“For two reasons,” answered Don Gil, turned dominie. “First, to gain the height the wall deprived them of; and second, because in times gone by, the majority of the spectacles were celebrated here. Here is where executions were held; where they baited bulls; and broke lances; and where, during the week preceding the Day of the Virgin of Linares, the hosiers held a grand fair. That is why there are so many windows and galleries in these houses, and why the street is called the Calle de la Feria.”
The archæologist seized Quentin’s arm and proceeded to relate several stories and legends to him. The two men traversed narrow alleys, and plazoletas lined with white houses with blue doors.
“You know no one here?” inquired the archæologist.
“Not a soul.”
“No. That is ... I know a Cordova boy who was educated with me in England. His name is ... Quentin García Roelas. Do you know him?”
“Not him; but I know his family.”
“He is a silent, taciturn chap. It seems to me that there is something unusual connected with his life. I’ve heard something....”
“Yes, there is an interesting story.”
“Do you know it?”