He thought he could still see his father—­the imposing, solemn don Ramon—­sauntering about the patio, his hands behind his back, answering in a few impressive words the questions flung at him by his party adherents, who followed him about with idolatrous eyes.  If the old man could only have come back to life that morning to see how his son had been acclaimed by the entire city!...

A barely perceptible sound like the buzzing of two flies broke the deep silence of the mansion.  The deputy looked toward the only balcony window that was open, though but slightly.  His mother and don Andres were still talking in the dining-room—­and of him, as usual, without a doubt!  And, lest they should call him, and suddenly deprive him of his keen enjoyment at being alone, he left the patio and went out into the street.

It was only the month of March; but at two in the afternoon the air was almost uncomfortably hot.  Accustomed to the cold wind of Madrid and to the winter rains, Rafael inhaled, with a sense of voluptuous pleasure, the warm breeze that wafted the perfume of the blossoming orchards through the narrow lanes of the ancient town.

Once, years before, he had been in Italy on a Catholic pilgrimage, entrusted by his mother to the care of a priest from Valencia, who would not think of returning to Spain without paying a visit to don Carlos.  A memory of a Venetian calle now came back to Rafael’s mind as he traversed the streets of old Alcira—­shadowy, cramped, sunk deep as wells between rows of high houses.  With all the economy of a city built on an island, Alcira rears its edifices higher and higher as its population grows, leaving just enough space free for the bare needs of traffic.

The streets were deserted.  The noisy, orchard workers who had welcomed Rafael had gone back to the fields again.  All the idlers had fled to the cafes, and as the deputy walked smartly by in front of these, warm waves of air came out upon him through the windows, with the clatter of poker chips, the noise of billiard balls, and the uproar of heated argument.

Rafael reached the Suburban Bridge, one of the two means of egress from the Old City.  The Jucar was combing its muddy, reddish waters on the piles of the ancient structure.  A number of row-boats, made fast to the houses on the shore, were tugging at their moorings.  Rafael recognized among them the fine craft that he had once used for lonely trips on the river.  It lay there quite forgotten, gradually shedding its coat of white paint out in the weather.

Then he looked at the bridge itself; the Gothic-arched gate, a relic of the old fortifications; the battlements of yellowish, chipped rock, which looked as if all the rats of the river had come at night to nibble at them; then two niches with a collection of mutilated, dust-laden images—­San Bernardo, patron Saint of Alcira, and his estimable sisters.  Dear old San Bernardo, alias Prince Hamete, son of the Moorish king of Carlet, converted to Christ by the mystic poesy of the Christian cult,—­and still wearing in his mangled forehead the nail of martyrdom!