th growing pains. Ambition is the seed of greatness, but the seed cannot germinat

ise to return had been given, when the great bandolero was murdered for the reward by

sada ride with Pernales, then b

down the mountains, stole a carbine and a h

gold for sticking up a diligence full of notables in the savage defiles of the Sierra de Guadalupe or the Sierra de Gredos or the Sierra de Guadarrama. And he had courage and originality. Why, he was

ty of itinerant guitarists and dancers, or to pillage the hacienda of a rich rural cattle breeder are the conventional things to do. But to hold up the Se

a half hour before it reaches this steel bridge, the Seville-to-Madrid crosses another bridge, a bridge over a small tributary of the Zancura which is dry three fourths of the year. T

are no more desolate and lonely uplands in all Spain. Swarthy, sun-scorched and thirsty, they torture the eye with dus

ed upon a small sleek mouse-colored Manchegan pony. He wore corduroy leggins, a sheepskin zamarra, and a Cordovan sombrero that had once been white. His dress w

omber black snake it crawled slowly forward-like a blac

ld Northern gods. The passenger trains of Spain are most deliberate and slow. They halt for ten minutes at every wayside station, for no better re

pt when viewed through Spanish eyes. At fifteen miles the hour, morosely it crawled on. It neared the waiting Ja

ng pony motionless beside the track. The other hand he raised aloft. Pointedly, his eyes turned to

his lips, leaned far out the cab and looked down at the uplifted hand of Jacinto Quesa

ain, a French engineer might have called back: "It is a pleasure!" and thrown down a paper of matches. For, as it was pl

and altogether more ceremonious. Know you that in Spain, and also in Mexico, it is considered something of an insult to proffer a man matches w

ward on his seat; his arms worked; the whistle shrieked. And

ned. Those heads that protruded from fortunate windows saw the engine driver clamber down from his high turret, a lighte

r drew together. A hand of each met, became entwined. Their head

ropping, his cigarette falling unheeded to the ground. A huge long-ba

d the vaquero

step by step. The engine driver was suddenly enlightened. It was

s a vaquero who thinks himself a salteador de camino, a bandolero like the poor dead Pe

time for horseplay, you silly one, you buffoon,

" said Jacinto Quesada with politen

e engine driver. Only he made it, "Todopo

alacrity he p

tuttering with fright,

erete-but D

woul

Madrid! No one ever holds up the Sevill

lone," returned

d yards up the track, three men as drab and

rados! The stew is ready, approach