The duke and his wife, who was not his duchess, lay side by side on a bed of carved alabaster; at the corners were four twisted pillars, covered with little leaves and flowers, and between them bas-reliefs representing Love, and Youth, and Strength, and Pleasure, as if, even in the midst of death, death must be forgotten. Don Sebastian was in full armour. His helmet was admirably carved with a representation of the battle between the Centaurs and the Lapithae; on the right arm-piece were portrayed the adventures of Venus and Mars, on the left the emotions of Vulcan; but on the breast-plate was an elaborate Crucifixion, with soldiers and women and apostles. The visor was raised, and showed a stern, heavy face, with prominent cheek bones, sensual lips and a massive chin. 'It is very fine,' I remarked, thinking the duke expected some remark. 'People have thought so for three hundred years,' he replied gravely. He pointed out to me the hands of Don Sebastian. 'The guide-books have said that they are the finest hands in Spain. Tourists especially admire the tendons and veins, which, as you perceive, stand out as in no human hand would be possible. They say it is the summit of art.' And he took me to the other side of the monument, that I might look at Dona Sodina. 'They say she was the most beautiful woman of her day,' he said, 'but in that case the Castilian lady is the only thing in Spain which has not degenerated.' She was, indeed, not beautiful: her face was fat and broad, like her husband's; a short, ungraceful nose, and a little, nobbly chin; a thick neck, set dumpily on her marble shoulders. One could not but hope that the artist had done her an injustice. The Duke of Losas made me observe the dog which was lying at her feet. 'It is a symbol of fidelity,' he said. 'The guide-book told me she was chaste and faithful.' 'If she had been,' he replied, smiling, 'Don Sebastian would perhaps never have become Duque de Losas.' 'Really!' 'It is an old history which I discovered one day among some family papers.' I pricked up my ears, and discreetly began to question him. 'Are you interested in old manuscripts?' said the duke. 'Come with me and I will show you what I have.' With a flourish of the hand he waved me out of the chapel, and, having carefully locked the doors, accompanied me to his palace. He took me into a Gothic chamber, furnished with worn French furniture, the walls covered with cheap paper. Offering me a cigarette, he opened a drawer and produced a faded manuscript. 'This is the document in question,' he said. 'Those crooked and fantastic characters are terrible. I often wonder if the writers were able to read them.' 'You are fortunate to be the possessor of such things,' I remarked. He shrugged his shoulders. 'What good are they? I would sooner have fifty pesetas than this musty parchment.'