‘My son, strange things happened last night. Tell me the truth. Did you sleep at the Venta Quemada? Did you fall into the clutches of demons? There is still a remedy. Come with me to the foot of the altar and confess your sins! Repent!’

The hermit repeated again and again his pious exhortations. Then he fell silent and waited for me to reply.

‘Father,’ I said to him, ‘I went to confession before I left Cadiz. Since then I do not believe that I have committed any mortal sin except perhaps in my dreams. It is true that I slept at the Venta Quemada, but if I was witness to anything there I have good reason for not speaking about it.’

This reply seemed to take the hermit aback. He accused me of being possessed by the demon of pride and tried to persuade me that I should make a confession of all my sins. But on seeing that I was steadfastly opposed to this, he abandoned his apostolic tone and said to me in a much more natural manner:

‘Your courage amazes me, my son. Who are you? What sort of upbringing have you had? Do you or do you not believe in ghosts? I beg you not to refuse to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘Father,’ I replied, ‘your desire to know more about me can only do me honour. And for this I am grateful to you as is only fitting. Allow me to get up and I shall join you in the hermitage, where I shall tell you all you want to know about me.’

The hermit embraced me again and left the room.

Once dressed I went to look for him. He was warming up some goat’s milk which he then gave me, together with some sugar and bread. He himself ate only a few boiled roots.

When we had broken our fast the hermit turned to the possessed man and said:

‘Pacheco, Pacheco, in the name of your Redeemer I command you to lead my goats up the mountain.’

Pacheco uttered a terrible cry and went out.

Then I began my story, which I told as follows:

My father had an elder brother and had to be satisfied with a tiny legacy which, none the less, was enough to support him honourably in the army. He fought throughout the War of the Spanish Succession,¹ and when peace came Philip V promoted him to the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the Walloon Guards.

At that time in the Spanish army there was a strong sense of honour which was sometimes taken to extremes: my father went even further. For which in truth he cannot be blamed, since honour is properly speaking the life and soul of a military man. Not a duel was fought in Madrid whose ceremonial he did not supervise, and once he had said that satisfaction had been obtained, all parties declared themselves satisfied. But if by chance someone said that he was not satisfied then he had to contend with my father himself, who never failed to uphold the rightness of his decisions by the point of a sword. Moreover, my father kept a blank book in which he wrote down the history of every duel with all its attendant circumstances. This gave him a great advantage when it came to passing judgement on difficult cases.

My father was almost completely taken up with this tribunal of blood and had not shown himself to be much susceptible to the charms of love. But in the end even his heart was moved by the beauty of a young lady called Mouraque de Gomelez, who was a daughter of the oidor² of Granada and the descendant of the ancient rulers of that province. Mutual friends soon brought the interested parties together and the marriage was arranged.

My father thought it appropriate to invite to his wedding all the men with whom he had fought duels (I only mean those, of course, whom he had not killed). A hundred and twenty-two came to the wedding feast. Thirteen of those absent were away from Madrid, and it had been impossible to trace a further thirty-three whom he had fought while in the army. My mother told me on more than one occasion that the feast had been extraordinarily merry and that there was an atmosphere of great cordiality. I do not find this difficult to believe, for my father had at bottom an excellent heart and was much loved by everyone.

For his part, my father was deeply attached to Spain and would never have left it, but two months after his marriage he received a letter signed by the magistrates of the town of Bouillon informing him that his brother had died without heirs and that the fief of Worden had reverted to him. This news distressed my father greatly. And my mother has since told me that he was so preoccupied that he could not be brought to speak about it. Eventually he consulted his chronicle of duels, chose twelve men from Madrid who had fought the greatest number, invited them to his house and spoke to them as follows.

‘My dear brothers in arms. You know well enough how often I have set your consciences at rest on matters in which honour seemed to have been compromised. Today I find myself constrained to defer to your judgement because I fear that my own judgement may prove to be at fault, or rather that it will be clouded by partiality. Here is the letter written to me by the magistrates of Bouillon, whose testimony is worthy of respect although they are not noblemen. Tell me whether honour requires that I should return to live in my ancestral castle or whether I should continue to serve King Philip, who has overwhelmed me with favours and has just promoted me to the rank of brigadier-general. I shall leave the letter on the table and withdraw. In half an hour I shall come back and hear your decision.’

