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[323] trick he had played on the Count of Do?a 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.[324]

“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, Se?or.’ 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[325] 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.[326]

“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 a............