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It was too much to bear. I left for Madrid, and tried to get fond of an Italian dancer. I returned to Seville, then went to Granada, Cordova, Jérez. I sought for Concha Perez. At Cadiz we met again. One evening I entered a drinking saloon. She was there dancing before sailors and fishermen. At the moment I saw her I trembled and throbbed. I must have become pale, and I felt as though I had no breath, no force, no will. I dropped down upon the seat nearest the door, and head in hands watched her. Her dance finished she came towards me. All knew her. From all sides came cries of “Conchita” that made me shudder. On all sides she cast glances. Here a smile, there a laugh, a shrug, a flower accepted, a drink sipped. She sat at my table facing me, and desired coffee.

I said in a low voice that I tried to steady—

“Then you fear nothing, Concha, not even death.”

“You would not kill me.”

“Do you dare me to.”

“Yes, here or where you will. I know you, Don Mateo, as though you were borne in my bosom nine months.”

Bitter reproaches followed, and I taunted her. She rose, furious, and, vowing by her father’s tomb that she was virtuous, left me.