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CORDOBA 73
caressing, “our Espronceda! And what verses of
blood and fire! What infernal verses!—Hombre!”
they shout, affectionately, stretching their hands out
beyond the partition toward the hangman.
But the hangman pays no attention. He picks up
his three-legged stool, opens the door and steps out on
the running board. The train is passing between signal
towers and switch-houses, a water-tank and piles of
coal; before it reaches the platform, the hangman has
jumped off.
Out in the street we see him again. He walks on
ahead of the two gendarmes, followed by a host of
children and grown people, screeching and shouting at
him. In the midst of the crowd we can discern three
or four of the hangman’s fellow-passengers, joining in
the cat-calls. Their emotion a few minutes ago was
genuine; they were moved by the verses, burning
verses—long live the hangman! But in this mob
that reminds them of insurrection, revolution; why
shouldn’t they join it?—Down with the hangman!
It is about fifty miles from Seville to Cordoba; the
same blue sky vaults over us; and the same sun is
shining—but the resonance chamber is lacking. The
people here are not the same as in the other cities of
Andalusia. This is apparent as soon as we leave the
train. Here there are no bunco-steerers, no greedy
hotel omnibuses nor importunate cabbies. There are
droves of beggars. They lie along every street—
brown, ragged, a rag instead of a hat tied around their
foreheads—their muscular arms held out for alms; if
we ask them to help us with our baggage and take us
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