Having thus spoken my father did indeed leave the room, and returned in half an hour to hear the verdict. He found that five had voted that he should remain in the army and seven had voted that he should go to live in the Ardennes. Without demur my father accepted the majority verdict.

My mother would have preferred to stay in Spain, but she was so devoted to her husband that he failed even to notice how averse she was to leaving her native land. At last all that remained to be done was to prepare for the journey and to arrange for the small number of those who were to accompany them to be the representatives of Spain in the Ardennes. Although I had not yet been born my father was sure that I would be, and thought that it was time to arrange for me to have a master-at-arms. His choice fell on Garcías Hierro, the best fencing master in Madrid. This young man, who had had his fill of parrying blows in the Plaza de la Cebada, accepted with alacrity. For her part my mother, not wishing to leave without a chaplain, chose Iñigo Vélez, a theology graduate from Cuenca. He was later to instruct me in the Catholic religion and the Spanish language. All these arrangements for my education were made a year and a half before my birth.

When my father was ready to depart, he went to take leave of the king and in accordance with Spanish custom he knelt on one knee to kiss his monarch’s hand. But he found this so upsetting that he fainted and had to be carried back to his house. The next day he went to take leave of Don Fernando de Lara, who was then prime minister. This gentleman received him with great respect and informed him that the king had granted him a pension of 12,000 reals and the rank of sargento-general, which is the same as major-general. My father would have given half his life’s blood to satisfy his desire to kneel again before his royal master, but as he had already taken leave, he confined himself to expressing his heartfelt feelings in a letter. Eventually he left Madrid, having shed many a tear.

My father chose to pass through Catalonia so that he could again visit the lands over which he had fought and bid farewell to some of his former companions in arms who held commands on the frontier. He then entered France by way of Perpignan.

As far as Lyon his journey was not troubled by any untoward incident. But on leaving that town with his post horses he was overtaken by a chaise which, being lighter, arrived at the post house before him. Reaching there a few minutes later, my father noted that the horses were already being harnessed to the carriage. He at once took up his sword and, going up to the traveller, asked him for the honour of a brief conversation. The traveller, who was a colonel in the French army, saw that my father was wearing the uniform of a general officer and also took up his sword out of respect for his rank. They went into the inn, which was across the road from the post house, and asked for a room.

When they were alone my father said to the traveller, ‘Señor, your carriage overtook mine and arrived at the post house before me. This act, which does not itself constitute an insult, none the less has something disobliging about it for which I feel obliged to ask you for an explanation.’

The colonel was very taken aback by this and placed the blame on his postilions, assuring my father that he had no part in it.

‘Señor caballero,’ continued my father, ‘I also do not wish to make anything serious of this. And so I shall be satisfied by first blood.’ In saying this he drew his sword.

‘One moment,’ said the Frenchman. ‘It seems to me that it was not my postilions who overtook yours but rather yours who by lingering fell behind mine.’

My father thought about this for a moment and then said to the colonel, ‘Señor, I think you are quite right. If you had made this observation to me earlier, before I had drawn my sword, I think we would not have had to fight each other. But you must realize that now things have gone this far some blood must be drawn.’

The colonel, who probably thought this last argument good enough, also drew his sword. The duel did not last long. On feeling himself wounded my father at once lowered the point of his sword and apologized to the colonel for the trouble to which he had put him. He replied in turn by offering my father his services and gave an address in Paris where he could be found. Then he stepped back into his chaise and left.

My father first thought that he was only lightly wounded, but he was so covered with scars that any new cut could not fail to open up an old one. In this case the colonel’s blow had reopened an old musket wound from which the bullet had not been extracted. The lead ball began to work its way to the surface and came out after the wound had been treated for two months. Only then could the journey continue.

