Because it is a general rule that all good work is received by evil men under guise of something different. This being presupposed, it is beneficial to know that in everything to come, all affairs may succeed in the reverse of our plans, and they may endanger our persons, destroy our homes, and finally, we may lose our lives, and Lolilla, there’s more mischief afoot than we had thought, and tell me the truth, in all this festivity didn’t you hope to play a little tune on some heretic’s or Moor’s or Jew’s flute? well, don’t you complain, Catilinón, for you had designs on the fancy purse of the English whore or the blasphemous nun when you should have been content with my old cunt, and I with your mandrake, but don’t complain, we’ve reaped our harvest, my petticoats are filled with jewels and my doublet with ducats, Lolilla, and now we have the wherewithal to escape from this den of spooks and set up business in Valladolid, Avila, or Segovia, get along now, lady holier-than-thou, hup, you swaggering braggart, this way, bad-mouthed hussy, come on, blustering bastard, let’s fun awhile, here, in this cell, look, and they entered the chamber of mirrors where Don Juan was dallying with Doña Inés, rascal, the master shouted to the servant, where were you when I needed you most? did you not promise to protect me, to scout ahead of my adventures, protect my flights, take my place if it be necessary? oh, my lord Don Juan, I would gladly take your place in this instant and give you Lolilla in exchange for Inesilla, cackled Catilinón as he helped Don Juan separate himself from the nun, oh, if you must stick your nose in here, tell me why I desire that syphilis-wracked whore, moaned Don Juan, and Lolilla cried out when she saw him, the tip of your taper is all bloody, my lord Don Juan, oh, that holy whore has stripped the skin off it for you, and Don Juan swept his brocaded robe over his injured parts, Doña Inés arose, weeping, Catilinón and Lolilla marveled at seeing themselves reflected in walls of mirror, ceiling of mirror, floor of mirror, what do you have stuffed in your clothing, rascals? you look as if you’re about ready to give birth, sly puss, and you, Sir Cock, have you grown tits?; the servants’ faces flushed red as fire, and Don Juan ordered them to remove their clothing and lie down on the floor of mirrors, Inés covered Lolilla in Mother Celestina’s rags and Don Juan draped his brocade over Catilinón; Inés and Don Juan dressed themselves in their servants’ clothing, stick that fine poker in Lola’s pelt, Cato, enjoy yourselves in your prison of mirrors, my crafty bastards, flee with me, Inés, between your legs I recaptured my brother’s dream, he awaits us in a brigantine, take the chain and padlock this prison, I smell treachery in the palace, let us flee, I shall look after you, my lover, your presence maddens me, your delicious scepter will heal, your words hallucinate me, we shall live, together, far away from here, your breath poisons me, come, Don Juan, come, Inés, together let us call on Heaven, and if Heaven does not hear us or if its gates close against us, Heaven will be responsible for our passage on earth, not I, in such a case we shall say that disfavor is favor; danger, security; that robbery is riches; exile, glory; to lose is to win; persecution is the crown; and death is life. Because there is no death as glorious as that of a man who dies in defense of his republic, funeral drums resound across the plain, more muted than the drumming of oxen’s and horses’ hoofs again enclosed in fences, the smoke of the taverns and huts dies out, mourning women stare in silence, muffled, old before their time, barefoot children, bleary-eyed, burned by the sun, blond locks on dark heads, bleached by the sun, with round black eyes and torn fingernails, stand clutching the skirts and hands of the women, mangy dogs wander about, storks fly in search of their nests, three lines of El Señor’s soldiers, lances raised, black standards, harquebuses at the ready, halberds at rest, stand on three sides of a square of dust, and on the fourth, before the tall midday sun-lighted façade of the uncompleted and uncompletable palace, El Señor sits beneath a black canopy on a throne of carved wood rosettes, he too dressed in black, as prematurely aged as the women in the crowd who have borne thirteen children since they were thirteen years old, the Bishop stands beside him, crimson miter, dalmatic and tunicle, brocade waistband in his chasuble, pastoral staff, beside him the Inquisitor of Teruel, the monk with thin skin drawn taut across the bones, wearing the habit of St. Augustine, on each side of them deacons and subdeacons carrying the cross, acolytes with their tall, richly adorned candlesticks, all dressed in dalmatics and cords of silver cloth, damask and slubbed silk, and behind El Señor, bending to speak into his ear, Guzmán, in ceremonial attire, a short fur cape, velvet cap, black breeches, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, drums, the first prisoner, Nuño, bound to one of the two stakes driven into the dusty plain, naked except for a loincloth, the guards beat him with rods, a hundred times, his entire body is an open, bleeding wound, then they cover his body with honey, a goat is led to him and begins to lick the honey with its rough tongue, stripping away shreds of skin, Nuño closes his eyes, grits his teeth, flesh and hide, blood and nerve, the goat’s rough tongue, the drums roll, the second prisoner, the ringleader, an old man with a beard as fiery as the fires of his forge, the rack, he reaches the stake, they tie him to it so that his feet do not touch the ground, to the large toe of each foot they tie weights of a hundred and forty pounds and wait half an hour, watching him suffer slowly while the Augustinian of Teruel exclaims in his hoarse voice, bulwark of the Church, pillar of truth, guardian of the Faith, treasure of religion, defense against heretics, light against the deceit of the enemy, touchstone of the pure doctrine, accursed scum! kill the rebels! I watch you die with pleasure, rebel dogs, we are the ministers of the Holy Inquisition! and then they coat the naked body with fat and set fire to the stake, and the Inquisitor of Teruel cries, light the flame! Jerónimo roars like a lion, they have lighted only his sides, so only his ribs are burned, they extinguish the fire, they place upon him a shirt dipped in nitric acid and light it; Jerónimo’s beard sizzles, he closes his eyes, his eyelashes and eyebrows are burned away, again they extinguish the fire, they remove the shirt, they seize his clenched fists, force them open, sink needles and nails deep beneath his fingernails, they wash stinking urine over his body, they press his right hand between burning planks, and press, and burn, they squeeze his wrist with iron pincers, they wait, Guzmán has asked to be the executioner, he removes his dagger from its sheath, approaches Jerónimo at the stake, cuts off his penis, stuffs it in the unfortunate man’s mouth, he stretches the testicles back until he can stuff them in Jerónimo’s anus, he slits open Jerónimo’s belly in the form of a cross, rips out the entrails and the heart, cuts the heart in four portions, throws one to each of the four cardinal points, laughs, to Pater Noster, to Ave Maria, to the Credo, and Salve Regina, he gives the final order, cut off his head, impale the head upon a lance at the entrance to the palace, cut the body in four parts and hang them from four poles at the four corners of the palace, such is the will of our King, our Señor, and you, Nuño, son of askaris on the Moorish frontier, know me as you die, I am the son of that impoverished lord of the Ta’if kingdoms who had no money to retain you when you and yours abandoned our lands to weeds and drought, condemned us to poverty, leaving us without hands for labor, believing you would gain a little freedom by becoming the King’s subjects and ceasing to be my father’s laborers; look at you now, Nuño, I am collecting at the hour of your death the debt of slavery you owe me, and may your body rot here as example and warning to rebels,