"It's burned into my blood. It must be formulated, made permanent."
"Killed," said Lyaeus with sudden seriousness; "better drink it with your wine."
Silent they strode down an arcaded street. Cupolas, voluted baroque façades, a square tower, the bulge of a market building, tile roofs, chimneypots, ate into the star-dusted sky to the right and left of them, until in a great gust of wind they came out on an empty square, where were few gas-lamps; in front of them was a heavy arch full of stars, and Orion sprawling above it. Under the arch a pile of rags asked for alms whiningly. The jingle of money was crisp in the cold air.
"Where does this road go?"
"Toledo," said the beggar, and got to his feet. He was an old man, bearded, evil-smelling.
"Thank you.... We have just seen Pastora," said Lyaeus jauntily.
"Ah, Pastora!... The last of the great dancers," said the beggar, and for some reason he crossed himself.
The road was frosty and crunched silkily underfoot.
Lyaeus walked along shouting lines from the poem of Jorge Manrique.
'Cómo se pasa la vida