On arriving in Paris my father’s first thought was to present his compliments to the colonel, whose name was the Marquis d’Urfé. He was one of the most respected members of the French court. He received my father with great kindness and offered to introduce him to the minister as well as to the best circles. My father thanked him but asked only to be presented to the Duc de Tavannes, who was then the doyen of the maréchaux, because he wanted to be apprised of all that concerned this tribunal, which he held in the highest regard and about which he had often spoken as a very judicious institution that he would have liked to see introduced into Spain. The duke received my father with great civility and recommended him in turn to the Chevalier de Belièvre, the senior officer of the maréchaux and recorder of their tribunal.

In the course of his frequent visits to my father the chevalier came to hear of his chronicle of duels. This work seemed to have no precedent in its kind and he asked permission to show it to the maréchaux who, like their senior officer, thought it unique and asked my father for the favour of a copy that would be kept in the registry of their tribunal. No request could have flattered my father more or given him greater pleasure.

To my father, such marks of esteem made the stay in Paris highly agreeable, but my mother took a different view of it. She had made it a rule not only not to learn French but also never to listen to it when it was spoken. Her confessor, Iñigo Vélez, repeatedly passed acerbic comments about the freedoms of the Gallican Church and Garcías Hierro ended all conversations by declaring the French to be miserable worms.

At last they left Paris and after four days’ journey arrived in Bouillon. My father made himself known to the magistrate and went to take possession of his fief.

On being abandoned by its masters, the ancestral roof had also been abandoned by a fair number of its tiles, so that it rained in the bedrooms as much as in the courtyard, the difference being that the paving stones of the courtyard dried very quickly whereas the water formed puddles in the bedroom that never disappeared. These domestic floods did not displease my father since they reminded him of the siege of Lerida, where he had spent three weeks knee-deep in water.

His first concern, however, was to put his wife’s bed in a dry place. There was a fireplace in the Flemish style in the state room, around which fifteen people could easily warm themselves. The mantel of the fireplace consisted of a sort of roof supported by two columns on either side. My father had the flue blocked up and my mother’s bed placed in the hearth underneath the mantel, together with her bedside table and a chair. Since the hearth was a foot higher than what surrounded it, it formed a nearly inaccessible island.

My father settled himself at the other end of the room on two tables linked by planks. A jetty was constructed from his bed to that of my mother, buttressed in the middle by a sort of coffer-dam built from trunks and chests. This construction was completed on the very day they arrived at the castle. Exactly nine months later to the day, I came into the world.

While work on the most urgent repairs was proceeding at a feverish pace, my father received a letter which filled him with joy. It was signed by the Maréchal de Tavannes, and in it this gentleman asked his opinion on a point of honour which was then occupying the tribunal. This genuine sign of favour seemed so important to my father that he resolved to celebrate it by giving a feast to the whole neighbourhood. But as we had no neighbours the revels were restricted to a fandango performed by the fencing master and Señora Frasca, who was my mother’s first chambermaid.

In his reply to the maréchal my father asked if he could be permitted to see in due course the résumé of the tribunal’s deliberations on matters placed before it. This favour was granted him, and on the first day of every month he received a dispatch which provided the subject-matter for four weeks’ conversation and small talk. In winter this took place around the great fireplace and in summer on two seats placed in front of the castle door.

Throughout my mother’s pregnancy my father spoke to her about the son she would have and thought about the choice of godfather. My mother suggested the Maréchal de Tavannes or the Marquis d’Urfé. My father agreed that such a choice would do us great honour. But he was afraid that these great noblemen might consider that they were doing him too great an honour, and decided with thoughtfulness and tact to ask the Chevalier de Belièvre, who for his part was honoured and grateful to accept.

At last I was born. At the age of three years I could already hold a little foil, and at six I was able to discharge a pistol without blinking. I was about seven when my godfather visited me. This gentleman had married at Tournai, where he occupied the post of lieutenant to the high constable and recorder of the tribunal which settled matters of honour. Both posts go back to the time of trial by champions. Later they were transferred to the tribunal of maréchaux.

Madame de Belièvre was of delicate health and her husband used to accompany her to Spa for the waters. Both took me to their hearts and, not having children themselves, they implored my father to entrust them with my education, which could not have been properly attended to in as remote a place as the castle of Worden. My father agreed, persuaded above all by the office of recorder of the tribunal settling matters of honour, which ensured that in his house I could not fail to be imbued at an early age with the principles that should govern my conduct when I grew up.

