All was gone to decay; there were but two or
three rooms habitable, and very poorly furnished. Yet here were the
remains of grandeur: a terrace, where fair dames and gentle
cavaliers may once have walked; a fish-pond and ruined garden, with
grape-vines and date-bearing palm-trees. Here we were joined by a
fat curate, who gathered a bouquet of roses and presented it, very
gallantly, to the lady who accompanied us.
Below the palace was the mill, with orange-trees and aloes in front,
and a pretty stream of pure water. We took a seat in the shade, and
the millers, all leaving their work, sat down and smoked with us;
for the Andalusians are always ready for a gossip. They were waiting
for the regular visit of the barber, who came once a week to put all
their chins in order. He arrived shortly afterwards: a lad of
seventeen, mounted on a donkey, eager to display his new alforjas or
saddle-bags, just bought at a fair; price one dollar, to be paid on
St. John's day (in June), by which time he trusted to have mown beards
enough to put him in funds.
By the time the laconic clock of the castle had struck two we had
finished our dinner. So, taking leave of our Seville friends, and
leaving the millers still under the hands of the barber, we set off on
our ride across the campina. It was one of those vast plains, common
in Spain, where for miles and miles there is neither house nor tree.
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