We sat on a bench and watched the women drawing water at the fountain while the Argentino—he spoke English rather better than any of us—and Patsy talked like two Trappists, newly absolved from the vow of silence!
“Think of the Mosque first as the most perfect thing left of the Cordova of the Caliphs, the city of Abd-er-Rahman, whom you tell me you saw cross the old bridge the night you arrived. I have not been so fortunate, though I have had a sense of him more than once sitting here in his court. If it were not for the Mosque, the story of Moorish Cordova would be to me as the Thousand and Second Story of Scheherezade. Even so, I can hardly believe it. This, a city of a million inhabitants—think of it! Those silent, God-forsaken streets full of people, the place fairly humming with business. Thousands of looms weaving stuffs, tissues, carpets. You know what Cordova leather was? It has never been equalled. As to their blacksmiths, their silver and goldsmiths, there are none like them in the world to-day that I know.”
Patsy took a brown paper parcel from his pocket. “Here are some rather nice bits I have picked up.” He showed a close silver chain, supple as a serpent, and a fascinating pair of gold filigree earrings studded with small emeralds.
“You’re in luck. These look like real old Cordova
| THE MOSQUE, CORDOVA. | LA PUERTA DEL SOL, TOLEDO. |
work. The jeweller’s art is the hardest to kill of all, except the cook’s. They make nice jewelry here still; the pastry and the orange flower sweetmeats of Cordova are the best I have eaten in Spain. Of all the arts of Cordova, the cook’s and the jeweller’s alone survive! Man is still greedy; woman—may I say it?—still vain.”
“But wasn’t the University the great thing after all?” said Patsy.