I spent several days at Cordova. I had been told of a certain manuscript in the library of the Dominican convent which was likely to furnish me with very interesting details about the ancient Munda. The good fathers gave me the most kindly welcome. I spent the daylight hours within their convent， and at night I walked about the town. At Cordova a great many idlers collect， toward sunset， in the quay that runs along the right bank of the Guadalquivir. Promenaders on the spot have to breathe the odour of a tan yard which still keeps up the ancient fame of the country in connection with the curing of leather.
But to atone for this， they enjoy a sight which has a charm of its own. A few minutes before the Angelus bell rings， a great company of women gathers beside the river， just below the quay， which is rather a high one. Not a man would dare to join its ranks. The moment the Angelus rings， darkness is supposed to have fallen. As the last stroke sounds， all the women disrobe and step into the water. Then there is laughing and screaming and a wonderful clatter. The men on the upper quay watch the bathers， straining their eyes， and seeing very little.
Yet the white uncertain outlines perceptible against the dark-blue waters of the stream stir the poetic mind， and the possessor of a little fancy finds it not difficult to imagine that Diana and her nymphs are bathing below， while he himself runs no risk of ending like Acteon.
I have been told that one day a party of good-for-nothing fellows banded themselves together， and bribed the bell-ringer at the cathedral to ring the Angelus some twenty minutes before the proper hour. Though it was still broad daylight， the nymphs of the Guadalquivir never hesitated， and putting far more trust in the Angelus bell than in the sun， they proceeded to their bathing toilette--always of the simplest-- with an easy conscience. I was not present on that occasion. In my day， the bell-ringer was incorruptible， the twilight was very dim， and nobody but a cat could have distinguished the difference between the oldest orange woman， and the prettiest shop-girl， in Cordova.
One evening， after it had grown quite dusk， I was leaning over the parapet of the quay， smoking， when a woman came up the steps leading from the river， and sat down near me. In her hair she wore a great bunch of jasmine--a flower which， at night， exhales a most intoxicating perfume. She was dressed simply， almost poorly， in black， as most work-girls are dressed in the evening. Women of the richer class only wear black in the daytime， at night they dress /a la francesa/. When she drew near me， the woman let the mantilla which had covered her head drop on her shoulders， and "by the dim light falling from the stars" I perceived her to be young， short in stature， well-proportioned， and with very large eyes. I threw my cigar away at once.
She appreciated this mark of courtesy， essentially French， and hastened to inform me that she was very fond of the smell of tobacco， and that she even smoked herself， when she could get very mild /papelitos/. I fortunately happened to have some such in my case， and at once offered them to her. She condescended to take one， and lighted it at a burning string which a child brought us， receiving a copper for its pains. We mingled our smoke， and talked so long， the fair lady and I， that we ended by being almost alone on the quay. I thought Imight venture， without impropriety， to suggest our going to eat an ice at the /neveria/. After a moment of modest demur， she agreed. But before finally accepting， she desired to know what o'clock it was. Istruck my repeater， and this seemed to astound her greatly.
A /café/ to which a depot of ice， or rather of snow， is attached.
There is hardly a village in Spain without its /neveria/.
"What clever inventions you foreigners do have！ What country do you belong to， sir？ You're an Englishman， no doubt！" Every traveller in Spain who does not carry about samples of calicoes and silks is taken for an Englishman (/inglesito/). It is the same thing in the East.
"I'm a Frenchman， and your devoted servant. And you， senora， or senorita， you probably belong to Cordova？""No."
"At all events， you are an Andalusian？ Your soft way of speaking makes me think so.""If you notice people's accent so closely， you must be able to guess what I am.""I think you are from the country of Jesus， two paces out of Paradise."I had learned the metaphor， which stands for Andalusia， from my friend Francisco Sevilla， a well-known /picador/.
"Pshaw！ The people here say there is no place in Paradise for us！""Then perhaps you are of Moorish blood--or----" I stopped， not venturing to add "a Jewess.""Oh come！ You must see I'm a gipsy！ Wouldn't you like me to tell you /la baji/？ Did you never hear tell of Carmencita？ That's who I am！" Your fortune.
I was such a miscreant in those days--now fifteen years ago--that the close proximity of a sorceress did not make me recoil in horror. "So be it！" I thought. "Last week I ate my supper with a highway robber.
To-day I'll go and eat ices with a servant of the devil. A traveller should see everything." I had yet another motive for prosecuting her acquaintance. When I left college--I acknowledge it with shame--I had wasted a certain amount of time in studying occult science， and had even attempted， more than once， to exorcise the powers of darkness.
Though I had been cured， long since， of my passion for such investigations， I still felt a certain attraction and curiosity with regard to all superstitions， and I was delighted to have this opportunity of discovering how far the magic art had developed among the gipsies.
Talking as we went， we had reached the /neveria/， and seated ourselves at a little table， lighted by a taper protected by a glass globe. Ithen had time to take a leisurely view of my /gitana/， while several worthy individuals， who were eating their ices， stared open-mouthed at beholding me in such gay company.