At first there was talk of Garcías Hierro accompanying me, because my father considered that the most noble manner of combat was to fight with a sword in the right hand and a dagger in the left, this way of fencing being wholly unknown in France. But as my father had become accustomed to fencing on the battlements every morning with Hierro and this exercise had become necessary for his health, he thought that he could not do without him.

There was talk also of the theologian Iñigo Vélez going with me. But as my mother still only spoke Spanish, naturally she could not do without a confessor who understood that language. So it turned out that neither of the men who had been chosen to provide me with an education came with me. But I was given a Spanish manservant whose duty it was to instruct me in the Spanish language.

I set out for Spa with my godfather and spent two months there. We travelled on to Holland and arrived back in Tournai towards the end of autumn. The Chevalier de Belièvre lived up to the trust placed in him by my father in every way, and for six years neglected nothing that might contribute to making me one day an excellent officer. Then Madame de Belièvre died and her husband left Flanders and took up residence in Paris, while I was recalled to my father’s house.

After a journey which was made wearisome by the lateness of the season, I reached the castle about two hours after sunset and found its inhabitants gathered around the great fireplace. My father was overjoyed to see me but did not give himself over to those demonstrations of affection which might have compromised what you Spaniards would call his gravedad. My mother wept copiously over me. The theologian Iñigo Vélez gave me his blessing and the fencing master Hierro presented me with a foil. We then fought and I acquitted myself in a manner beyond my years. My father was too well versed in such things not to notice, and his gravity gave way to great warmth and affection. Supper was served and everyone was jolly.

After supper everyone reassembled around the fireplace and my father said to the theologian: ‘Reverend Don Iñigo, be so kind as to fetch your great book, in which there are many fantastic tales, and read us one.’

The theologian went up to his bedroom and returned carrying a folio volume bound in white parchment which was yellowed with age. He opened it at random and read aloud the following tale:

At this unexpected reply, Trivulzio departed, showing signs of extreme rage.

A week later, on a Sunday, as all the citizens of Ravenna were on their way to the metropolitan church of S. Pietro, Trivulzio caught sight of Tebaldo in the crowd with his cousin on his arm. He covered his face with his cloak and followed them. They went into the church, where it is not permitted to cover your face with a cloak, and the two lovers might easily have noticed Trivulzio following them had it not been for the fact that they could only think of their love for each other to the exclusion even of the Mass, which is a great sin.

Meanwhile, Trivulzio had sat behind them in a pew. He could hear what they were saying to each other and this made him more and more furious. Then a priest went up into the pulpit and said, ‘Brethren, I am here to publish the banns of the marriage of Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci. If any of you know cause or impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony ye are to declare it.’

‘I know of cause and impediment!’ cried Trivulzio, who, as he spoke, stabbed the two lovers twenty times. An attempt was made to arrest him but, striking out with his dagger, he fled from the church, left the town and crossed the border into the state of Venice.

Trivulzio was conceited and spoiled but he had a sensitive soul. Remorse avenged his victims and he lived a miserable existence, moving from one town to the next. After some years his family settled matters and he came back to Ravenna, but he was not the Trivulzio of old, beaming with happiness and proud of his privileges. He was in fact so changed that not even his nurse recognized him.

On the very first day of his return Trivulzio asked where Nina had been buried. He was told that her tomb and that of her cousin were in the church of S. Pietro, very close to the spot where they had been murdered. Trembling, Trivulzio went there, and on reaching the tomb kissed it and wept copiously.

Whatever the grief which the unhappy murderer suffered at that moment, he felt that the tears had brought him some relief. He therefore gave his purse to the sacristan and obtained leave from him to enter the church whenever he wanted. This resulted in his coming every evening, and the sacristan soon became accustomed to this and paid little attention to him.

One evening Trivulzio, who had not slept the night before, fell asleep at the tomb. When he woke up he found the church locked. He readily decided to spend the night there because he was not averse to indulging his grief and wallowing in his melancholy. He heard the hours strike one after another. At each one he wished that his own last hour had come.

