There happened to be a local feast of the “Madonna del Pilar,” the patroness of the town, just now, and every hotel was crammed to the roof. The trains were bringing constantly new guests and the hotel proprietors profited by it in fleecing their tenants abominably. We had great difficulty in finding a shelter and were dragged in a crammed omnibus from one hotel to the other. We succeeded at last in installing ourselves at the “Hotel Universo.” The entrance door was locked when we drove to it and our coachman had to give a vigorous pull at the bell; at length it brought a sleepy porter who told us that there was only the drawing-room, which had just been furnished with four beds, available for the moment. We hastened to occupy it, whilst the three Spanish travellers, burdened with their hand-bags, who had alighted from the omnibus together with us, went to seek a shelter elsewhere, muttering angrily “_Que diablo!_” We found ourselves in a spacious bare room which in the way of conveniences left much to be desired. Long cherished visions of cheering meals and soft couches vanished, and I felt so woefully tired that I was ready to weep. The “Corridas” generally take place during Saint’s days feasts, all the profit out of them is assigned to charity. The Spanish benevolence is of a very blood-thirsty nature as it appears, a queer pretence of religious feeling with barbarous cruelty. The excitement of the forthcoming bull-fight had invaded the town. The Matadors have just arrived from Madrid, accompanied by their “Quadrillas,” and have put up at our hotel. They are travelling all the year round from one town to another. After Saragossa they are going to take part in the bull-fights of Sevilla. One of the waiters of the hotel procured tickets for us for the “Corrida,” which was to take place on the following day, on the “shady side,” which costs twice as much as those on the “sunny side.” After lunch we sallied forth to the arenas, and had to walk all the way as there was no vehicle to be had. On the day of a “Corrida” the streets are alive with streaming crowds of people, in their gayest dress and mood, on their way to the “Plaza de Toros.” The houses are adorned with flowers and banners; pretty women hung over the gaily-dressed balconies. When we approached the arenas a compact throng stood round the entrance door, and my heart gave a quick throb. Twelve thousand people could be accommodated in the great bull-ring, which resembles an enormous circus. Above was the clear blue sky. In the centre is a sanded place for the bull-fight, encircled by a wooden barrier, six feet high, over which the “Toreros” jump to escape the bull in wild pursuit. The bull-fight was to commence at two o’clock and we had more than an hour to wait yet. The tribunes were lined already with rows of gaily clad spectators. Some of them had brought baskets filled with empty bottles which they intended to throw at