In days gone by, it was noticed that the clock of the cathedral tower, known as La Giralda, always ran a few minutes behind the established hour. For this fault, blame was laid at the feet of the clergy for their indolence or the clockmakers for their ineptitude as they were responsible for winding it up and checking that the machinery was in good working order. Nothing was further from the truth. The reason that the clock was slow came about this way.
The bells of La Giralda rang out the half-hour as a crowd gathered in the square with a kind of morbid eagerness to see if they really would put to death the man who had been on trial. The Prado of San Sebastian had already made its reputation as a vile and disagreeable place as long ago as the time of the Inquisition, when they put prisoners to death there by burning them. So, it was surely destined to be the place where, on the orders of a judge, a man could be executed, as was about to happen this day.
The square was already packed with people, idle folk who, on the whole, were disposed to pass the afternoon here hoping for a pardon, just like those who watch bullfights or cockfights; such was their foolishness.
Sellers of holy pictures and prayers, as well as romantic verses, were scattered through the crowd, calling out their wares, causing the loudest voices to quieten as if they were the harbingers of the tragic events that were to unfold.
• Buy the prayers of Saint Cayetano to ask for his blessing
• Ask the help of Saint Rita de Casia, patron of impossible tasks, to get a pardon before they hang him.
Then there were the beggars, catching people as they arrived.
• A coin for a cripple!
• Charity, brothers, charity for the love of God!
Within the crowd there was a hierarchy. At the front, closest to the gallows in the centre, were the dignitaries of this noble, loyal, heroic city of Seville – the judges and magistrates, the Lord Mayor, fine ladies and rich gentlemen, officers from the armed forces and representatives from the church. Behind them came the merchants and the pedagogues who had left writing and researching in the quiet confines of the university to watch the legal killing of a man.
• “It´s a serious matter, capital punishment, no matter which way you look at it,” said the Mayor pompously
Amongst the common folk, each person guarded his tiny space and was all eyes and ears, listening to everything that was said and watching every single thing, no matter how unimportant. What drew everyone´s eyes though was the raised wooden platform in the centre where the gallows stood, surrounded by armed guards. There was a continuous hubbub as everyone had something to say about the crime, the trial and about the possibility of there being a pardon instead of an execution.
Then, little by little, the slow beat of a drum was heard and the prisoner was brought into the square surrounded by soldiers. It was a young man, not bad-looking though dispirited, with his hands tied behind his back. A priest accompanied him, as was usual in these matters. The young man, in spite of being condemned to death, continued to swear his innocence while the priest prayed for his soul.
It was a shame how the evidence, much of it -- though not all -- had so fallen as to convict him of the murder of the seamstress. Some said that he had only approached the victim out of curiosity on finding the door of her house open, left that way presumably by the real murderer. But there, he was found moments later when the constables arrived, holding a hammer covered in blood that he had just, innocently, picked up. That, plus the lack of coherence in his stumbling explanations, still shocked by the sight of the murdered woman, together with his extreme nervousness, convicted him. No-one had been with him, no-one had seen him before the crime and no-one had even spoken to him. So, poor Tristan, as the young man was called, started his journey through the courts to the gallows in the square.
• A pardon is the only hope left for him, muttered someone.
As the clock in the cathedral tower chimed out the third quarter, the young man was led to the foot of the gallows. With a heavy heart and bowed head he seemed to move even more slowly as if to put off the inevitable moment. The priest stood with him, still praying.
Suddenly, a woman was seen forcing her way through the crowd, shouting like a lioness in defence of her young.
• He is innocent, innocent! He is my son!
It was a most terrible cry which came from the depths of her soul. When she reached the young man, she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as if for ever. Sobbing, he could only say
• “Mother, I don´t want to die. I don´t want them to kill me. I am innocent!”
The guards managed to separate them and the woman fell to the ground in a faint as her son climbed the wooden steps of the gallows, preceded by the priest who urged him to have a good death. And how brave the young man was; how dignified and proud. He no longer cried and his eyes neither looked nor saw a single thing.
How can a young man of 20 prepare himself for death after such a short life. The trials of youth, the kisses and cares, dreams and sleeplessness and falling in and out of love all ran through his head. Not once did he think about death.
• “And the pardon still hasn´t come,” muttered someone.
The noose was set around his neck and all was prepared. The hangman and the magistrate waited. The clock in the cathedral tower chimed the hour and still the magistrate waited, perhaps hoping for that last-minute reprieve. It was as silent as the grave in the square. Neither a cough nor the shuffle of a foot was heard. One minute passed, then two. Finally, the magistrate indicated that the sentence could be carried out. The silence was broken by the heartless thump of the trapdoor opening and the body of Tristan, hanging by the neck, kicked wildly until he died and was still.
Seconds later, the sound of a bugle was heard causing a shiver to run through the crowd. Horsemen at a gallop approached and entered the square. Carrying his urgent message, the sergeant approached the magistrate and handed him the pardon.
Only three minutes had passed since the young man had been executed and there his body still hung.
A few days later, the church committee met and solemnly agreed that, in spite of the rigorous laws surrounding the established hour that existed at that time, the clock of La Giralda should, from that day on, run three whole minutes behind the rest.

by Liz Partridge