At last midnight tolled. At that moment the door of the sacristy opened and Trivulzio saw the sacristan enter, carrying his lantern in one hand and a broom in the other. This sacristan, however, was a skeleton. He had a small amount of skin still on his face and he seemed to have deep-sunken eyes. But his surplice, which clung to his bones, showed plainly that there was no flesh on them.

The ghastly sacristan put his lantern down on the high altar and lit the candles as though for vespers. Then he began to sweep the church and dust the pews. He passed close to Trivulzio on several occasions but did not appear to see him.

At last he went to the sacristy door and rang a little bell that is always found there. Thereupon the tombs opened up, the dead rose up still wrapped in their shrouds and began to intone the litany in a doleful way.

After they had chanted in this manner for a certain time one of the dead, wearing a surplice and stole, went up into the pulpit and said, ‘Brethren, I am here to publish the banns of the marriage of Tebaldo and Nina dei Gieraci. Accursed Trivulzio, do you find cause and impediment to it?’

I replied, ‘Dear father, I imagine that I would have been terrified.’

At this my father rose up in fury, reached for his sword and tried to run me through with it. Someone came between us and eventually he calmed down a little.

When he had taken his seat again, however, he shot a terrible glance at me and said, ‘Unworthy son of mine, your cowardice is a disgrace to the regiment of Walloon Guards, which I intended you to join.’

These harsh words, at which I nearly died with shame, were succeeded by a long silence, which Garcías eventually broke by addressing my father.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if I may be so bold as to give my opinion on this matter to Your Excellency, I would say that it should be demonstrated to your son that there are not, and cannot be, ghosts or spectres or dead men singing litanies. He then wouldn’t be afraid of them.’

‘Señor Hierro,’ said my father somewhat sharply, ‘you have clearly forgotten that yesterday I had the honour of showing you a story about ghosts written in my great-grandfather’s own hand.’

‘My lord,’ replied Garcías, ‘it is not my place to challenge Your Excellency’s great-grandfather’s word.’

‘What do you mean by “It is not my place to challenge your great-grandfather’s word?”’ replied my father. ‘Do you realize that such an expression presupposes that you could call my great-grandfather’s word into question?’

‘My lord,’ replied Garcías, ‘I am well aware that I am of too little consequence for your noble great-grandfather to wish to demand satisfaction of me.’

Then my father looked even more terrible and said, ‘Hierro, heaven preserve you from excusing yourself, for to excuse yourself is to imply that you have given offence.’

‘It only remains for me then to submit myself to whatever punishment it pleases Your Excellency to inflict upon me in the name of your great-grandfather. But for the honour of my profession I would wish that this penalty might be administered by our chaplain so that it could be seen by me to be religious penance.’

‘That is not a bad idea,’ said my father in calmer tones. ‘I remember having written some time ago a little treatise on acceptable ways of giving satisfaction when a duel is out of the question. I’ll think about it.’

At first my father appeared to be considering the matter, but one thought led to another and he eventually dropped off to sleep in his chair. My mother was already asleep, as was the theologian, and Garcías was not long in following their example. At that point I thought it incumbent on me to retire. And that is how the first day after I returned to my paternal home was spent.

The next day I fenced with Garcías and went hunting. We had supper together, and after we had risen from table my father again asked the theologian to fetch his great book. The reverend gentleman obliged, opened it at random and read aloud the story which I am about to relate:

Bianca was not only debauched, grasping and depraved, but she also required that her lovers should commit dishonourable acts to please her. And in Landulpho’s case she demanded that he take her home with him every evening to eat supper with his mother and sister. Landulpho at once went to his mother and told her what was proposed as though it was the most respectable thing in the world. This good soul burst into tears and implored her son to think of the effect of this on his sister’s reputation. Landulpho was deaf to her entreaties and only undertook to keep the affair as secret as possible. Then he went to fetch Bianca and brought her home with him.

His mother and sister received the prostitute much better than she deserved. Seeing their kindness, she became all the more insolent. During supper she made outrageously suggestive remarks and offered advice to her lover’s sister which she could have well done without. Eventually she made it clear to both daughter and mother that they would do well to withdraw because she wanted to be alone with her lover.

