ed.

We had jolted through wine-making Valdepenas, where the red juice of the
grape seems to spout from a grey valley of stones; we had passed, in the
quaint market-place, the posada which Don Quixote knew; we had bounced
through Santa Cruz de Mudela, with its fine old fifteenth century church,
and had seen its famous and gaily coloured garters exposed for sale in the
shops; and now we were far from towns or villages, out in the country.

Luckily, everybody was ready for lunch, and Pilar and the Cherub had had
the forethought to order things which would not have occurred to Dick or
me. Not far away, on the crest of a hill-billow, stood a road-mender's
house, with an outside, adobe oven like a huge beehive. We crawled to it,
travelling on the collapsed tyre, and were served by a delightful brown
family; served as if we had been the King and his suite who had lunched
(so said the brown family) on that spot a few weeks ago. Out came the
chairs which the King and his friends had sat in, plates and glasses from
which the King and his friends had drunk; and the simple people derived a
childlike pleasure from dwelling on the episode.

As before, the news of our presence seemed to flash through the air and
bring, in the same mysterious way, an audience out of empty space. Pilar
said that the people who came were in reality wild birds, seen by our
sophisticated eyes in the form of human beings; and as if they had been
wild birds, we coaxed them, till they trusted us and fed with us, drinking
from our wineskin the blood of the Spanish grape, almost innocent of
alcohol. The soft Spanish language, as it fell from their lips, was rich
as the taste of that Spanish wine on the tongue, and stirred in my heart a
pride of kinsmanship.

While we others lunched, Ropes jacked up the Gloria and changed the inner
tube, pausing now and then to munch a sandwich or swallow a draught of
wine with an unruffled air characteristic of him. When the road-mender
mentioned that four _bandidos_ had been captured in the morning by the
civil guard, on the road along which we had passed, his expression did not
change by the twitching of a muscle. Indeed, he looked equal to disposing
of half a dozen brigands without the aid of a single guardia civile.

After forty minutes by the wayside, we set off to penetrate farther into
that melancholy country which Cervantes loved, and almost at once were in
the Venta de Cordenas, that wide and stony waste where Don