than in Cordova; the old bridge, the names of the streets, the memories of the famous Roman citizens who were born here, bring imperial Rome to mind at every moment. The Romans came to Cordova as conquerors carrying the eagles through Spain; they made the city the capital of Hispania Ulterior, and called it the Patrician Colony because so many of the Romans who settled here and married the graceful, dark-eyed Cordovese women were of patrician descent. The Roman rule, harsh at first, grew gentler, for while Rome ruled, Christianity came to Cordova, and pagan slavery softened to a milder form of vassalage.
“A man can do one of two things with his life,” Patsy philosophized, “Build it all up into a monument to his own memory, or lay it down in paving stones—or a bridge—for other people to walk over. Which is the best worth while? As if one could choose!” He dropped a stone into the water, and watched the circles spread into larger and larger rings.
We had arrived at Cordova too late to see the Mosque, and had come directly from the station to the bridge to watch the thin current of life and traffic pulsing in and out of the dead alive old town. There is no place like a bridge for gathering impressions of a strange city.
“Hé hé, Macho!” an old muleteer with gold earrings threw a stone at the brown mule, leader of his team, just in time to prevent his running into a donkey that was crossing the bridge in the other direction, laden with paniers full of terra cotta jars. Before the mule train had disappeared, we heard a great clatter and rattling of loose screws and rivets, as an old chaise came lumbering along the white highroad from the direction of Seville, and stopped at the bridge gate. The custom-house officer, dozing on his bench, woke up, and asked the usual tiresome question.
“Have their Graces anything to declare?”
The gentleman Grace, apparently deaf, behaved as if he had neither seen nor heard the officer, and had only stopped to flick a horsefly from his fat white mare. The lady Grace shook her silver curls.
“No, nothing to declare,” she said.
Strapped to the back of the chaise was a cylindrical, horsehair trunk, studded with brass nails.
“What might this contain?” The officer touched the trunk.
“Only our garments; we have been spending a week at the hacienda.”