DUSK was drawing down as I stole with little trouble out of the house into the street and thence into the maze of Santa Fe.

That night I slept with minstrels and jugglers, and at sunrise slipped out of Cordova gate with muleteers.

They were for Cordova and I meant to go to Malaga.

I meant to find there a ship, maybe for Africa, maybe for Italy, though in Italy, too, sits the Inquisition.

But who knows what it is that turns a man, unless we call it his Genius, unless we call it God?
I let the muleteers pass me on the road to Cordova, let them dwindle in the distance.