“But what matters!” is his thought, as he loosens the reins on the neck of the noble Andalusian barb on which he is mounted, with a coat as sleek as silk, as it bounds forward, swift as the wind, over the turf. Garcia is with him, and they are hastening at the top of their speed to spend a happy afternoon together with music and song in an old pavilion, built by the Moors as a garden house or _delicias_, at some miles distant from Sahagun. “Now, Garcia, I do feel like a king,” shouts Don Enrique, turning in his saddle, the wind catching his words and flinging them back to his companion, a little in the rear. “I am out of reach of the marquess. No, not even the awful archbishop can threaten me here.” “Ah! my lord,” returns Garcia de Haro, speaking under the influence of the same rapid movement, his words barely reaching the ear for which they are intended, “may it ever be so!” “It shall!” cries the king, turning carelessly on his saddle to cast a hurried glance, full of affection, at him. “IT SHALL, IT SHALL!” Now they are passing on a true Spanish road, full of holes and overlaid with stones, on by the aqueduct into a cool avenue, all fluttering with elm leaves, past the _Cruz del Campo_--and what a campo, as flat as my hand--the sky glowing over them like an opal, to the murmur of many waters and a rush of streams, onto a high plateau, where the pleasant air cheerfully fills the lungs as with the flavour of new wine; through corn fields and olive grounds and fig gardens and vineyards, bordered by low banks; the pleasant songs of the farmers in their ears, as with a lazy team of fat oxen they plough the fertile earth. A scent as of blossoming beans is in the air; the berries of the ripening olives toss over their heads; folks pass and repass on donkeys, and rough men lead files of mules, all with a “_Vaya con Dios_,” open-eyed at the young king, uncovering his head in silent courtesy, though the hoofs of his horse scatter pebbles in their faces. Now they are passing a lonely village, the whole population sitting at their doors, a stool placed close by, with a white cloth and a plate for charity, round which gather the blind and the cripples, impelling themselves forward at the risk of their lives, but the cavalcade rushes by too quickly to stop to relieve them. * * * * * At last they have reached the Moorish _Quinta_, a low, flat-roofed building with a _tapia_ border, flanked by towers, from one of which floats the flag of Spain, the front cut by long rows of _miradores_ and shutterless casements staring upon them like unlidded eyes.