s roses for a _perrilla_, we had our last sight of the cathedral
spires. The voice of a young girl, washing white and blue clothing in a
trough of running water, sped us upon our journey. Her head was bound in a
scarlet handkerchief; and smiling at us while she pounded the linen, she
sang a strange song, half chant, with that wild Eastern lilt which has
been handed down from the Moors to the sons and daughters of Spain.

"She's improvising a _copla!_" exclaimed Pilar. "Listen; it's for you,
brother Cristobal."

So I listened, and heard that my eyes though dark as starless skies, could
blaze as the sun with love, and that the blessing of a poor girl who had
none to care for her, was upon the rich girl who held the treasure of my
heart.

"You must blow her a kiss to pay for the song," Pilar said. "Don't you
know that? But then, you haven't been in Spain long--except in your
thoughts. That's expected; just as a girl must politely kiss her hand to a
bull-fighter if he kisses his to her; for if she doesn't, she puts the
evil-eye upon him; and like as not he's gored the next time he goes into
the arena. Oh, I love the _coplas_! And wasn't that woman singing in good
Spanish? Even the common people speak well here, for Valladolid and Toledo
Spanish is the best in Spain."

I looked back and kissed my hand to the girl, who would have been insulted
had I thrown money; and lifting my eyes once more to the towering city, I
saw a mediaeval background such as old masters love to give their pictures.

The landscape was wild, and unchanged to all appearance from the days when
the Crescent and the Cross battled for supremacy on those stony hills and
in those savage gorges. Once again, I felt myself a crude anachronism, in
my automobile, nor did the impression leave me when Toledo was hidden
round a corner; nor when we flashed past ancient Eastern _norias_, slowly
turned by sleepy horses or indignant donkeys; nor with glimpses of
sentinel watch-towers, or ruined castles--such "castles in Spain" as Don
Pedro promised to the Black Prince's soldiers--and seldom gave if they were
worth giving.

Now, our business was to hark back to the king's highway between Madrid
and Seville--that road on which Dick thriftily planned his quick service of
automobiles for passengers and market gardeners; but to-day there was none
of that excitement of the chase to which we were accustomed. I was
depressed despite the good omen of the goats, and an encoun