A FEW days later, at nine-thirty in the evening, Quentin climbed the stairs of a house on the Calle del Cister.

He entered the second floor, traversed the lay-brother’s school—a large room with tables in rows and placards on the walls—and passed into the Lodge, which was a garret with a table at one end and an oil lamp that provided the only light.

Quentin could not tell whether the honourable Masons there assembled were in a white meeting or coloured meeting; the session must have been over, for the President, Don Paco, was perorating—though now deprived of his presidential dignity—among the rabble of the Aventine Hill.

Don Paco was a veritable river of words. All of the stock revolutionary phrases came fluently to his lips. “The rights of a citizen,”—“the ominous yoke of reaction” ... “the heroic efforts of our fathers” ..., “a just punishment for his perversity”....

Don Paco pronounced all these phrases as though by the mere act of saying them, they were realized.

If they charged one of the Masonic brothers with a dangerous mission, and he made the excuse of having a family, Don Paco said, as Cato would have remarked:

“Country before family.”

But if the dangerous mission were for him, Don Paco[293] would argue that he did not wish to compromise the sacred cause of liberty by a rash act.

Sometimes, instead of saying sacred, he said venerable, which, for Don Paco, had its own value and distinctive meaning.

If some Progressist leader in Madrid was supposed to have been a traitor against either the sacred, or the venerable cause, Don Paco cried out in the Lodge:

“A la barra with the citizen! A la barra!”

He himself did not know what la barra was; but it was a matter of a cry that would sound well, and that sounded admirably: A la barra!

When he was too excited, Don Paco admired English parliamentarism above everything else. Quentin had once told him that he looked like Sir Robert Peel.

Quentin had seen the figure of that orator on an advertisement for shoe-blacking; he had nothing but the vaguest ideas of Sir Robert’s existence; but it was all the same to Don Paco, and the comparison made him swell with pride.

Aside from these political farces, Don Paco Sánchez Olmillo, Master Surgeon and Master Mason, was a good sort of person, without an evil trait; he was a small, bald-headed old man, pimply and apopleptic. He had a thick neck, eyes that bulged so far from his head that they looked as if they had been stuck into his skin. At the slightest effort, with the most insignificant of his phrases, he blushed to the roots of his hair; if he turned loose one of his cries, his blush changed from red to violet, and even to blue.

Don Paco had great admirers among the members of the Lodge; they considered him a tremendous personage.[294]

Quentin called to Diagasio, the long-handed hardware merchant, and said:

“Tell Don Paco I’m waiting for him.”

“He’s speaking.”

“Well, I’m in a hurry.”

Diagasio left him, and presently Don Paco came over, still orating, and surrounded by several friends.

“No,” he was saying, “I claim it, and I shall always claim it. We Spaniards are not yet ready to accept the republican form of government. Ah, gentlemen! If we were in England! In that freest of all lands, the cradle of liberties, ... of sacred liberties.”

“Very well,”—said Quentin quickly, “that discourse does not concern me. I came to tell you that I have received an answer to the letter I sent, and that he has made an appointment.”

Don Paco returned to his friends, and now and then a phrase reached Quentin: “A dangerous mission,” “mysteries,” “the police,” “the result will be known later.” Then the worthy President came over to Quentin.

“Will some one accompany us?”

“No; why should they? The more people that go, the worse it will be.”

“That’s true. They will mistrust us.”

Don Paco took leave of his friends as Sir Robert Peel might have done had they taken that gentleman to the gallows: they descended the stairs, and came out upon the street.

They made their way to the Gran Capitán, from there to the Victoria, and then, passing the Puerta de Gallegos, they travelled toward the Puerta de Almodóvar.

Quentin felt a great sense of satisfaction when he ob[295]served the fact that the old man was frightened. At every step Don Paco said to him:

“Some one is following us.”

“Don’t be idiotic. Who is going to follow us?”

“Ah! You don’t know what a terrible police force those men have!”

To Don Paco, life was all mystery, darkness, espionage, conspiracy. To sum up: it was fear, and the fear in this instance was neutralized by speaking aloud, and humming selections from comic operas.

