"Well, tell that to the Judge. It is nothing to do with me. I was told to arrest José and I arrested him. Hum"—he looked at Conchita—"I suppose she is going to see him now?"
"Yes, we are going to see José. Poor fellow, and him innocent."
"Well, if his defence is all right, he'll get off. If it isn't, he won't—that's all."
We did not think that José's neck was in any danger. We had gained an impression that the average sentence for casual murder in Spain is about two or three years' imprisonment. This conversation went on for some time. The gipsies talked round the subject, over it, under it, twisted it inside out and outside in. With all these variations it lasted till we arrived at Lorca, when we all, gipsies, gendarmes, agency boy and ourselves, got down from the train.
We put our luggage into the luggage-room and set out to look for the town, which we had learned by experience would be found at some distance from the station. A boy who carried a rope over his shoulder accosted us, but we declined his services. We strode out into a dusty road, and there stood undecided, for there were two paths to choose from. The boy with the rope, who now had a huge box on his shoulders, came up, and saying, "Follow me, Señores," walked on. We looked at him and realized that here again we had touched the East. Here was a cord porter straight out of The Arabian Nights. The rope was round the box and he held it to his shoulders. With his rope he earned his living. We followed him, asking him for some place where we could eat. He named the dearest hotel at once. We declined, explaining that we wanted the cheapest possible, that is, as long as the cooking was fit to eat.
"I understand," he said. "Follow me."
The long avenue of lime trees came to an end—and our first view of Lorca was opened out. The town was almost like a mathematical line, length without breadth. It skirted the foot of a hill for three miles, almost one long street, which we were looking at end on. Spires towered into the air, and on the top of the cliff the walls of a great Saracen ruin overlooked the town. The whole hill-side, between town and castle, was covered with the grotesque foliage of the prickly pear. The cord porter took us down to the river, which was crossed by a plank, then up into the town. He led us through small streets which fringed the great main street, put down his box at a corner, led us up another street and stopped at a high barricaded gate. Two filthy children were playing on the step. The cord porter rapped with his knuckles. There was no answer. He rapped again loudly. A hoarse voice cried out in questioning reply.
"It's Paco," shouted the porter. "I've got two customers here."
A quarrel ensued through the keyhole.
There was a sound of a rusty lock and the door swung open. A woman heated with cooking and with annoyance began to curse the cord porter.