ssionate glances pass between them, which suggest
that even the love-making is not entirely make-believe.

I wish I could translate the song which Juanillo sings when he passes
his lady's window, bearing his basket of flowers:

Carnations for pretty girls that are true,
Musk-roses for pretty girls that are coy,
Rosebuds as small as thy mouth, my dearest,
And roses as fair as thy cheeks.

I cannot, indeed, resist the temptation of giving one verse in that
Andalusian dialect, from which all harsh consonants and unmusical sounds
have been worn away--the most complete and perfect language in the world
for lovers and the passion of love:

_Sal, morena, a tu ventana,_
_Mira las flores que traigo;_
_Sal y di si son bastantes_
_Pa arfombrita de tu cuarto._
_Que yo te quiero_
_Y a ti te doy_
_Tos los tesoros der mundo entero,_
_To le que vargo, to lo que soy._

XL

[Sidenote: Adios]

And then the morrow was come. Getting up at five to catch my boat, I
went down to the harbour; a grey mist hung over the sea, and the sun had
barely risen, a pallid, yellow circle; the fishing-boats lolled on the
smooth, dim water, and fishermen in little groups blew on their fingers.

And from Cadiz I saw the shores of Spain sink into the sea; I saw my
last of Andalusia. Who, when he leaves a place that he has loved, can
help wondering when he will see it again? I asked the wind, and it
sighed back the Spanish answer: '_Quien sabe?_ Who knows?' The traveller
makes up his mind to return quickly, but all manner of things happen,
and one accident or another prevents him; time passes till the desire is
lost, and when at last he comes back, himself has altered or changes
have occurred in the old places and all seems different. He looks quite
coldly at what had given an intense emotion, and though he may see new
things, the others hardly move him; it is not thus he imagined them in
the years of waiting. And how can he tell what the future may have in
store; perhaps, notwithstanding all his passionate desires, he will
indeed never return.

Of course the intention of this book is not to induce people to go to
Spain: railway journeys are long and tedious, the trains crawl, and the
hotels are bad. Experienced globe-trotters have told me that all
mountains are very much alike, and that pictures, when you have seen a
great many, offer no vast difference. It is much better to read book