A fire was burning and Maria sat in a chair facing the flames. He did not enter but went to his room, where he looked at himself in a long mirror. The filthy, cadaverous and bearded stranger who returned his glance was not recognizable, even to Alvero. What was himself had disappeared, perhaps forever; and he had a feeling of emptiness, of utter despair – as if he were already dead and lost beyond finding, nor did this feeling go away when he had shaved off his beard, sponged the dirt from his body and dressed himself. The house was strangely quiet. He had hoped at first that his daughter Catherine would not interrupt him until he was clean and clad in fresh clothes, but now he wondered where she was and why he heard no sound to indicate her presence. He was overtaken by a sudden anxiety and he finished dressing hurriedly. He dressed for the road, in leather trousers and a leather coat, and he drew on long, tough riding boots. He buckled on sword and dagger, and then in defiance of Torquemada’s instructions dropped a dozen gold pieces into his boots.
