But his words had no weight with H. C.

"I think everyone should see a bull-fight at least once in their lives.

If I know nothing of its horrors, how can I join in a crusade against them? Once seen, I will write a scathing poem on the entertainment which shall be translated into Spanish. All my graphic power of description shall be exerted, and it may go far to put down the evil. I might also appeal to the people's superst.i.tion, which seems almost the strongest element in their nature. You will come?" turning to us.

But we had had our experience once for all years before, in the bull-ring at Granada, accompanied by eight naval officers whose nerves were in excellent order. When the play was half over, and men shouted and women shrieked and waved, and there was universal applause and uproar, sick of the horrors, we left the building: to the surprise and no doubt contempt of the a.s.sembly.

Thus H. C.'s appeal fell upon deaf ears.

And when it came to the point he also would not go. So it fell out that we were both sitting on the breakwater, gazing upon the shimmering sea, revelling in the serene stillness of the atmosphere.

The scene changed. We had to return, and seeing an empty tramcar, found ourselves enjoying the world from a solitary elevation: a short-lived pleasure. From a side-street there suddenly poured forth a crowd of men, who swarmed in and out and up the sides: and stillness and solitude were over.

They were mad with excitement, and being already late, feverishly anxious to make way. One might have thought them intoxicated, but it was excitement only. They raved and shouted; their eyes flashed and glistened; they antic.i.p.ated the horrors of the bull-ring; speculated as to how many bulls would be killed, whether the toreador would escape.

For the moment they were as wild animals, and de Nevada's protest in the market-place wanted no better confirmation.

H. C. shuddered. His poetical mind had received a shock in coming into contact with this coa.r.s.e and savage element.

"I am glad I decided not to go," he said. "De Nevada is right.

Bull-fighting should be put down, even though the people rose up in revolt. It needs a Crusade as much as ever the cause for which the Templars went eastward."

The Plaza de Toros was thronged with a crowd of men, women and children, who could not pay the fee or were too late for admission. If unable to enter, it was something to look upon the outer walls, whilst the thunders of applause helped them to realise the scene.

The tramcar waited some twenty minutes, and we remained studying the crowd of eager faces that surged to and fro. From the bull-ring--one of the largest and finest in Spain--arose that constant roar and tempest of voices.

We were almost prisoners, wondering how we should escape, when a city tramcar came up, stood side by side with ours, and we made the exchange.

This slowly moved through the crowd and turned into a quieter thoroughfare, and the raving followed us far down the road.

The car travelled slowly round the town, through the Cathedral Square, in and out of ancient gateways. Street after street, comparatively deserted, wore its Sunday dress. Flowers abounded. We were on a level with first-floor windows, and from many an open cas.e.m.e.nt came a glimpse of domestic interiors: the scent of roses; fair ladies dressed in rustling silks and sheeny satin; ripples of laughter and conversation; occasional streams of melody from a fair performer. Absorbed, we did not observe the car gradually getting round to its starting-point, until we once more found ourselves in the centre of the crowd outside the bull-ring.

They had not moved an inch. The spectacle was just over, the great doors were thrown open, and a cortege pa.s.sed out: cart after cart with dead horses and bulls, the latter decorated as if for a prize show. A deafening roar, louder than ever, went up from the people. Finally came the vehicle with the toreadors and matadors dressed in all their fine colours, flushed with their performance, calmly taking the hurrahs. The very horses seemed maddened as they tore out of sight. Then the crowd began to disperse. Strolling out after dinner, we found ourselves once more in front of the bull-ring, looking in the darkness like a second Roman Coliseum. The square was deserted, its crowds having gone home to live the horrors over again in their dreams. Silence reigned. But the time would come round for fresh spectacles and more horrors.

And so it goes on from one generation to another.

