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84 DAYS IN THE SUN
all the objects of creation, engulfing not only the Eros
of human beings, but all their being and nature, so that
one may read from the motion of a little finger, from
the bearing and manner of a child or an aged man, the
same accumulated tension of the blood that may be
seen in northern countries only in a pair of eyes madly
in love?
ea eee
The mountain ridge that runs down through Loja,
Antequera and Ronda, shelters an extensive section of
old Spain. The colors, celebrated in ancient books of
travel, not ever wholly credible, are here before our
very eyes. Here the bandolero—nowadays half a
smuggler, half a highwayman—is still the hero of the
villages and may find an asylum in any peasant’s house.
Still they throw stilettos; you see young men practic-
ing the art, outside the villages, using olive-trees as
targets; but the eventual target is the eye of an ad-
versary; even to-day faithless women have their
stomachs cut open by their lovers’ crooked knives. All
these things still happen; only we pay too much atten.
tion to them and forget to notice others.
Ronda has a note of blood. Although the city has
only about thirty thousand inhabitants, its bull-fights
are among the best in Spain; if a second-rate per-
formance should be presented to the eyes of these
mountaineers in Ronda, they would tear down the
arena or set it on fire with their own hands. The
region serves as a great reservoir of supply for pro-
fessional bull-fighters, since every one—man or woman
—is an amateur in the art, an aficionado. They are
acquainted with all the technical terms, all the tricks of
the trade, and no sooner do they catch sight of a little
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