Next day the prostitute Bianca spread her story all over town and for a few days people spoke of nothing else. In the end Odoardo Zampi, the brother of Landulpho’s mother, came to hear these public rumours. Odoardo was a man who would not permit any insult to go unpunished. He considered himself insulted in the person of his sister and he had the infamous Bianca murdered that very day. When Landulpho went to call on his mistress he found her stabbed to death and lying in a pool of her own blood. He soon learned that this was the work of his uncle. He rushed to his house to punish him for it. He found it surrounded by the stalwarts of the town, who jeered at his rage.

Not knowing on whom to vent his wrath Landulpho rushed to his mother’s house, intending to heap insults on her. The poor woman was with her daughter and was just about to sit down to table when she saw her son come in. She asked him whether Bianca was coming to eat with them.

‘May she come and drag you off to hell,’ said Landulpho. ‘You, your brother and all the Zampi family.’

His poor mother fell to her knees and said, ‘Dear God, forgive him his blasphemy.’

At that moment the door crashed open and a pallid spectre entered, covered with stab wounds yet still bearing a ghastly likeness to Bianca.

Mother and daughter began at once to pray and God gave them the strength to endure such an apparition without dying of fright.

The phantom walked slowly forwards and sat down at table as though to dine. With a courage that could only have been inspired by the devil, Landulpho boldly took up a dish and presented it to her. The phantom opened her mouth so wide that her head seemed to split in two. A reddish flame issued forth from it. Then, with a hand that had been most horribly burnt, she took a morsel of food and swallowed it. It was heard to fall under the table. In this way she devoured the whole dish and all the morsels fell to the floor. When the dish was empty the phantom stared at Landulpho with terrible eyes and said to him, ‘Landulpho, whenever I dine here I sleep here also. Come to bed.’

I replied, ‘Dear father, I assure you that I would not have felt even the slightest twinge of fear.’

This reply seemed to satisfy my father and he was very jolly for the rest of the evening.

So we spent our days with nothing to change their pattern except that in summer we sat down not around the fireplace but on the seats in front of the castle door. Six years passed in such sweet tranquillity. They seem to me now like so many weeks.

When I had completed my seventeenth year my father decided to enter me in the Walloon Guards and wrote on this matter to his trustworthy old comrades. Those worthy and respectable officers together exerted on my behalf all the influence they possessed and managed to obtain for me a captain’s commission. When my father learned of this, he suffered a seizure so severe that his life was thought to be in danger. But he soon recovered and turned his mind to preparing for my departure. He wanted me to go by sea so that I might enter Spain by way of Cadiz and present myself to Don Enrique de Sa, the commandant of the Walloons, who was the person who had contributed most to my preferment.

Even as the post-chaise was waiting drawn up and ready to leave in the courtyard of the castle, my father led me away to his bedroom and having closed the door behind us said, ‘My dear Alphonse, I am going to confide in you a secret which came down to me from my father and which you must pass on to your son, but only if he shows himself worthy of it.’

As I was sure it was about some hidden treasure I replied that I had never looked on gold except as a means of helping the poor and needy.

But my father said, ‘No, dear Alphonse, it is not about gold or silver. I want to teach you a secret pass in which by counter-parrying and following with a flaconade you are sure to disarm your adversary.’

He then took up two foils, showed me the pass, gave me his blessing and led me to my waiting carriage. I kissed my mother’s hand again and departed.

I travelled by post-chaise to Flushing, where I found a vessel to take me to Cadiz. Don Enrique de Sa received me as though I were his own son. He set me up with a horse and recommended two men to serve me, one called Lopez and the other Mosquito. From Cadiz I went to Seville, from Seville to Córdoba and then I went on to Andújar, where I took the road to the Sierra Morena. I suffered the misfortune of being separated from my servants near the drinking trough at Los Alcornoques. Yet I went on to the Venta Quemada the same day and yesterday evening reached your hermitage.

‘Father,’ I replied to the anchorite, ‘I have thought long and hard about the story of Señor Pacheco. Although he is possessed, he is none the less a gentleman and hence incapable of failing in his duty to tell the truth. But Iñigo Vélez, our castle chaplain, told me that although there were cases of possession in the first centuries of the Christian era there are no more nowadays, and I take his testimony to be all the more worthy of belief as my father commanded me to believe what Iñigo said on all matters concerning religion.’

