season will have
been before you with the glory of those _corridas_ which you have still
hoped not to witness but to turn from as an example to the natives
before the first horse is disemboweled or the first bull slain, or even
the first _banderillero_ tossed over the barrier.

The bull-ring seemed fast shut to the public when we approached it,
but we found ourselves smilingly welcomed to the interior by the kindly
mother in charge. She made us free of the whole vast place, where eight
thousand people could witness in perfect comfort the dying agonies of
beasts and men, but especially she showed us the chamber over the gate,
full of bullfighting properties: the pikes, the little barbed pennons,
the long sword by which the bull suffers and dies, as well as the
cumbrous saddles and bridles and spears for the unhappy horses and their
riders. She was especially compassionate of the horses, and she had
apparently no pleasure in any of the cruel things, though she was not
critical of the sport. The King of Spain is president of the Ronda
bull-fighting association, and she took us into the royal box, which
is the worthier to be seen because under it the bulls are shunted and
shouted into the ring from the pen where they have been kept in the
dark. Before we escaped her husband sold us some very vivid postal
cards representing the sport; so that with the help of a large black cat
holding the center of the ring, we felt that we had seen as much of a
bull-fight as we could reasonably wish.

We were seeing the wonders of the city in the guidance of a charming boy
whom we had found in wait for us at the gate of the hotel garden when we
came out. He offered his services in the best English he had, and he had
enough of it to match my Spanish word for word throughout the morning.
He led us from the bull-ring to the church known to few visitors, I
believe, where the last male descendant of Montezuma lies entombed,
under a fit inscription, and then through the Plaza past the college of
Montezuma, probably named for this heir of the Aztec empire. I do not
know why the poor prince should have come to die in Ronda, but there are
many things in Ronda which I could not explain: especially why a certain
fruit is sold by an old woman on the bridge. Its berries are threaded
on a straw and look like the most luscious strawberries but taste like
turpentine, though they may be avoided under the name of _madrones._ But
on no account would I have