and left us. We took Concepcion home; an hour later Pemberton joined us.
“There was nothing to do; of course she was quite dead. One leaps to certain death from the top of the Giralda. You remember that woman with the bruised face who spoke to the Archbishop? It was she; his name, you see, was not written on one of those decrees of pardon!”
Later in the afternoon, Concepcion appeared, a black chenille dotted mantilla of the old style over her head, a white manton de mantilla worked with purple grapes, draped, Andaluz fashion, over her shoulders.
“Are you ready?” she cried. Her eyes flashed, her cool, olive cheeks were flushed. She smiled more than usual, for the mere pleasure, it seemed, of showing teeth that were as matched pearls on a string.
“Are you ready?” she repeated. “Tengo mucha prisa” (I am in a great hurry).
“Ready—for what,—where are we going?”
“A los torros, los torros (to the bulls)! Did he not tell you? My husband has taken seats for us all a la sombre” (in the shade).
So this week of vigil, penitence, and prayer was all a preparation for the Easter bull-fight!
“I have seen Bombito, the matador, ride by on his way to the corrida,” said Concepcion, “it is time, vamonos a la calle!”
There was a disappointment in store for Concepcion; she was met at the entrance with the announcement, “No bull-fight to-day on account of the picadors’ strike.”