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GIBRALTAR 83
variety of fruit had absorbed one of the colors of the
solar spectrum and was yielding it up again more
dazzling than before—so great, so indomitable was
the riot of color-which roared from the hall like a
- warm breath of gold and fire. Inside, the people were
making curious gestures and shouting like mad, scream-
ing to themselves as they went about their tasks. Their
throats emitted melodious, short calls and bright coo-
ing laughter, recalling the screams of stags; here and
there one of them would throw a knife-blade at the
woodwork where it stuck trembling. Did his mind’s
eye behold a jet of blood rush forth, a hotter red than
that of the tomato or the Spanish pepper? Did he
hear a cry of terror more piercing than the ardent
yellow? I ama Nordic, but I should have found it
quite pardonable if all these persons had drawn their
knives and run amuck in true Malay fashion. I think
I might have joined them. For all these colors held
me by the throat and I expected them all to burst at
any moment, spurting their juices into my eyes like
living blood, so monstrous was the general tension.
Can a gray, misty, drizzly-cold northerner ever
come to understand the Andalusian temperament? I
hardly think so. It may infect him or carry him away
with it; he may stagger about like a new-born calf,
finally stumbling to the ground; he may suffer sun-
stroke and become half-witted; but the ecstasy of the
sun will remain strange to him. How can he, who must
shut all his love in his heart and entrench it there
against many forces—all hostile to his petty Eros,
stifled by feather-beds and thick walls and double win-
dows—how can he ever understand the great Eros of
the south: the sun’s heat which bursts and radiates in
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