The Salvation of Pisco Gabar and Other Stories by Geoffrey Household

music. It was not until one evening when I was returning to Ventas from the country that I heard the music to which Don Macario was dancing.
    I had just passed his house when I saw him leave the outskirts of the town and come up the lane towards me. I greeted him, and he raised his hat to me with more than usual ceremony. Then he stood still. His regard was very formal, very severe. I wondered if I could have offended him in some way. He said to me:—
    â€œ Caballero, you will do me the honor of crossing swords with me.”
    He threw back his cloak, and whipped a slender rapier out of the stick which he held in his left hand. Swiftly he performed the salute. The deadly little thread of steel was in line with my throat before I recovered from my surprise. Then I did quite a lot of thinking. Leisurely thoughts they seemed, but if his body had followed his arm in one instantaneous lunge I should still have had time to think them before I felt the hot sliding of the sword. I noticed that he was in earnest, and decided that I ought to look as fierce as he. I formed an entire little plan of jumping back and catching the point in my hand. I looked over his shoulder, and my eyes took a photograph of the massed houses on the outskirts of the town. I can still see it. The cinema was at the corner of the street. There was a big screen on the pavement in front of it. I read the lettering upon it, and had time to be vaguely surprised at seeing my own language. “for the honor of the queen,” it read. “For the Honor of the Queen.” … I understood. Don Macario had left the cinema, but his mind had not left its fairyland.
    I stepped back, bowed to Don Macario, and raised my walking stick to the level of his sword.
    â€œSeñor de la Fuente,” I said, “you will allow me to observe that your sword is longer than my own. I know that you would not wish to accept that advantage. But I have a pair of swords at my lodgings, and if you will accompany me I will give you satisfaction.”
    He put the rapier back into the hollow stick, and walked with me in silence towards the town. Several times he gave a little fluttering half-turn of his head, as if he would look at me. Several times he hesitated in his stride. We were into the town before he spoke to me.
    â€œI think I will go home now,” he said. He was very timid and troubled.
    â€œI will walk up with you,” I answered.
    We talked all the way. True, he said little but “Yes” and “No,” but I made him say them often, and occupy his mind enough to say them in the right places. When I said good-bye to him he drew himself up, and looked at me with melancholy eyes. He had such dignity.
    â€œI have no right, señor, to ask discretion of you,” he said, “but I do ask of you forgiveness.”
    I gave him both, for I told what had happened only to Ramon, upon whom I knew I could rely. At first he was incredulous. Then he remembered the silver star under Don Macario’s lapel.
    â€œ Dios! You are right!” he said. “But what can we do for the poor man?”
    I suggested a nursing home.
    â€œHe has no money,” said Ramon. “And—do you think his pride would endure it?”
    â€œShall we tell Padre Tomas?” I asked.
    Ramon considered the Church as a sort of government office. He respected it highly, but he had no wish for its intervention in his private affairs, or those of his friends.
    â€œI would remind you that Padre Tomas will know,” he said. “And—may I be pardoned—I think the help he can give is limited. You and I can do more. One of us or both of us must take Don Macario out every day, walk him around, get him interested in things. I will look after him for a week. It is better that he should not see you again just yet.”
    Ramon kept his word. One day he drove him into Valladolid to see a bullfight. Another day he took him over the signal boxes of the