A feeling of reverence pervades the sanctuary. The kneeling figures with bodies motionless and their eyes and faces fixed upon the high altar, crowd the floor until it is impossible to move. One can not help being impressed by this feeling of reverence pervading the church and chapels. Outside it is different; for here the throng moves around visiting the booths, eating, drinking and gambling. Indian minstrels play their weird airs. Beggars cry out to give them something “_por el amor del Dios_” (“for the love of God”). At night the plaza and streets are one indistinguishable mass of dark, reclining and slumbering figures wrapped in their blankets and shawls. The elements are kind in December for it is the dry season. The next day after one of these celebrations I left the capital for Puebla. For many miles we kept passing Indians singly, in groups, and whole families together homeward bound. They followed well-worn paths which were plainly visible. The trails were narrow and all marched along single file in regular Indian fashion. They would stop and look at our train as it noisily passed by. Perhaps they were happy in their simple way in the thought that for one year more, at least, Our Lady of Guadalupe would watch over and protect them, her humble worshippers. [Illustration: BEGGARS OF THE CITY OF MEXICO] CHAPTER XIII A TRANSPLANTED SPORT The bull-fight as an amusement is the exclusive property of the Spaniard. It originated in Spain and has never spread beyond the limits of Spanish conquest. Perhaps it is this very exclusiveness that causes them to cling to it so tenaciously, though legislatures and governments have made vigorous efforts to abolish the brutal spectacles. It is, according to a native writer, a proof of the superiority of the Spaniard, because “the Spanish men are as much more brave than other men, as the Spanish bull is more savage and valiant than all other bulls.” Rather, it seems to me to be a survivor of the ancient gladiatorial contests, or fights between man and beast in the great amphitheatres of Rome. I had never before, even when standing within the historic walls of the Colosseum, been able to picture in my own mind the scene of the arena crowded with combatants while the expectant multitude filled the seats in tier upon tier, until I found myself within the great bull-ring of Madrid. There was the arena, and round about were the eager throng, a crowd of fourteen thousand human beings who impatiently and anxiously awaited the sound of the bugle which would announce the opening of the spectacle of blood and brute torture. Then it was possible to understand how, in an earlier and more brutal age, the Roman populace gloated over the combats where the death of some of the participants was as much fore-doomed as the fate of the bull who enters the ring to-day with a defiant toss of his horns.