That night our own dreams were fitful and broken. We had watched the sunset from the tramcar, full of splendour and colouring. As the sun went down, a chilliness had risen upon the air, and suddenly we shivered. Then it pa.s.sed away, but there was no rest on retiring. Fever came on, and in semi-delirium we imagined that we were taking part in a bull-fight; warring with infuriated animals. There was no repose and no escape. Deafening shouts rang in our ears, but still the combat went on; seemed to have gone on for years, and must go on for ever.

The agony was terrible. Molten lead coursed through our veins. We tried to rise, but chains bound us down. The night pa.s.sed. In the early morning the fever abated, and presently we awoke from a short, unrefreshing slumber; rose as one who has gone through a long illness.

When H. C. appeared and said it was time for the flower-market and the Lonja, he went alone.

Our maitre-d'hotel, who felt he could not be sufficiently attentive to friends of de Nevada and the de la Torres, brought us strong tea; and on hearing an account of our night, suddenly departed, to reappear with a white powder procured at a chemist's.

"A touch of the fever, senor, caught last night at sundown," he remarked. "It is taken in a moment, but seldom shaken off so quickly.

This powder will go far to put you right."

We took it in faith, and found it chiefly quinine. The effect was excellent. Though still weak, we were capable of an effort, and when H.

C. returned with hands full of roses, carnations, orange-blossoms, sweet verbena--for which he had extravagantly paid threepence and made the flower-woman's heart sing for joy--we were able to carry out our programme and start for Saguntum.

A short railway journey landed us amidst the ruins of this ancient city, where we were in the very atmosphere not only of Rome, but of days and people long before.

The small, primitive town at the foot of the height was full of quaint outlines. Large circular doorways led to wonderful interiors; immense living-rooms in semi-obscurity; rich dark walls whose colour and tone were due to smoke and age. Here women were working and spinning and sometimes bending over a huge fire, deep in the mysteries of cooking.

Beyond these dark rooms one caught sight of open courts or gardens, where orange and other trees flourished. Some of the women were busy making cheese, which here is quite an article of commerce and goes to many parts of the country. We had the place to ourselves. The women stopped their cheese-making and spinning to a.s.semble in groups of twos and threes and stare after us. Human nature is curious and inquisitive all the world over.

But the charm and attraction of the place are the ruins that crown the heights; walls and towers now crumbling and desolate, witnessing to the strength and power of Saguntum in ages gone by. It was founded nearly 1400 years before the Christian era by the Greeks of Zante, when the Phoenicians were still monarchs of the land. Why they permitted the Greeks to erect this stronghold does not appear. When a wealthy frontier town allied to Rome, it was attacked by Hannibal. The defence was brave, determined and prolonged; but Rome would not come to the rescue, and the town perished amidst frightful horrors. This chiefly led to the Second Punic War, by which Saguntum was revenged and Hannibal and his armies were routed out of Spain: reverses they never recovered. In time it was rebuilt by the Romans, and in the course of centuries fell under the dominion of the Goths and the Moors.

Saguntum--Murviedro, as it is often called--is now a magnificent ruin.

The climb to the castle is long, steep and rugged, and on reaching the gates we found them closed. There was no guardian to admit us; the ruins were uninhabited. After our feverish night, a return to the town for the keys and a second long climb seemed too much of a penance. Yet the interior must be seen.

Fortune favoured us. We found a man near the gates cutting away the rank gra.s.s and weeds: a strange uncanny creature; terribly hump-backed; with a pale long-drawn face from which a couple of dark eyes looked out upon you with a strange inward fire that seemed consuming him. He was almost a skeleton, as though he and starvation were close companions.

We made known our trouble, offering a substantial bribe if he would go down and bring up the keys. The man's eyes sparkled. Without hesitation he laid down his great shears and put on the coat he had placed under the walls.

"If the keys are to be had by mortal power, senor, I will not return without them," he said; his voice was shrill with the sharpness of habitual suffering.

"Go, then, and success attend you. We await you here."

We sat down between the great gates and the ruins of the Roman theatre, and watched our messenger's long thin legs rapidly flying over the ground. Then he disappeared behind the houses.

