying:

“I’ve put it away.”

They were chatting together, when Springer’s father entered hurriedly.

“There’s a riot in the town,” he announced from the door.

“Is there? What is going on?”

“They have killed a bandit ... Pacheco, I think they told me his name was.”

“Your friend. Did you know it?” the Swiss asked Quentin.

“No,” he answered calmly. “He must have done something foolish.”

“Let’s ask about it in the streets.”

The father and son and Quentin went out to Las Tendillas. They passed from group to group, listening to the comments, and at one of them where there seemed to be a well-informed gentleman, they stopped.

“How did his death occur?” asked Springer’s father.

“Well, like this. Pacheco entered by the bridge, and crossed the city till he reached the barracks in the Plaza de la Trinidad, where it seems that the General, when he noticed the riot and uproar, and when he heard them shout ‘Long live General Pacheco!’ asked: ‘Who is that fellow they call General? I’m the only General here. ‘It’s Pacheco,’ a lieutenant answered. ‘The people are calling him a General of Liberty.’—‘The bandit?’—‘SÍ, SeÑor.’ Then the General, seeing that the crowd was coming toward the barracks, ordered two soldiers to take their posts with their guns sticking through the cracks in the shutters. When Pacheco came opposite the barracks, he shouted several times: ‘Long live Liberty! Long live the Revolution!’ instantly two shots rang out, and the man fell from his horse, dead.”

All listened to the story, and after it was finished there was a series of remarks.

“That was treachery,” said one.

“A trap they set for him.”

“They’ve wickedly deceived that man.”

“Deceived him? Why?” Springer’s father asked of a man in a blouse who had just made the assertion.

“Because they had promised him a pardon,” replied he of the blouse. “Everybody knows that.”

“But promising a pardon, and entering the city the way he did—like a conqueror—are two very different things,” rejoined the watch-maker.

“This is going to make a big noise,” replied the man.

They returned to the watch-maker’s shop, and as the other stores were closed, the Swiss closed his also.

“Would you like to dine with us?” said Springer to Quentin.

“Indeed I should!”

They climbed the spiral stairs to the floor above, and Springer presented Quentin to his mother; a pleasant woman, thin, smiling, very active and vivacious.

They dined; after dinner, the three men lit their pipes, and Springer’s father spoke enthusiastically of his home town.

“My town is a great place,” he said to Quentin with a smile.

“What is it?”

“Zurich. Ah! If you could see it!...”

“But father, he has seen Paris and London.”

“Oh! That makes no difference. I’ve known many people from Paris and Vienna who were astounded when they saw Zurich.”

Springer’s father and mother, though they had been in Cordova for over thirty years, did not speak Spanish very well.

What a difference there was between that home, and the house where Quentin had lived with MarÍa Lucena and her mother! Here there was no talk of marquises, or counts, or actors, or toreadors, or ponies; their only subjects of conversation were work, improvements in industry, art, and music.

“So you are leaving us?” asked Springer’s father.

“Yes. This place is dead,” replied Quentin.

“No, no—not that,” replied the younger Springer. “It isn’t dead; Cordova is merely asleep. All the kings have punished it. Its natural, its own civilization has been suppressed, and they have endeavoured to substitute another for it. And even to think that a town can go on living prosperously with ideas contrary to its own, and under laws contrary to its customs and instincts, is an outrage.”

“My dear lad,” rejoined Quentin rather cynically, “I don’t care about the cause for it all. What I know is that one cannot live here.”

“That is the truth,” asserted the older Springer. “One can attempt nothing new here, because it will turn out badly. No one does his part in throwing off this inertia. No one works.”

“Don’t say that, father.”

“What your father says, is right,” continued Quentin “and not only is that true, but the activity of the few who do work, annoys and often offends those who do nothing. For instance: I, who have done nothing so far but live like a rowdy, have friends and even admirers. If I had devoted myself to work, everybody would look upon me as a good-for-nothing, and from time to time, secretly, they would place a stone in my way for me to stumble over.”

“No, it would not be a stone,” said Springer, “it would be a grain of sand.”

“Still more outrageous,” rejoined Quentin.

“No,” added his friend, “because it would not be done with malice. These people, like nearly all Spaniards, are living an archaic life. Every one here is surrounded by an enormous cloud of difficulties. The people are all dead, and their brains are not working. Spain is a body suffering from anchylosis of the joints; the slightest movement causes great pain; consequently, in order to progress, she will have to proceed slowly,—not by leaps.”

“But among all this rabble of lawyers and soldiers and priests and pawn-brokers, do you believe there is one person who is the least bit sane?” asked Quentin.

“I think not,” the father broke in. “There are no elements of progress here; there are no men who are pushing on, as there are in my country.”

“I think there are,” replied his son; “but those who are, and they stand alone, end by not seeing the reality of things, and even turn pernicious. It is as if in our shop here, we found the wheel of a tower clock among the wheels of pocket watches. It would be no good at all to us; it would not be able to fit in with any other wheel. Take the Marquis of Adarve, who was a good and intelligent man; well, now he passes for a half-wit, and he is, partly—because as a reaction against the others, he reached the other extreme. He carries an automatic umbrella, a mechanical cigar-case, and a lot of other rare trifles. The people call him a madman.”

“All you have to be here,” said the older Springer, “is either a farmer or a money-lender.”

