he river in France. It was richer and heavier, like incense. It _is_
nice to have an imagination, isn't it, instead of having to potter about
leading _facts_ by a string, as if they were dogs? Well, anyway, I am
sure people have bigger and blacker eyes in Spain. Just walking up from
the beach to the strange old town, I saw two or three peasant women and
children with wonderful eyes, like black velvet with stars shining
through--eyes that princesses would give fortunes for.

I couldn't help humming "In Old Madrid" under my breath, and I fancied
that the salt-smelling breeze brought the snapping of castanets. The sun
was hot; but coolness, and rich, tawny shadows swallowed us up in a
silent street, crowded with fantastic, beautifully carved,
bright-coloured houses, all having balconies, each one more overhanging
than the other. Not a soul was to be seen; our footsteps rang on the
narrow side-walk, and it seemed rude of our voices when we talked to
wake the sleepy silence out of its afternoon nap. But suddenly a
handsome young man appeared from a side street, and stopping in the
middle of the road, vigorously tinkled a musical bell. Immediately the
street became alive. Each house door showed a man; women hung over the
gaily-draped balconies; children ran out and clustered round the
bell-ringer. He began to speak very fast in guttural Spanish, and we
couldn't understand a word he said, though Brown has a smattering of the
language--enough to get on with in shops and hotels. When he had
finished everyone laughed. All up and down the street came the sound of
laughter; deep, bass laughter from the men; contralto laughter from the
women. The handsome bell-ringer laughed too, and then vanished as
suddenly as he had come. All the life of the quaint street seemed to
fade away with him. Slowly the people took themselves indoors; the
balconies were empty; the street silent as in a city of the dead. It was
like something on the stage; but I suppose it's just a bit of everyday
life in Fuenterrabia and old, old Spain.

We went on up to the castle we had seen from the beach, and I turned my
eyes away from a big, ugly round building, like a country
panorama-place, for that was the bull ring, and the one thing that makes
Spain hateful to me. I didn't want even to think of it. The gateway of
the palace--for it had been a palace--was splendid--an arch across the
street. But on the other side I burst out laughing at a sign, in what
was mean