We waited and wondered. Presently he reappeared followed by an old woman dangling great keys. His eloquence had prevailed. Perhaps he had promised to share the bribe, or hoped it might be doubled. Panting and breathless, they reached us.

"Ah, senor, this is unheard-of," said the old woman. "No one enters without permission from the commandant. If he knew, it would be as much as my place is worth--not that it is worth much. But he is away to-day; gone to Valencia to the marriage of a friend. So I have some excuse; and he will never know. I will admit you. The times I have opened these gates! I am sixty-five, senor, and have been up and down, through summer and winter, through storm and tempest, ever since I was fifteen. Pretty near the end now."

Inserting the great key into the rough, rusty old lock, the rude doors opened and admitted us.

[Ill.u.s.tration: RUINS OF SAGUNTUM.]

We found the fortress distinctly Moorish and very interesting. The old woman, well up in her work, knew the history of every portion.

Amidst the ruins of the castle were some Moorish cisterns she declared to be bottomless, where blind fish for ever swam. Below what was once the governor's garden, she led us to gloomy dungeons where heavily chained prisoners were confined for life, and she described many a horror that had taken place in the past. Everything testified to the strength of Saguntum of old.

From the walls the views are magnificent. Stretching across the wide plain, one caught faint traces of Valencia and the shimmering sea; at our feet was the little town, and beyond it the hills rose in gentle outlines.

As we looked we observed a procession set forth upon the long white road. Harsh, discordant music from bra.s.s instruments rose upon the air.

Then we saw that it was a funeral. The coffin was being slowly borne on men's shoulders to the cemetery. The latter was near the town, enclosed in high walls, above which appeared the dark pointed tops of the melancholy cypress. A group of mourners followed the coffin; women bowed and weeping, men subdued: quite a long stream of them. Near us stood our curious messenger.

"Who is it?" we asked.

"A sad story, senor. A youth of seventeen, who caught the fever and died. A week ago he was as well as you or I: full of energy and enterprise: talking of what he wanted and what he would do in the future. His ambition was to emigrate, and for long he had been trying to get his parents' consent. But he was their only child, and they were loath to part with him. Ah! he has taken a longer journey now; emigrated to a more distant country. And there will be no coming back to Murviedro."

"And the parents?"

"Poor things! They are heartbroken. There goes his mother, supported by two women friends. One can almost hear her weeping. Oh that horrible music! It goes through my spine as if it would tear it asunder. When I am buried I hope they will have no music. I think I should turn in my coffin. Is it not a splendid view, senor? This fortress may well be called the key of Valencia. The key of the province, you understand, not of the town. We command the best of the country. You should see it in summer, when every tree is in full leaf and every flower in bloom, and the branches droop with the weight of their fruit. A land of abundance, is it not, Miguella?" turning to the old woman, who stood looking at the sad cortege with weeping eyes.

"Ay, Juan, it is so," she returned with tearful voice. "Abundance of everything. But fate is cruel, and strong youth must die, and old people like you and I who half starve, for all the abundance, must still c.u.mber the earth."

"Speak for yourself, Madre Miguella," returned the man sharply.

"Whatever you may be, I am not yet old and I don't see that I take the place of a better man. I shall be forty-one next New Year's Day. A hard life I have of it; few pleasures and little food. I am not formed as other men; no woman looking at me would take me for her husband. For all that, I am not tired of life, and have no desire to be in the place of that poor lad. It will come soon enough, Madre Miguella, without wishing oneself there before the time."

"Santa Maria! what a clucking about nothing!" retorted Miguella. "If I called you an old man it was only a form of speech. I had in my mind's eye the strong l.u.s.ty youth who has gone to his burial. Compared with him I should call you old and of little worth. After all, I was only thinking of the uncertainty of human life. You won't deny that, friend Juan."

"I suppose I can't," replied the contrite hunchback. "Poor lad! I could almost have found it in my heart to die for him. He was always good to me; never mocked at me; gave me many a centimo from his little h.o.a.rd; often shared his dinner if I met him on the road. I have lost a friend in him."