“Is virginity so important?”

“You are foreigners, gentlemen, and you are not aware, perhaps, of the terrible ravishes of the New Disease.”

“What disease?”

“A kind of leprosy. The last Crusaders brought it with them from the Holy City. There is no safety except in virginity and in the cordon de sureté—the girdle of chastity. Romance has become more dangerous than warfare. You cannot be certain of any woman. Who knows how many of Doña Cristina’s girls are capable of inflicting wounds more dreadful than those of the javelin…?”

Doña Cristina threw up her arms in horror.

“Oh!” the girls shouted.

“Don Juan, my girls are all as pure as virgins. The gentlemen that visit them are the finest in Spain and– —” pointing to us, “in the world.”

“Come, come, my little one, do not get exasperated.”

He placed his hand upon her shoulder. “I only mentioned that by way of example.” And addressing me, “It is true, indeed, señor,—this is the only safe Temple of Love in Córdoba.”

Doña Cristina kissed his bejeweled hand. The girls laughed and drank another cup to Don Juan, the incomparable lover.

The former professor of mathematics stuck his head in once more. One ray of the sun pierced its center like a long golden horn. “Doña Cristina, Doña Cristina…”

“Well?”

“Don Fernando is at the gate.”

Doña Cristina was flustered. “Santa Maria! Jesú!”

“Who is it, did you say?” asked Don Juan.

Doña Cristina was reluctant to answer.

“Who?” he demanded.

“Don Fernando, señor.”

“Ah, that is a stroke of good fortune. We have not met for a long while.”

“But… Don Juan… I thought– —”

“Perish your thoughts! Let him come in!”

“Let him come in!” Doña Cristina shouted in the professor’s ear.

Don Fernando entered. He was a lad of about twenty, graceful and lithe; his aquiline nose and dark skin betokened an admixture of Moorish blood. Upon seeing Don Juan, the young man shook his fist in Doña Cristina’s face.

“Fool! Why did you not tell me– —?”

Doña Cristina whimpered.

Don Juan smiled. “Is señor so angry at me that he would not even see me?”

Don Fernando glared at him without answering.

“We have no quarrel, I am certain. It is all gossip.”

“No! It is not gossip—and we have a quarrel! “

Don Juan looked at him, his eyes partially closed and his lips stretched into a faint smile. “I have always considered Don Fernando my friend.”

“You have done wrongly, señor. Don Fernando is your enemy.”

“It is ridiculous to break friendship because—of a woman.”

“The woman is my sister.” Don Juan looked at the young man and breathed deeply. “I

regret– —”

“What?” the young man asked.

“That she is your sister.”

“And not your cowardly deed?”

“Señor, master your tongue!”

A white patch shone on Don Juan’s forehead. His nostrils shivered. But his eyes, which I expected to glitter like knives, preserved a curious tenderness.

“Master my tongue? It is fortunate for you that I master my arm.”

“What!” Don Juan exclaimed. “You dare– —”

“I dare! I am undaunted by Don Juan.”

Don Juan opened and closed his fists. The patch upon his forehead shone like an ominous star.

Why was he so furious? And why did his eyes continue to be almost affectionate? A young man’s taunt ordinarily, I felt, would have merely made Don Juan laugh uproariously. I remembered the conversation of the three youths.

Don Juan suddenly regained his composure. The patch upon his forehead disappeared.

“Fernando, for the sake of our former friendship, do not excite my anger. I am not able to control my sword, once it is out of its scabbard. You know that.”

“Coward! You say that because you fear me in your heart.”

“What! I fear you? Think of it, gentlemen! Think of it,—all of you! Don Juan fears this—child!”

Fernando raised his hand and slapped Don Juan’s face. “I’ll teach you to call me child!”

Don Juan straightened up, placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and exclaimed: “Impudent stripling, your own hand has sealed your death-warrant.”

The young man placed his hand upon his sword, and drew it half way out of its scabbard.

The girls shrieked.

Doña Christina knelt between the two men. “Please, gentlemen, not in my house…please…you will ruin me!”

Don Juan pushed her away with his foot.

She clasped the legs of Don Fernando. “I beg you, gentlemen…not here!”

Don Juan laughed suddenly. “You are right—not here. He shall be dispatched elsewhere.”

“At your service, wherever and whenever you wish,” said the young man proudly.

“Gentlemen,” Don Juan addressed us, “although I have never had the pleasure of your previous acquaintance, may I ask you to be my seconds?”

We nodded.

“For the friendship I once bore you, señor,” he said to Fernando, “you shall die as a gentleman and not as a hog. I shall give you the opportunity to display your prowess.”

“Within twenty-four hours, I shall send you my seconds,” the lad answered proudly, and left.

“I am sorry for the boy,” Don Juan remarked.

“Why not merely wound him to teach him a lesson, señor?”

“Hardly. Once in combat, my arm rules my sentiments.”

He ordered drinks.

“The virgin…” Doña Cristina whispered into Don Juan’s ear.

“This evening at ten,” Don Juan replied, slightly bored.

Doña Cristina pressed Kotikokura’s hand and whispered into his ear, “My bear…tonight, you are mine.”

Kotikokura blushed.

IT was nearly noon.

I opened the shutter, and looked out. At a distance, the Guadalquivir glistened like a long silver stripe on an officer’s coat. Still further, the hills rounded at the top as if a hand had smoothed them. The whiteness of the houses no longer annoyed me. It served as a fine background for the trees which cast long gray shadows, trembling a little. The chimes of the Mezquita, whose belfry towered about the city—rang slowly, lazily, inviting not so much to prayer as to slumber.

A driver urged a team of oxen, swearing by all the saints that if they would not hasten, he would deliver them into the hands of the butchers.

Two nuns made tiny steps, counting the while their rosaries. An officer on horseback rode proudly on, as if to an imaginary conquest.

I remembered myself dressed as a Roman captain. Lydia seemed to pass underneath my window, her silken toga ruffled somewhat by the wind.—Nero fiddled.—Poppaea smiled her lascivious, cruel smile.—Charlemagne grasped his leg in sudden pain.—The Armenian Bishop—Africa. The desert, the sand that rose like billows of the sea.—Salome, the gorgeous, the incomparable Salome. Had I possessed her in truth? Was it a dream? Was not everything a dream?

The chimes continued to ring.

Who was I? Where was I? I rubbed my eyes vigorously, and laughed. I was in the anteroom of Doña Cristina’s Palace of Love,—the purest in Córdoba which even Don Juan, the incomparable lover, frequented. Don Juan—he was still with his virgin from the country—and Kotikokura, the bear, the lion, had not yet unclasped the arms of his love.

Poor Fernando—a fine face, almost feminine.—He would die within twenty-four hours. It was a pity. But why not? A day, a year, a century—what matter?

And Don Juan—equally skillful as a duelist and as a lover. What did he seek? Was he a voluptuary or a philosopher? Did he find in women only a momentary spasmodic joy, or had he discovered some ultimate secret of sensual pleasure? Why the pride in the numbers? What secret motive animated his restlessness? What was the meaning of the affectionate look when he quarreled with the lad in the brothel? Why the regret? Why the inordinate fury?