In traversing these lofty sierras the traveller
is often obliged to alight, and lead his horse up and down the steep
and jagged ascents and descents, resembling the broken steps of a
staircase.
Sometimes the road winds along dizzy precipices, without parapet
to guard him from the gulfs below, and then will plunge down steep,
and dark, and dangerous declivities. Sometimes it struggles through
rugged barrancos, or ravines, worn by winter torrents, the obscure
path of the contrabandista; while, ever and anon, the ominous cross,
the monument of robbery and murder, erected on a mound of stones at
some lonely part of the road, admonishes the traveller that he is
among the haunts of banditti, perhaps at that very moment under the
eye of some lurking bandolero. Sometimes, in winding through the
narrow valleys, he is startled by a hoarse bellowing, and beholds
above him on some green fold of the mountain a herd of fierce
Andalusian bulls, destined for the combat of the arena. I have felt,
if I may so express it, an agreeable horror in thus contemplating,
near at hand, these terrific animals, clothed with tremendous
strength, and ranging their native pastures in untamed wildness,
strangers almost to the face of man: they know no one but the solitary
herdsman who attends upon them, and even he at times dares not venture
to approach them. The low bellowing of these bulls, and their menacing
aspect as they look down from their rocky height, give additional
wildness to the savage scenery.
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