This mixture of petulance and fright amused Quentin greatly. When he saw that the old man was very animated, humming an air from “Marina,” or from “El Domino Azúl,” he said to him:

“Hush, Don Paco, I think I saw a man spying on us from among those trees.”

Immediately the animation of the worthy President changed into an evil-omened silence.

As the two men followed the wall, the enormous, red moon rose over the town like a dying sun; the Cathedral tower looked very white against the dark blue sky.... They passed a tile-kiln, and Quentin, seeing that Don Paco was dispirited, said:

“I think we can be at ease now, for from here on there are no guards nor watchmen to spy on us.”

These words heartened the old man; a moment later, he was humming a piece from “El Domino Azúl,” which contained words to the effect that he did not want his dove so near the hawk.

Then, absolutely at ease, he commenced to say in a pompous voice:

“There are moments in the lives of cities as there are in those of individuals....[296]”

“A speech! Don Paco, for Heaven’s sake! At a time like this!” exclaimed Quentin....

The old man, seeing that he could not continue his discourse, said familiarly:

“The things that have been accomplished in our lifetime, Quentin! When we first met, there in the Café de Pepon, on the Calle de Antonio de Morales, we were a mere handful of men with advanced ideas.... Today, you see how different it is. And all through my efforts, Quentin. I inaugurated the Reading Centre for workmen, and the Patrician Lodge ...; I was one of the Hatchet Club, and one of the founders of the Committee. I was always conspiring.”

“You are very brave,” said Quentin slyly.

“No; all I am is patriotic; really, Quentin. How many times at night have I ventured out in disguise, sometimes along the Gran Capitán, or through any of the sally-ports on the left, and reached the bridge by encircling the wall! There I used to glide along the fosses of the Calahorra castle, climb down to the other bank of the Guadalquivir, and continue down stream until I struck the Montilla turnpike. At other times I crossed the river by the Adalid ford, to come out later behind the Campo de la Verdad in a bit of land called Los Barreros, where a guard received me most informally.”

“Why all these masquerades, Don Paco?”

“You may believe that they were all necessary.”

Don Paco and Quentin were walking toward the river, when suddenly, between the Puerta de Seville, and the Cementerio de la Salud, they heard a loud, harsh voice that rang out powerfully in the silence of the night.

“Halt! Who goes there?[297]”

“Two men,” answered Quentin sarcastically, “at least that’s what we look like.”

“For God’s sake don’t!” exclaimed Don Paco. “They might shoot.”

The voice, louder and more threatening than before, shouted again:

“Halt, in the name of the guardia civil!”

“We are halted,” stammered Don Paco, trembling.

“Advance.”

They approached the spot where they had heard the voices; one of the guards, after looking at them closely, said:

“What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“This gentleman,” said Quentin, “has been called to a farmhouse to bleed a sick man.”

“Is he a blood-letter?”

“I’m a doctor,” said Don Paco.

“What are you?”

“I’m his assistant.”

“Why didn’t you answer us immediately?”

“On account of the effect you had on us,” said Quentin slyly.

“Well, you’re lucky to be let off,” remarked the guard.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Quentin.

“Pacheco has been about these nights.”

Don Paco began to tremble like a leaf.

“Well, we must go and bleed that sick man,” said Quentin. “Adiós, Se?ores.”

“Good night.”

They went around the wall, and suddenly Don Paco came to a determined halt.

“No; I’m not going!” he exclaimed.[298]

“What’s the matter with you?”

“It is very imprudent for us to go and see Pacheco,” the old man stammered. “We shall discredit the cause.”

“You might have thought of that before.”

“Well, I’m not going.”

“Very well; I shall go alone.”

“No, no.... Ah, my God!”

“Are you ill, Don Paco?”

“Yes; I believe I’ve taken cold—” replied the terrible revolutionist in a trembling voice. “Furthermore, I do not see the necessity of visiting Pacheco at this time of night.”

“Then I’ll go if you wish.”

“What’s the use?” added the old man insinuatingly. “Everybody will think that we went to see Pacheco. Neither of us............