“You do not love woman,” I insisted, like a prophet of evil. “Your amorous conquests rise from the endeavor to convince both yourself and the world that you are capable of loving her, that there is neither a spiritual nor physical deficiency in you…”

“Whom do I love, if not woman…?” he asked, standing up and glaring at me.

“You have asked me for the truth, señor,” I said quietly.

“I beg your pardon.” He reseated himself. “I do not know why I should be exasperated. You simply repeat what I told you myself, that I have not loved any woman.”

I smiled. “Nothing exasperates us so much, señor, as the truth, particularly if we try to conceal it from ourselves…”

We remained silent for some time. Don Juan made small circles with his cup. The parrots screeched: “Bienvenido” from time to time drowning the exquisite music of the other birds.

“Señor, whom do I love, if not woman?” he asked.

“Perhaps no one now, but at one time—long ago—had you obeyed your nature, you would have preferred– —”

“What?”

“Narcissus-like, you were enamoured of yourself, or the image of yourself—in another man…!”

He burst into a hearty laugh but stopped short. “A man! Señor, what a jest! I am the most manly man of Spain, not an effeminate fop. Look at my arms! Touch the muscle! It is iron, señor!”

“Your eternal insistence upon your masculinity proves that you are not sure of yourself…”

“It is man’s prerogative to be proud of his manhood…”

“When one is certain of it, it is unnecessary for him to emphasize its existence.”

“Señor,” he shouted, “you presume too much…”

“I merely obeyed your desire for my opinion…”

“That is right. Forgive me. I am an ungracious host.”

I bowed.

“But what proof have you, señor, for your fantastic assertion?”

“Why are you so upset about Don Fernando, señor? Is he the first man you have killed in a duel…?”

“He is so young…”

“Is he the youngest you have ever fought…?”

“No.”

“Well, then…”

“He was my friend…”

“And he resembles his sister as two drops of water resemble each other.”

“How do you know, señor?”

“Everybody in Córdoba knows it.”

“Supposing that were true,—what bearing has it upon your preposterous statement?”

“You would rather kill the sister than the boy…?”

“Even if that were true, what then…?”

“Don Juan, if you dared to look into your soul, you would see there…that you made love to the sister to escape from the brother… You love the man, not the woman.”

“Señor!” he shouted, and struck the table a powerful blow.

Kotikokura awakened with a start. Don Juan was about to strike the table again when Kotikokura jumped forward and grasped his arm.

“How dare you!” Don Juan shouted. I made no sign. Kotikokura released his arm.

“Don Juan,” I said, “if a guest’s opinion so upsets his host, it is best for the guest to withdraw.”

He became almost sentimental. “Forgive me, señor. Wine and the harrowing experiences of the day paralyze my understanding, and crush the instinctive hospitality of a Spanish gentleman. I beg you not to go.” He stretched out his hand which I shook.

He clapped his hands. A servant entered.

“Jaime, go fetch Mahmud the Moor and his band. Tell him to bring a few dancers, men and women. Tonight we dine in the garden and make merry in honor of our guests.”

The servant left.

Don Juan laughed, slapping his thighs. “Señor, you are magnificent! What you said was almost convincing. Your sense of humor is as keen as a blade. Your love of paradox is delightful. I am very fortunate to have met you.” Turning to Kotikokura, “And you, señor—your fist is more powerful than steel. You nearly broke my arm. I congratulate you. One more cup, gentlemen, to our most catholic King and to—Woman!”

We drank. Don Juan recounted gallant anecdotes and amorous escapades. He laughed uproariously, but his eyes were melancholy and distracted.

The field of honor was a secluded spot on the outskirts of Córdoba. We drove in silence. Don Juan’s face was drawn. The two long wrinkles on either cheek dug deep channels. The white spot upon his forehead appeared and disappeared at intervals. He kept his eyes closed. I knew that his fatigue was not due to the previous night’s revelry—a very simple affair—but to my words which had been sharper and had struck deeper than the sword thrusts he was wont to administer to his adversaries.

I regretted having spoken. A mere mortal cannot endure the truth, uncoated with the sweets of illusion. It was too late to undo the harm. I had a premonition that Don Juan’s last day had come.

Don Fernando and his seconds were waiting for us. The young man pretended a nonchalance out of harmony with the trembling of his body which he attributed to the morning chill. Don Juan scrutinized him, neither as an enemy nor as a friend, but as if endeavoring to discover whether what I had told him was true or false. He breathed deeply. Both the strange, affectionate attitude and the fury he had exhibited at their previous meeting, had disappeared. The lassitude of complete disillusionment possessed the great lover.

By the manner in which Don Juan handled his weapon, it was immediately evident that he was a master swordsman. Don Fernando was obviously a novice. Nervous, irritable, he exhibited the awkwardness characteristic of women in any purely masculine sport. Indeed, one might have taken him for a young girl in disguise, with his white skin, his delicate neck, whose Adam’s apple was merely a dot that shivered nervously, his chest deeply indented in the center and bulging on either side, his arms rounded and hairless…

Upon three occasions in quick succession, Don Juan’s sword touched his opponent’s chest. Three times Fernando was at his mercy. One pressure, and the battle would have been ended. Don Fernando waved his sword wildly, striking always either the ground or the steel of his enemy.

Don Juan smiled faintly. He made small inconsequent movements, uncovering his chest. Was it a deliberate gesture, fatigue of life? Did he realize that he could no longer endure existence…?

Fernando waved his weapon wildly, erratically. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it touched Don Juan. With the desperation of the tyro who sees himself vanquished, the boy forced it until half of it disappeared in the body of Don Juan. Then, surprised and awed by what had happened, he unclasped his hand from the hilt and stared, his mouth open.

Don Juan, closing his eyes in agony, tottered and fell. His mouth, flushed with blood, was contracted into a diabolic grin. His eyes rolled backward and glared at us with their whites, like newly polished porcelain.

The physician proclaimed him dead, killed in a lawful duel by Don Fernando in the presence of witnesses. But I knew that I was his murderer.