‘But,’ said the hermit, ‘did not you see for yourself the ghastly face of the possessed man and how demons had blinded him in one eye?’

‘Father,’ I replied, ‘Señor Pacheco could well have lost his eye in another way. Besides, I defer on such matters as these to those who know more about them than I. It is enough for me to show no fear of ghosts or vampires. However, if you would like to give me some holy relic as a protection against their snares I undertake to wear it faithfully and reverently.’

I thought the hermit smiled at my naivety. Then he said to me, ‘I can see, my son, that you still have faith, but I fear that you may lose it. The Gomelez family from which you are descended on your mother’s side are all recent converts. It is even said that some are still Muslims at heart. If they offered you a vast fortune to change religion would you accept it?’

‘Certainly not!’ I replied. ‘It seems to me that to renounce one’s religion is as dishonourable as to desert one’s colours.’

At this the hermit smiled again and said, ‘I am sorry to see that your virtues are based on an exaggerated sense of honour. I warn you that you will not find Madrid as swashbuckling as in your father’s time. Virtues also can have more secure foundations. But I do not want to hold you up any longer for you have a hard day’s travelling ahead before you reach the Venta del Peñon, or the inn of the rock. The innkeeper is still there in spite of robbers because he relies on the protection of a band of gypsies who are encamped close by. The day after tomorrow you will reach the Venta de Cárdenas and you will have passed through the Sierra Morena. I have put some provisions in your saddle-bags.’

After these words the hermit embraced me affectionately. But he did not give me a relic to ward off demons. I did not like to mention it again so I got on my horse.

As I rode along I began to think about the precepts I had just heard, but I could not imagine any sounder basis for virtue than a sense of honour, which seemed to me in itself to contain all the virtues.

I was ruminating on these matters when a horseman suddenly shot out from behind a rock, cut me off and said, ‘Is your name Alphonse van Worden?’

I replied that it was.

‘In that case,’ said the horseman, ‘I arrest you in the name of the king and the Holy Inquisition. Give me your sword.’

I obeyed without a word. Then the horseman whistled and I saw armed men bearing down on me from all sides. They tied my hands behind my back and we set off into the mountains up a side track which led after about an hour to a heavily fortified castle. The drawbridge was lowered and we went in. While we were still under the shadow of the keep, a little side door was opened and I was thrown into a cell, without anyone bothering to untie me.

It was pitch-black in the cell and, not having my hands free to feel my way forward, I would have found it difficult to walk about without banging my nose on the walls. So I sat down where I was and, as one may well imagine, began to wonder what could have caused me to be imprisoned. My first and only thought was that the Inquisition had captured my beautiful cousins and that their black servants had reported everything that had happened at the Venta Quemada. Supposing that I was going to be interrogated about the two African girls, I was faced with the alternative of either betraying them and thus breaking my solemn word of honour, or of denying that I knew them, which would embark me on a series of shameful lies. After some thought as to how I should behave, I decided to maintain absolute silence and I firmly resolved to say nothing in reply to any interrogation.

Once I had settled these doubts in my mind I began to ponder the events of the previous two days. I did not doubt that my cousins were creatures of flesh and blood. I was convinced of this by an intuition stronger than all that I have been told about the powers of demons, and, as for the trick of transporting me to lie under the gallows, I was extremely indignant about it.

Meanwhile the hours passed by. I began to feel hungry, and as I had heard that cells are sometimes supplied with bread and a jug of water I set about looking for something of the sort by feeling about with my legs and feet. And indeed I soon felt an object of some kind, which turned out to be a loaf. My problem was how to raise it to my mouth. I lay down beside the loaf and tried to seize it between my teeth, but it slipped away from me since there was nothing there to push against. I pushed it so far in the end that it came up against the wall. I was then able to eat it as the loaf was cut down the middle. If it had been whole I would not have been able to bite into it. I found the jug of water too but was not able to drink from it. No sooner had I sipped a little than the jug tipped over and the water ran away. I explored further and found some straw in a corner on which I could lie down. My hands were tied together in a very clever way, that is, tightly but not painfully, so that I had no difficulty in falling asleep.