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180 DAYS IN THE SUN
“I do not wish to become a slave in any way,” he
said, “and we Spaniards cannot smoke without be-
coming slaves to tobacco.” But his spirit of self-denial
was for himself only.
“Will you take it?” he asked his boy, when I offered
a cigarette to the father. The little one shook his
head with comical seriousness. The two treated each
other as if both were grown-ups.
We followed the edge of the mountains without in-
terruption, for we had been told that the roads out
on the Vega were flooded. It was almost evening
when we approached Granada, where high up behind
the city lies the Alhambra, golden against the setting
sun. We took leave of Alfonso, whose journey led
him toward the other end of the town, and ascended
through the steep section of Albaicin. When we
turned around after reaching the topmost terrace and
looked back over the luxurious Vega and the violet-
tinted silhouette of Sierra Elvira surrounded by the
flaming sunset, we discovered Alfonso and his little
boy far beneath us on the road, riding at a brisk trot
back to the hills. They were trying to get home be-
fore morning. His little fields at home could not do
without him for one more day.
This anarchist Alfonso! To do a kindness to us he
ignored all his own personal needs; and now he was
riding back home to his farm, happy in his deed, con-
versing affectionately with his little boy, with whom he
associated as with a brother—at peace with all men.
And when one day the tocsin sounds for the great up-
heaval, he will leap to his feet with enthusiastic joy,
ready to give his life for the new era of human happi-
ness, and will fall pierced by a gendarme’s bullet while
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