“And there—over there you see a Moorish plate, painted with a luster of blue and copper. And there—the golden pottery of Malaga—you have heard of that, _señor_? _Madre miu_, what beautiful pottery they made—those Musselmen of Malaga!” He pointed at the lower shelf. “See it gleam, _señor_ like purest gold. But to you, _señor_, you who have been to _España_—because we understand these things, you and I—will I sacrifice my treasure.” “No,” I said. “The price does not matter.” On the wall, above the red glow of the lantern, hung an unframed canvas. In the amber light that shone on it from above I could see its great splashes of color—the glittering, gaudy parade of a bull-ring. “That painting there,” I asked—“what is that?” Again he put his hand upon my arm, and I felt myself shiver in the close, warm air of the room. “The _señor_ perhaps is rich?” His voice came hardly above a whisper; he strained upward toward my face as though to exchange some darkly mysterious secret. _Un Americano rico_,” he said, “and the money perhaps does not matter?” “Perhaps,” I said, and shook off his hold upon my arm. “If that be so, _señor_, there are many among my treasures I could show.” “I have no money with me to-night,” I said. He raised his hand deprecatingly. “Naturally, _señor_. We understand each other. To have money in the pocket—it makes no importance if one understands.” I glanced up again at the vivid, colorful bull-ring pictured upon the wall. His eyes followed mine. “Francisco Goya,” he said. “Greatest in _España_ to follow the great Velasquez.” “You mean that is an original Goya?” I exclaimed. His voice fell again to whining. “Ah, _señor_, no more can I tell you than they told to me. You, perhaps, who are of the art a judge—you can say if indeed it is of Goya.” He waited, but I did not answer. “A person very droll, _señor_—the great Goya. A fighter in the bull-ring once, before he took the brush. And with the women—_Madre mia_, how they loved him—those women in the court of the fourth Charles! He painted well, _señor_. And his pictures of the bull-ring—like that, _señor_”—his hands went up as though in benediction—“there are none better.” I stood for a moment looking up at the painting. “If the _señor_ wishes,” he added softly, “it troubles me not to take it down.” I shook my head, “A realist, this Goya,” I said. “He had no heart, _señor_. What he saw he painted without pity. He was, as you would say, a satirist.” I had no idea that the painting before me was genuine—nor indeed did I much care. But this little, withered old man, and his musty, cobweb-laden shop, had about them something vaguely sinister that fascinated me—a subtle sense of mystery I could not escape. “I have studied art,” I said. “You interest me.” Again I met his glittering eyes, and it struck me then, I think for the first time, that there was in them a light that was not the light of reason.