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WITH COTTAGERS IN MOUNTAINS 171
of five hundred Mauser rifles which are kept in an old
cabin in Granada. On the day that has been set for
the insurrection—when things get that far—he will
invite all the officers of the garrison of Granada for
supper, will lock the doors at the hour agreed on, and
will say to them:
“Gentlemen! the country is in the hands of the
revolutionists. You are my prisoners.” The cot-
tagers follow his words with flashing eyes. They do
not see through his phrases. Perhaps he himself be-
lieves them. And though they have never seen me
before this day, they point out to me the numerous
caves in the mountains behind the village, which con-
tain their weapons and which are to be their asylum
if they should suffer defeat.
They speak of these things as lightly as if the whole
business were child’s play; but they are in dead
earnest. Spain is not a stranger to revolutions. It has
had more than any other country in Europe. The na-
tion has grown up with remembering this; revolu-
tions match its temperament. They prefer sudden up-
heavals to a painful evolution which is beyond their
grasp. Particularly the Andalusian is lacking in the
“forward-looking” quality that would endow him with
a steady perseverance. He does not grasp the utility
of carrying on a work of agitation, of casting his vote,
and of waiting for the remote day at which the party
may have a majority in the government. He merely
feels the desperate situation of the present moment
and wishes to put a stop to it as quickly as possible.
The urge to revolution is in his blood like a permanent
fever. Every day there are little uprisings here or
there. A few men are shot down, perhaps a few
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