of the savage instincts hidden in the breast of mankind; these yells of festivity suggested agonizing fear, rage of murder, ferocity of lust, and the irremediable joylessness of human condition:  yet they were emitted by people who were convinced that they were amusing themselves supremely, traditionally, with the sanction of ages, with the approval of their conscience—­and no mistake about it whatever!  Our appearance, the soberness of our gait made us conspicuous.  Once or twice, by common inspiration, masks rushed forward and forming a circle danced round us uttering discordant shouts of derision; for we were an outrage to the peculiar proprieties of the hour, and besides we were obviously lonely and defenceless.  On those occasions there was nothing for it but to stand still till the flurry was over.  My companion, however, would stamp his feet with rage, and I must admit that I myself regretted not having provided for our wearing a couple of false noses, which would have been enough to placate the just resentment of those people.  We might have also joined in the dance, but for some reason or other it didn’t occur to us; and I heard once a high, clear woman’s voice stigmatizing us for a “species of swelled heads” (espece d’enfles).  We proceeded sedately, my companion muttered with rage, and I was able to resume my thinking.  It was based on the deep persuasion that the man at my side was insane with quite another than Carnivalesque lunacy which comes on at one stated time of the year.  He was fundamentally mad, though not perhaps completely; which of course made him all the greater, I won’t say danger but, nuisance.

I remember once a young doctor expounding the theory that most catastrophes in family circles, surprising episodes in public affairs and disasters in private life, had their origin in the fact that the world was full of half-mad people.  He asserted that they were the real majority.  When asked whether he considered himself as belonging to the majority, he said frankly that he didn’t think so; unless the folly of voicing this view in a company, so utterly unable to appreciate all its horror, could be regarded as the first symptom of his own fate.  We shouted down him and his theory, but there is no doubt that it had thrown a chill on the gaiety of our gathering.

We had now entered a quieter quarter of the town and Senor Ortega had ceased his muttering.  For myself I had not the slightest doubt of my own sanity.  It was proved to me by the way I could apply my intelligence to the problem of what was to be done with Senor Ortega.  Generally, he was unfit to be trusted with any mission whatever.  The unstability of his temper was sure to get him into a scrape.  Of course carrying a letter to Headquarters was not a very complicated matter; and as to that I would have trusted willingly a properly trained dog.  My private letter to Dona Rita, the wonderful, the unique letter of farewell, I had given up for the present.  Naturally I