took the lead. Girls with arms thrown round the shoulders
of one another's blue, pink, or yellow jackets skipped along the dazzling
road like peasant graces. Little, star-eyed brown boys had apparently
taken the trouble to step off Murillo's canvases to find out what we were,
while their toddling sisters cried at being outdistanced. Behind these
came men, middle-aged and old, in strange-shaped caps like fur and leather
coal-scuttles, women with bare black heads, or faded blue handkerchiefs
shadowing withered faces, and beggars hobbling on their sticks; a
shouting, laughing army pouring its bright coloured stream down the white
line of the straight road. And before the Gloria had been refreshed with
her long drink of petrol, the wave of life had broken round her bonnet.
Bright eyes stared, brown hands all but touched us; and children knew not
whether to shriek with fright or laugh with joy as they saw themselves
reflected in the glass turned up against our roof. But at the first cough
of the motor as it throbbed into waking, the throng rolled back, dividing
to let us pass, as if the car had cloven it in two, and joining again to
tear home in our wake.

All the able-bodied women who had not come out to meet us were sitting
before the doors of their white houses, making lace mantillas and flounces
for the young Queen-elect,--Torralba is famous for its lace-makers,--and
they waved work-worn hands as we ran by, wishing us good speed, or
throwing an improvised _copla_ after the vanishing Gloria.

Now we were in Don Quixote land; and had we gone back to his day as we
entered his country of La Mancha, our red car could have roused little
more excitement. Village after village turned out for us; always the same
gorgeous colours against the background of white houses and blue arch of
sky; always the same brilliant eyes and rich brown faces with scarlet lips
that laughed. It was even a relief to the monotony to meet a band of
fierce-eyed young carters ranged in a line with big stones in their hands,
wanting to bash in the aristocrat's features, if the aristocrats
frightened their mules. But neither the aristocrats nor mules showed fear.
Pilar even leaned out, as if daring the four or five sullen fellows to
throw their stones into a girl's face, and their arms fell inoffensively.

"I don't believe any Spaniard, no matter how bad, would hurt a woman who
had done him no harm!" she exclaimed.

The road, with its rutty, irritating s