“The vocations in which you don’t have to work,” Quentin asserted. “The Spaniard’s ideal is: to work like a Moor, and to earn money like a Jew. That is also my ideal,” he said for his own benefit.

“As we were saying before,” added the younger Springer; “it is an archaic life, directed by romantic, hidalguesque ideas....”

“Ah, no!” replied Quentin. “You are absolutely wrong there. There is none of your romance, nor of your hidalgos; it is prose, pure prose. There is more romance in the head of one Englishman, than in the heads of ten Spaniards, especially if those Spaniards are Andalusians. They are very discreet, friend Springer; we are very discreet, if you like that better. A great deal of eloquence, a lot of enthusiastic and impetuous talk, a great deal of flourish; a superficial aspect of ingenuous and candid confusion; but back of it all, a sure, straight line. Men and women;—most discreet. Believe me! There is exaltation without, and coldness within.”

It was time to work, and the two Springers went down to their shop.

“Do you see?” said the Swiss to Quentin, as he sat in his chair and fastened his lens to his eye, “perhaps you are right in what you say, but I like to think otherwise. I am romantic, and like to imagine that I am living among hidalgos and fine ladies.... There you have me—a poor Swiss plebeian. And I am so accustomed to it, that when I go away from Cordova, I immediately feel homesick for my shop, my books, and the little concerts my mother and I have in which we play Beethoven and Mozart.”

Quentin gazed at Springer as at a strange and absurd being, and began to walk up and down the store. Suddenly he paused before his friend.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you think that I could deceive you, give you disloyal advice through interest or evil passion?”

“No; what do you mean by that?”

“Don’t compromise yourself with MarÍa Lucena.”

“Why?”

“Because she is a perverse woman.”

“That’s because you hate her.”

“No; I know her because I have lived with her without the slightest feeling of affection; and even so she was more selfish and cold than I was. She is a woman who thinks she has a heart because she has sex. She weeps, laughs, appears to be good, seems ingenuous: sex. Like some lascivious and cruel animal, in her heart she hates the male. If you approach her candidly, she will destroy your life, she will alienate you from your father and mother, she will play with you most cruelly.”

“Do you really believe that?” asked the Swiss.

“Yes, it is the truth, the pure truth. Now,” Quentin added, “if you are like a stone in a ravine, that can only fall, you will fall; but if you can defend yourself, do so. And now—farewell!”

“Farewell, Quentin; I shall think over what you have told me.”

Quentin put up at one of the inns on the Paseo del Gran CapitÁn. He intended to leave the city as soon as he possibly could.

Accordingly, that night after supper, he left the house and walked toward the station; but as he crossed the Victoria, he noticed that four persons were following him. He returned quickly, as he did not care to enter any lonesome spots when followed by that gang, and took refuge in the inn.

Who could be following him? Perhaps it was Pacheco’s brother. Perhaps one of his creditors. He must be on his guard. His room at the inn happened to be in an admirably strategic situation. It was on the lower floor, and had a grated window that looked out upon the Paseo.

The next day Quentin was able to prove that Pacheco’s friends were constantly watching the inn. Their number was frequently augmented by the money-lenders who came to ask for Quentin.

In the daytime, he did not mind going into the street, but when night fell, he locked his room, and placed a wardrobe against the door. Quentin was afraid that his last adventure might result fatally for him.

“I’ve got to get out of here. There are no two ways about it; and I’ve got to get out quietly.”

One day after the battle of Alcolea, Quentin was being followed and spied upon by Pacheco’s men, when as he passed the City Hall, Diagasio the hardware dealer, who was standing in the doorway, said:

“Don Paco is upstairs.”

Quentin climbed the stairs, slipped through an open door, and beheld the terrible Don Paco surrounded by several friends, up to his old tricks.

The revolutionist had ordered the head porter to take down a portrait of Isabella II, painted by Madrazo, which occupied the centre of one wall. After heaping improprieties and insults upon the portrayed lady, much to the astonishment and stupefaction of the poor porter, Don Paco had a ferocious idea; an idea worthy of a drinker of blood.

He produced a penknife from his vest pocket, and handing it to the porter and pointing to the portrait, said:

“Cut off her head.”

“I?” stammered the porter.

“Yes.”

The poor man trembled at the idea of committing such a profanation.

“But, for God’s sake, Don Paco! I have children!”

“Cut off her head,” repeated the bold revolutionist contumaciously.

“See here, Don Paco, they say that this portrait is very well painted.”

“Impossible,” replied Don Paco, with a gesture worthy of Saint-Just. “It was executed by a servile artist.”

Then the porter, moaning and groaning, buried the penknife in the canvas, and split it with a trembling hand.

At that moment several persons entered the hall, among them Paul Springer.

“Are you playing surgeon, Don Paco?” asked the Swiss with a mocking smile.

“SÍ, SeÑor; one must strike kings in the head.”

After cutting the canvas, the porter took the piece in his hand, and hesitatingly asked Don Paco:

“Now what will I do with it?”

“Take that head,” roared Don Paco in a harsh voice, “to the President of the Revolutionary Junta.”

Quentin looked at the Swiss and saw him smile ironically.

“How do you like this execution in effigy of yonder chubby Marie Antoinette?”

“Magnificent.”

“Just as I said. We are the City of the Discreet.”

The two friends bid each other good-bye with a laugh, and Quentin went home.