now and dilapidated,
for every gentleman that can put a penny in his pocket goes to Madrid to
spend it; down to the river which flowed swiftly between high banks.
Below the bridge two Moorish mills, irregular masses of blackness, stood
finely against the night. Near at hand they were still working at a
forge, and I watched the flying sparks as the smith hammered a
horseshoe; the workers were like silhouettes in front of the leaping
flames.

At many windows, to my envy, couples were philandering; the night was
cold and Corydon stood huddled in his cape. But the murmuring as I
passed was like the flow of a rapid brook, and I imagined, I am sure,
far more passionate and romantic speeches than ever the lovers made. I
might have uttered them to the moon, but I should have felt ridiculous,
and it was more practical to jot them down afterwards in a note-book. In
some of the surrounding villages they have so far preserved the Moorish
style as to have no windows within reach of the ground, and lovers then
must take advantage of the aperture at the bottom of the door made for
the domestic cat's particular convenience. Stretched full length on the
ground, on opposite sides of the impenetrable barrier, they can still
whisper amorous commonplaces to one another. But imagine the confusion
of a polite Spaniard, on a dark night, stumbling over a recumbent swain:

'My dear sir, I beg your pardon. I had no idea....'

In old days the disturbance would have been sufficient cause for a duel,
but now manners are more peaceful: the gallant, turning a little,
removes his hat and politely answers:

'It is of no consequence. _Vaya Usted con Dios!_'

'Good-night!'

The intruder passes and the beau endeavours passionately to catch sight
of his mistress' black eyes.

* * *

Next day was Sunday, and I walked by the river till I found a plot of
grass sheltered from the wind by a bristly hedge of cactus. I lay down
in the sun, lazily watching two oxen that ploughed a neighbouring field.

I felt it my duty in the morning to buy a chap-book relating the
adventures of the famous brigands who were called the Seven Children of
Ecija; and this, somewhat sleepily, I began to read. It required a
byronic stomach, for the very first chapter led me to a monastery where
mass proceeded in memory of some victim of undiscovered crime. Seven
handsome men appeared, most splendidly arrayed, but armed to the teeth;
each one was every inch a brigand, pitiless