e their thoughts nor their outlook. I feel always below the
grace of their behaviour the instinctive, primeval hatred of the
stranger.

Gradually the cultivation ceased, and I saw no further sign of human
beings. I returned to the desert of the previous day, but the land was
more dreary. The little groves of pine-trees had disappeared, there were
no olives, no cornfields, not even the aloe nor the wilder cactus; but
on either side as far as the horizon, desert wastes, littered with
stones and with rough boulders, grown over only by palmetto. For many
miles I went, dismounting now and then to stretch my legs and sauntering
a while with the reins over my shoulder. Towards mid-day I rested by the
wayside and let Aguador eat what grass he could.

Presently, continuing my journey, I caught sight of a little hovel where
the fir-branch over the door told me wine was to be obtained. I fastened
my horse to a ring in the wall, and, going in, found an aged crone who
gave me a glass of that thin white wine, produce of the last year's
vintage, which is called _Vino de la Hoja_, wine of the leaf; she looked
at me incuriously as though she saw so many people and they were so much
alike that none repaid particular scrutiny. I tried to talk with her,
for it seemed a curious life that she must lead, alone in that hut many
miles from the nearest hamlet, with never a house in sight; but she was
taciturn and eyed me now with something like suspicion. I asked for
food, but with a sullen frown she answered that she had none to spare. I
inquired the distance to Luisiana, a village on the way to Ecija where
I had proposed to lunch, and shrugging her shoulders, she replied: 'How
should I know!' I was about to go when I heard a great clattering, and a
horseman galloped up. He dismounted and walked in, a fine example of the
Andalusian countryman, handsome and tall, well-shaved, with
close-cropped hair. He wore elaborately decorated gaiters, the usual
short, close-fitting jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat; in his belt were a
knife and a revolver, and slung across his back a long gun. He would
have made an admirable brigand of comic-opera; but was in point of fact
a farmer riding, as he told me, to see his _novia_, or lady-love, at a
neighbouring farm.

I found him more communicative and in the politest fashion we discussed
the weather and the crops. He had been to Seville.

'_Che maravilla!_' he cried, waving his fine, strong hands. 'What a
marve